A Bona Fide Gold Digger (13 page)

Mercifully, he’d come to the orgy prepared with a tube of lubricant, which he’d generously slathered on her anus. Otherwise, Milan would have passed out…gone into shock…or died. Behind her, the butt man cupped her breasts as he plunged into her ass, bellowing, “Hell, yeah, this is some good ass.”

“Hey, baby,” the chubby guy said, steadying himself with the heel of his hand pressed against Milan’s forehead as he thrust in and out of her mouth. “Want me to pull out before I cum? You want me to give you a pearl necklace?” he wanted to know, mischief dancing in his eyes, as if dribbling cum on her chest would be as gratifying as receiving a set of actual pearls.

Milan thought about biting off the head of his dick, but reconsidered when she envisioned Ilka helping her gold key members dispose of Milan’s mangled, lifeless body. Milan was, after all, a mere bronze key holder, a lesser member who’d defaulted on payments. Yes, she was totally disposable, she sadly acknowledged.

The drunken party of three was finally satiated. “You were great, kid,” the burly man said, patting Milan’s shoulder.

“Did you have a good time?” Dough-boy asked, sounding as if he sincerely hoped Milan had enjoyed being raped.

“Yeah, let Ilka know the next time you wanna party with us,” said the third member.

Laughing and joking with each other, the three men left Milan inside the posh room with her blonde wig askew, sunglasses tangled in the bed linen, a pounding headache, and cum oozing from three different orifices.

The only saving grace was that the three molesters were all quick shooters. And they all had pencil-thin dicks, even the chubby guy.

She wanted to bathe, rinse her mouth out with at least a gallon of Scope, take a handful of painkillers, and put this appalling disaster out of her mind forever.

Completely disheveled and burning with shame, Milan hurried through the vast lobby, wishing there were some discreet exit that would allow her to avoid Ilka. She hated that she’d been so hot and horny that she’d accepted an encounter with no questions asked.

Ilka sat in plain view behind her desk. As Milan approached, she lowered her head, brows knitted in concentration as she busily leafed through paperwork. The woman didn’t so much as arch an eyebrow in acknowledgment of Milan’s presence. The person responsible for her suffering had the gall to refuse eye contact, as if Milan were an irritant, a nuisance, something akin to an insect.

Humiliation instantly turned to burning anger. Milan’s echoed steps screeched against the tiled floor as she came to a halt and stared daggers at Ilka. She’d intended for her glowering gaze to sufficiently express her indignation and her displeasure, but then she heard Ilka cluck her tongue in disdain, as if she’d expected Milan to make a last-ditch effort to plead her case and to once again attempt to reactivate her membership using vulgar dollars instead of the required credit card. Milan cleared her throat to get Ilka’s attention.

Ilka looked up; annoyance crinkled the corner of her eyes. She sat up straight as if her swivel chair were a throne, squared her shoulders in a regal manner, pursed her lips, turned up her nose, and looked at Milan with the disgust of a royal figure subjected to the aggravation of a peasant begging for alms.

Overcome by a surge of rage, Milan quickstepped over to the desk, reached back, and slapped Ilka across the cheek so hard, the woman spun around in her chair several times. When the chair finally stopped spinning, Ilka huffed and gasped and sputtered angrily. “You’ve assaulted me,” she shouted with her hand gingerly covering her wounded cheek. “I’m taking immediate legal action against you.”

“Be my guest. Go ahead and sue me,” Milan scoffed. “I’ll have this sex den exposed so fast, you’ll be the top story on today’s five o’clock news.”

Ilka opened her mouth to speak.

“Say another word. Don’t make me get ghetto on your ass.” Milan lunged toward Ilka with a raised fist. Ilka flinched and held up her hand defensively. But Milan restrained herself from hitting Ilka again. Instead, she pacified her violent urge by sweeping all the papers off the desk and then wheeled around and strutted toward the door.

Sweetie was right. You can take the girl outta the projects…

Outside in the cold fresh air, Milan beamed. She wished Sweetie could have witnessed her performance; she would have been so proud.

She discarded the wig in a public trash bin as she rushed to the parking lot. Inside her car, she inspected her appearance. She looked and felt terrible. She didn’t want to go home just yet. Having to deal with Noah’s urges at a time like this would push her to homicide. Milan paused at a red light and wondered how she could possibly make herself feel better.

She thought for a few moments and then it hit her. A big sparkly diamond ring would surely boost her diminished self-esteem. She made an illegal left turn at the intersection of Seventh and Market Streets, steering her car toward America’s oldest diamond district, Philadelphia’s historical Jeweler’s Row on Sansom Street.

After admiring nearly a dozen glitzy possibilities, she selected a pricey four-carat, princess-cut diamond ring that the jeweler swore was flawless.

L
ater that night Milan bestowed the pleasure of her company upon Noah Brockington, allowing her fetishist future husband unlimited access to her derriere. Lying horizontally, she curled into a fetal position with her buttocks pressed against his face.

Of course, Noah had no idea of Milan’s painful ordeal at Tryst, nor did he realize that his ass fetish was finally being put to good use. His cool, moist tongue served as a salve on her ravaged anus. Milan moaned softly as Noah licked the wounds that had been inflicted during the terrible act of sodomy earlier that day.

“We need to set a date,” Milan murmured, seizing the opportunity to have her way while Noah was in a sexually euphoric state. “I went to a jeweler and selected an engagement ring. It’s going to take about two weeks to pick it up, but I have to make a down payment tomorrow.” Milan paused and waited for Noah to respond.

“Of course. How much do you need?” he asked breathily. His words, carried by a rush of air, tickled her ass as he spoke.

“Thirteen thousand,” Milan said calmly. “I have to pay the balance—an additional twenty thousand—when I pick up the ring.”

“Very well,” he said without emotion and quickly resumed the anal play.

The flick of his tongue was no longer soothing. Noah had been at it for well over a half hour and the sensation had become annoying. No, it was worse than that. It was revolting. Milan grimaced in disgust. What had she ever done to deserve this torture? A woman with her exceptional qualities should not have to lie in bed with a sickly pervert for material gain. It was regretful that she hadn’t been born into a family with money. “It’s so unfair,” she avowed softly, shaking her head.

To tolerate Noah’s slimy loathsome tongue, Milan began to visualize her magnificent engagement ring. She mentally caressed the platinum setting and then found herself breathing hard, moaning, winding her hips, and pressing her behind against Noah’s eager parted lips.

At ten o’clock the next morning, ticked off that she had to suffer through a spur-of-the-moment “little girl” session with Noah before he grudgingly handed over the down payment for her engagement ring, Milan sped out of the driveway and careened down the private road that would connect her with the world beyond the Brockington estate.

Intending to impress anyone she came into contact with, Milan wheeled Noah’s vintage car. A three-page to-do list was folded neatly inside her Coach hobo bag. She began her journey at a suburban branch of Wachovia Bank where she purchased the thirteen-thousand-dollar cashier’s check, crossed that errand off her list, and then zipped toward the expressway that would take her to the diamond district.

As she drove along the streets of downtown Philadelphia, the rage she’d felt when Noah had insisted she dress up was still with her, encouraging her to recklessly aim for potholes instead of swerving around them as she would have if she’d driven her own car.

Inside the jewelry shop, she was disturbed to learn she’d have to wait four weeks for her engagement ring. “I can’t wait four weeks. I need the ring back in three weeks. Or sooner. Is that possible?” Feeling wealthy and superior, Milan waved the cashier’s check in the face of the gleaming-eyed diamond merchant but clasped it tightly between her fingers as she waited for his reply.

“Of course,” he answered, eyes shifting dishonestly.

Milan puckered her lips in thought. “I want that in writing,” she said firmly. She finally released the check when the salesman affixed his signature to the bottom of a receipt that promised delivery of the ring in three weeks.

Back inside Noah’s ugly yet prestigious vehicle, Milan crossed the engagement ring off her list and steered the automobile out of Philly and back to the Main Line where she had an appointment at the area’s premiere bridal salon.

But the fitting for Milan’s wedding dress was a total disaster. The seam-stress, named Teresa, could not zip Milan into the size eight dress she’d selected. “This can be easily altered with more fabric or we can order a size ten,” Teresa assured Milan.

“I don’t want it altered and I don’t wear a size ten,” Milan said testily as she stepped out of the heavily beaded gown.

“Hon, if you want this dress ready in four weeks, you’re not going to have time to lose the weight,” Teresa said wearily.

“I’ll be back for another fitting next week,” Milan told the woman, pointing her finger for emphasis.

Irma was to blame. Milan was convinced the vengeful and jealous-hearted woman had deviously fattened her up by spiking her meals with wheat germ or some hidden high-calorie additive that had increased her weight and forced her into the next dress size. Milan sped away from the bridal salon, and slowed the car and parked when she spotted a high-end Main Line fitness center.

She needed a personal trainer, dammit, and she didn’t have time to comb the earth in search of one. Certain that a certified and qualified personal trainer awaited her inside the ritzy fitness center, Milan pushed open the door.

“I’m looking for a trainer,” she stated when she reached the reception desk.

The receptionist, a young woman who looked no more than nineteen or twenty, twenty-one tops, regarded Milan with mild distaste. “We’re not giving out guest passes today; you’ll have to pay the fee. It’s seventy dollars.” The young woman’s snooty tone implied that she viewed Milan as someone unable to pay.

The nerve!
It didn’t matter that she was dressed in tasteful, expensive attire. Obviously, the silly little receptionist couldn’t see past Milan’s complexion, but that was her problem. Milan didn’t have the time nor was she inclined to wage war with an insignificant, unskilled worker. “As I said…” Milan sighed. “I’m looking for a trainer. The cost is irrelevant,” she added, haughtily.

The receptionist sighed also. “There’s only one trainer available at the moment.” She aimed a finger in the direction of a huddle of athletic-looking men, but did not specifically point out the personal trainer.

“Oh yeah, he’s gonna charge you separate from the guest fee.” She raked her fingers through thick lustrous red hair, turned up her nose, and looked away from Milan and squinted at the computer screen on the reception desk.

The receptionist’s cool detachment aggravated Milan. The girl was overly confident and way too pretty to be a typical college student who worked as a receptionist to hustle up extra cash for books and pocket money. This arrogant girl had to be a local, a privileged Main Liner. Her vibrant red hair and porcelain skin indicated wealth, position, and power. Milan eyed the receptionist’s attire. She was graceful and slim, a size three, Milan surmised, dressed casually in jeans. But not an ordinary pair of Gap jeans. She was wearing a four-hundred-dollar pair of True Religion jeans, something no struggling college student could ever afford working as a receptionist.

Yes, this girl came from money. Her daddy probably owned a fitness franchise. Milan, who yearned to be the owner of a string of day spas, felt instant resentment toward the receptionist, who’d most likely inherit the chain without so much as lifting a finger or even cracking a polite smile for a potential client.

When seconds seemed to stretch into minutes and the young woman still hadn’t beckoned the trainer, Milan glanced at her watch and then at the receptionist. “Which guy is the trainer?” she asked, annoyance coating her tone.

“That one—Todd,” the girl replied, annoyed that Milan had bothered her. Again, she absently pointed to the gathered group of muscular men.

“Well, would you do your job and get Todd over here so I can make an appointment?”

The girl drew back, offended. “My
job
! Oh God, I don’t
work
here.” Her slim body twitched involuntarily, her eyes rolled toward the ceiling several times. “My dad owns this place. And numerous others. I’m just helping out for the day,” she exclaimed. She was so insulted that she’d been mistaken for hired help, her white skin became pink with indignation.

Daddy’s little girl
, Milan thought with heightened resentment.

“Todd!” the girl bellowed, her red-painted lips stretched to capacity.

A well-developed white guy wearing a tank top with the club’s signature logo snapped his head toward the huffy fit-club heiress and then made a beeline to the reception desk.

Milan was pissed at how fast the trainer had jumped when the bratty receptionist snapped her fingers. No one jumped when Milan snapped her fingers, she solemnly acknowledged. Even Irma moved at her own slow pace whenever Milan barked an order. Milan looked forward to the day when she too had the power to make people jump at her command.

“What’s up, Casey?” the trainer asked.

“She’s looking for a personal trainer,” huffed Casey. She remained pink-faced; her sour expression screamed that she detested being told what to do.

In an instant, Milan decided that she hated Noah more than she’d ever hated anyone on the planet. She despised him more than she despised Dr. Kayla Pauley and the Pure Paradise board of directors. It was Noah’s fault that she—now a denizen of the Main Line herself—was being slighted and discriminated against and treated like a hood rat who had shown up uninvited to a society ball dressed in an outfit with a giant logo emblazoned on every article of ghetto wear, her teeth bejeweled with diamond chips and gold plates. She had nothing in common with the stereotypical urbanite. She was classy, sophisticated, and dressed tastefully. How dare a spoiled little brat treat her like common trash?

Had Noah honored her with a proper engagement announcement and an introduction to society, she would not have been snubbed by a freakin’ barely legal Main Liner.

To hell with that size eight wedding dress, Milan suddenly decided. The wedding was off! She’d marry the pompous, tight-fisted pervert while he lay in his sickbed, propped up by his freakin’ pillows. Hopefully, he’d drop dead immediately after the bedside ceremony.

The hell with all the tedious preparations necessary to make their wedding day perfect. The small fortune she’d planned to fork over on a stupid bridal gown, ceremony, and reception would be better spent pampering herself with high-fashion clothing, dozens of pairs of four-hundred-dollar designer jeans, tons of jewelry, and a solo honeymoon to Hedonism III in Jamaica to get her freak on the way she liked it.

“She wants a trainer?” Todd repeated, looking uneasily from Milan to Casey. Then he gave an anxious backward glance at the two muscle men he’d been talking to. “Today?” Todd asked, worriedly.

“That’s what she said,” Casey answered, glancing absently at her slender hands and neatly trimmed, unpolished nails.

“I’m booked up today,” Todd said, holding up the palms of his hands regretfully. He gave Casey an apologetic look for having to turn away a paying client. Then, wearing a hopeful expression, he added, “Gerard may have an—”

“Oh well, I guess we can’t accommodate you,” Casey interjected. She wore a look of triumph. Her complexion, Milan noted, was no longer pinkish, and had returned to its former melanin-deficient Nordic shade. “Sorry,” Casey said, singing the word and not sounding sorry at all. “Guess you’ll have to take your business elsewhere.”

Milan no longer desired a personal trainer or anything else the snooty fitness center had to offer. A litany of insults gathered at the tip of her tongue. Prepared to hurl the passel of contemptuous words at the unpleasant, smug young girl, Milan’s eyes gleamed with malice as her lips parted.

But the words caught in her throat. Her pulse fluttered, and then raced, and she felt faint—unable to speak or function. Caught in a bout of sudden paralysis, Milan watched helplessly as a strikingly beautiful man with a shaved head strode past the high-tech treadmills, rowing machines, climbers, and steppers. His perfect body appeared to have been handcrafted from clay. His complexion, smooth and flawless, looked edible, like dark caramel.

He stopped and spoke briefly to the two waiting exercise devotees. One of the men promptly pointed in Milan’s direction. Her heart thundered inside her chest. Like a trapped bird, she helplessly observed him. Her eyes, the only body part that functioned properly, beheld him in worshipful adoration as he glided toward her in sexy slow motion.

“Oh, here’s Gerard, now,” Todd said eagerly when the buff hottie approached. “She’s looking for a trainer,” he said. Gerard wore a muscle shirt identical to Todd’s with the fitness center’s logo in the center.

Milan sucked in her breath. Gerard’s physical attractiveness put her on edge, and caused her body to become rigid. Insisting that her nervous system cooperate completely, Milan willed her lips to form into a smile. “How are you? My name is Milan,” she said, using a professional voice. Then, she threw in a self-assured chuckle to cover her nervousness and said, “I’m desperately looking for a personal trainer.”

“I’m your man,” Gerard said, his low-toned voice oozing sensuality. There was a lilting hint of something foreign in his tone. Was it British? French? She couldn’t place it. Whatever—he sounded exotic and sexy as hell.

Undeniably lust-struck, Milan experienced a strange sensation. She wanted to feel his ripped body, run her hungry hands over his broad shoulders, his well-defined forearms, his muscular back, and up and down the isolated muscles on his abdominals. Through the fabric of his cotton tank top, a rock-hard eight-pack was discernible. Her eyes wandered down to his developed quads and calves. She shuddered.