Free A Bona Fide Gold Digger by Allison Hobbs Page B

unfocused as she mechanically rubbed the sweet-scented oil in the prescribed circular motion.
    “I enjoy your technique, my dear. You’re much better suited for this work than Elise.”
    Earlier, Mr. Brockington had been silent during this procedure. His unexpected comments snatched Milan from her safety zone. Thanks a lot for bringing me out of my trance, asshole! Now, emotionally present and discomfited by the compliment, she responded with a curt “Thank you.” She began rubbing again urgently, as if the speed of her hands would hasten the session.
    “Would you be kind enough to slip your finger inside; I enjoy having my anus caressed.”
    Milan’s oily hands skidded to a stop. Surely her ears deceived her. “Excuse me?” she asked, shocked, prepared to puke and then take off running.
    Mr. Brockington cleared his throat and spoke with his face turned away from Milan, his head rested upon several pillows. “I’m rather ashamed to admit it, but I allowed Elise to introduce me to something that many would deem unnatural and pervasively taboo.” He sighed. “Unfortunately, now that I’ve developed a penchant for anal play, I find it extremely difficult to drift off to sleep without the benefit of my naughty little pleasure.”
    His request was more than troubling; it was absolutely revolting! Milan immediately envisioned herself running down the staircase, but when Mr. Brockington followed his expressed desire with “Of course, there’s a one-thousand-dollar cash bonus for you. It’s in the top drawer of the armoire,” Milan’s physical body did not cooperate with her fleeing mental image. Her feet remained in place.
    “Please continue rubbing while you consider my offer,” Mr. Brockington said. There was a smug self-assurance in his tone that told Milan he expected her to bite the bait.
    She’d been employed by Noah Brockington for a little over a week and her money was accumulating faster than she’d imagined. But her growing nest egg gave her little comfort. Never, ever had she touched anyone’s asshole, it was a despicable thought. But she needed to pay off her debt and get back on her feet. Short of murdering someone, there wasn’t much she wouldn’t do for money.
    Expecting an unpleasant whiff when she spread Mr. Brockington’s squishy butt cheeks, she pursed her lips and scrunched up her nose. Fortunately, the man was clean and the only thing she smelled was the scent of the papaya massage oil she’d randomly selected. Her middle finger tensed in objection as she directed it toward the ridged flesh—the outer ring of muscles that surrounded the anal opening. After stroking the area for less than five minutes, she heard the familiar sound that was music to her ears—the hum of Mr. Brockington’s snoring.
    After retrieving a hand towel from the bathroom, she wiped the oil from his behind. The gesture was not an act of kindness or even consideration. Milan was removing evidence. She’d die of mortification if Mr. Brockington’s private nurse discovered his oily backside and became enlightened to how Milan really earned her keep.
    She pulled up his pajama bottom. The snap of the elastic waistband against his skin caused him to wince in his sleep. Milan smiled, satisfied by the small degree of discomfort she’d caused her perverted employer.
    She held her hands under scalding hot water and scrubbed them until she could no longer endure the pain, but her hands still didn’t feel clean enough. They never would. With that realization, Milan used a clean monogrammed towel to pat her defiled hands dry and rushed to the armoire. She pulled open the top drawer and scooped up the crisp, neatly stacked bills—her thousand-dollar bonus. For a fleeting moment, the money delighted her, but a flash of the pages and pages of credit card debt brought her back to reality. She felt like an indentured slave.
    Ravenous after showering, Milan returned Dickens to the library and then trekked to the kitchen. She