A Bona Fide Gold Digger Page 13

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

  chapter twenty

  Later 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 mistake
n 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.

  Though she rarely gave head—had never wanted to—her tongue craved the flavor of his hidden muscle. Expecting his dick to taste as good as he looked, Milan looked forward to the deliciousness of some hard dark caramel candy. Given a chance, she’d suck on it until he pleaded for her to stop.

  For the first time in her life, Milan felt the overwhelming urge to kiss, taste, and touch. Never had she felt the urge to sexually please another person as strongly as she felt at this moment.

  Casey gawked as Milan brazenly devoured Gerard with her eyes. Intending to put a stop to any possible hanky panky between the two, the young woman blurted, “Gerard, I forgot to mention it, but you have an appointment at noon.”

  Gerard pondered briefly, his thick brow crinkled. “At noon? Which client? I never book anyone at noon.”

  “Uh,” Casey hesitated. “It was one of your regulars. The name’s in the computer. I’ll check it out in a minute.”

  No way was Milan going to let a snotty kid get the best of her.

  She promptly pulled out a notepad and jotted down her cell phone number. “Listen, give me a call and let me know when you can squeeze me in.” She gazed at Gerard with seductive eyes and threw him a flirty smile.

  He accepted her number and returned the smile. The sexy spread of his lips had Milan wanting to spread her legs. Right there in the gym. On top of one of the weight benches.

  Gerard wasn’t ordinary handsome. He was centerfold material. No, he was more than that. His facial features and cut body exceeded male model status, his look was cinema worthy. He was sexier and better looking than Taye Diggs, Adewale Akinnuoye-Agbaje, and Denzel Washington combined. Milan wondered why Gerard was wasting his time training obnoxious Main Liners when he could be in Hollywood making megabucks.

  Casey mumbled something under her breath as she eyeballed the piece of paper Milan had given Gerard. Her face turned pink again. Pinker than before, Milan noted with enormous satisfaction. And the way Casey glared at Gerard made Milan wonder if he was fucking the boss’s daughter.

  Probably, Milan decided. Gerard had the rich and commanding presence of an African prince. She couldn’t blame the girl for wanting to keep the handsome hunk all to herself. It wouldn’t have surprised Milan one bit if Casey threw a tantrum, snatched the paper from Gerard’s hand, and ripped it to shreds.

  But Casey never got the chance. Gerard folded the paper and stuck it in the side pocket of his loose-fitting shorts.

  Mission accomplished! The way Gerard smiled at her, one would have thou
ght she’d put pen to paper and divulged her carnal desire: Wet pussy looking for hard dick! But she hadn’t. Her cell number was the only thing she’d written down. It was obvious to Milan that Gerard wanted her as badly as she wanted him. She was deliriously happy.

  Beaming, Milan pranced toward the exit sign.

  chapter twenty-one

  Back home, Milan daydreamed about Gerard as she munched on a salad she’d prepared herself. She didn’t trust Irma messing around with her food anymore. Clearly the woman would have to go. But getting rid of Irma, she realized, was something she’d have to discuss with Noah. Convincing him that Irma was sneakily trying to ruin her figure might not be an easy endeavor.

  After eating, she glided to Noah’s room to break the news of their down-sized nuptials.

  “Excuse us, please,” she said, politely dismissing Ruth Henry, who was reading to Noah from one of his boring leather-bound books. The nurse had the nerve to cut her eye at Noah as if she expected him to protest. Milan felt her temper mounting. “Excuse us!” She used a stronger tone, which prompted the nurse to close the book and jump to her feet. The woman was doing more freakin’ reading than nursing, but then again, there wasn’t much else for her to do since caring for Noah only required restorative walking and dispensing his medication.

  Ruth Henry scurried away and Milan settled into the chair the nurse had vacated. Leaning forward, hands clasped in front of her, she looked Noah in the eye.

  “Yes?” Noah’s eyes gleamed with sexual expectation as if Milan had interrupted his reading time because she was overcome with a sudden and urgent need to get into something freaky.

  She hated the way his filthy mind stayed in the gutter. Pretending not to have noticed his lecherous look, Milan smiled pleasantly. “I’ve been doing some thinking,” she said, unclasping her hands and gently stroking his scrawny wrist.