His Young Maid: A Forbidden Boss Age Gap Romance

by Daisy Jane

  His Young Maid

  Daisy Jane

  Smeared Ink

  Copyright © 2021 by Daisy Jane

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Prologue

  1. Britta

  2. Britta

  3. Britta

  4. Brooks

  5. Brooks

  6. Brooks

  7. Britta

  8. Brooks

  9. Britta

  10. Brooks

  11. Brooks

  12. Brooks

  13. Britta

  14. Brooks

  15. Britta

  16. Britta

  17. Britta

  18. Brooks

  19. Brooks

  20. Britta

  21. Brooks

  22. Brooks

  23. Britta

  24. Britta

  25. Britta

  Epilogue / Brooks

  Stay Tuned…

  If You Liked This Story…

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  Prologue

  Brooks: Four Months Earlier

  Reaching down between us, I unzip my jeans, my heavy shaft falling into the seam between her thighs. She whimpers, making a noise through her artificially plumped lips. Rolling my hips, I pierce her, tunneling myself inside, over and over. It is the epitome of motion without heart, movement without thought, in and out for a purpose.

  “Oh, you know just how I like it,” she whines, and my cock softens a little. I told myself I wouldn’t do this. I told myself I’d enjoy this simple thing with this fine woman. Though lately it was beginning to get harder and harder to orgasm, and orgasm was really the only point of our relationship.

  She was always nice enough, despite the fact that she talked too much and cared about far too little. She always had on these fake eyelashes that threatened to make a break from her face. Her hair had been stripped of color, colored added, curled and combed, or pressed and pinned. Her clothes always seemed to have a sheen, fit tight, and I could always see her nipples. Physically, she was just working so hard to be what she thought men wanted. She always seemed to be nosing around my house and she continually asked me far too many questions about my work, both signs of a woman seeking a sugar daddy.

  I may have been of the sugar daddy age, ripe old at forty-eight, but I wasn’t looking to be a sugar daddy.

  I just didn’t want to be alone. I didn’t want to be the jerk so lonely and sexually frustrated that behind his back he was known as an asshole, a recluse, a complete lost cause.

  Forcing myself to date casually, I'd told myself, would help with that. And now, as this woman’s forced saccharine dirty talk made me go limp, I realized, I just couldn’t do it. Not anymore.

  Despite our arrangement, I knew she'd hoped I was falling in love with her. I knew she was trying all the things that worked on the other men before me. But falling in love with her?

  I was not.

  “Did you lose your hard on?” she reached between us and I rolled away, my body language not the only barrier as I tucked the sheet down between us.

  “I did,” I admitted, not even a single ounce of embarrassment in my tone. I didn’t even care what she’d say about me after this, and that was a new low. Simply put, I’d grown tired of pretending that I could be with just anyone. Clearly, I couldn’t do casual sex. And since I’d already fucked up the whole love thing, I knew I’d not find it again. No one was that lucky.

  “Can you go home now?” I urged, rolling onto my side, checking the alarm on my phone to make sure it was set.

  She guffawed in shock. I could’ve said I was sorry, but the truth was, I was glad. Glad to have her out of my bed, out of my house, out of my life. It would have been nice to come, but a sad orgasm is not in fact better than no orgasm, let me tell you. And I had experience with both.

  She puffed and huffed as she put her clothes back on in my dark bedroom, me watching her impatiently. Now that I had decided, I just wanted her out.

  “I want to break up, end this thing,” I added, realizing just then that I hadn’t verbalized that yet.

  Her jaw clenched tight; a snort blew past her lips. “Fuck you, Brooks,” she hissed, tripping as she tried to angrily shove her foot into a nude pump. “You know, you’re a real prick. Why have you been wasting my time?” I could see tears forming in her eyes and while I should’ve felt bad, hated myself, felt something—I just didn’t care.

  “I don’t know,” I shrugged, wishing I wasn’t such an asshole. But the truth was that I just hit a point where I couldn’t fake it anymore.

  “Don’t come crawling back to me when you can’t find anyone else to put up with your selfish bullshit. You’re never going to get a real girlfriend. Ever.” She grabbed my shirt from the floor and wiped her nose with it, and dabbed at her running eye makeup before tossing it back to the floor.

  “You’re paying for the rest of the month, like the contract says,” she snorted, throwing her handbag over her shoulder, clearly preparing to storm out. She needed to verify she was still going to get paid, though, so the dramatic, shocked, storm-out would have to wait. Because it was all about money with her, always. Even if she did like me, it was always about the money.

  It was always about something.

  Being the same age. Knowing the same people. Having the same friends. The money. The house.

  It was never about love.

  “I will pay through the month, yes,” I nodded and then she narrowed her eyes at me and shook her head, a symbolic scolding which had zero effect on me. Finally, she stormed out and I remained still in my bed for a few minutes until I received the front door alert that she’d gone.

  Alone again. I sighed and it’s a cocktail of relief and depression.

  Dating hadn’t worked for me—I felt bad seeing women just for sex, knowing emotionally I’d never connect with them. Tired of giving women false hope by taking them on dates, I turned to a premier and private companionship service complete with promised discretion in the form of non-disclosure agreements. Dating service is what all the other men needed to call it, to justify it to themselves, afraid to admit what it really was—physical companionship for cash. But I knew what it was. Negotiated contracts—down to the details such as what days of the week you wanted her company and what you wanted her to look like—you’d be matched, you’d pay, then you’d date and fuck. There were lots of rules, making it safe, discreet. It was guaranteed casual too because they were contractually obligated, though it was inevitable that some of the clients would catch feelings.

  I never did.

  I hadn’t wanted to date a prostitute, essentially, for the last four months. But I was tired of not having sex and I thought it would be better than being alone.

  But I was wrong.

  Britta: Three Months Earlier

  My cousin wraps her arm around my shoulders and squeezes me to her, tilting her head down against mine.

  “You did good,” she whispers, “and she was so proud of you for doing it.”

  I nod silently, not wanting to verbalize a response, fearful for another emotional rush. I’d cried so much in the last week that my face was sore and tight, like a piece of dried out leather. My body ached with fatigue, having not properly been taken care of for far too long. But you come last as a caregiver, especially when there’s no one there to relieve you.

  Finally
, I summon the strength to speak without sobbing. “Thank you,” I tell my cousin, who lifts her head and turns on the couch, looking at me.

  “What’s next for you? Now that she’s at peace,” she reaches out and tucks a strand of my probably very unruly sandy blonde hair behind my ear. Had I combed my hair this morning? I’d dozed off around 4:30am finally, anxiety holding my brain captive all night, and I’d awoken late for the service, rushing around to make it in time.

  “That’s the really fun part,” I say, giving her a small smile. It is small and I wonder if my lips even move though mentally, I’m positive I’m smiling, at least a little.

  “What’s that?” she asks, reaching out and flattening the lapel of my cardigan over my dress. It’s my funeral dress. I’ve had it for years and I only wear it to funerals. As I put it on that morning, I remembered the day I bought it. It was pricey, for me at least, costing nearly $40 and not on sale, not a way I typically shopped. But my grandpa, the man who’d helped raise me, had just passed away and money seemed less important than showing up looking nice, the way he deserved. When I bought it, my mom was probably already half way to her own grave, though I didn’t know it then. Now, looking down at the faded fabric covering my thighs, exposing my dark nylons, the dress makes my stomach turn. The death dress, the one that only appears when great sorrow has flooded my life.

  “Mom’s medical debt. Legally, it rolls over to yours truly,” I answer, pointing my thumbs back at myself before dropping my hands to my lap and playing at the hem of the dress, afraid to look up and see the disappointment in her face.

  I’m disappointed, too.

  When I’d dropped out of junior college to take care of mom, my heart was broken. I was only partially through the boring general education in my first semester, but it felt so selfish and silly to be so sad about school when, in reality, it would always be there. Mom wouldn’t.

  I’d eagerly awaited reenrolling somewhere, even if I needed loads of financial aid, since I’d spent my savings on keeping us afloat when insurance failed us. Alas, this was the time things were supposed to finally iron out for me. After meeting with the lawyer from the hospital, however, I’d been informed that as next of kin and only listed living relative, mom’s debt transferred straight to me. Her only child. Her only anything. I’d learned within the first weeks of her illness that being sick wasn’t cheap. And now, after two years, she’d accrued what felt to be an insurmountable amount of debt. Culinary school – or college as my mom wanted - whatever I wanted to do would have to wait. And who knows how long.

  “How much?” Melody asks, her eyes wide when I finally get the courage to meet them.

  “A lot.”

  I’m afraid if I tell her the exact amount, she will fill with hopelessness for me and I can’t bear to see it, not today, not after the funeral just hours before.

  “Okay,” her voice is calm as she leans back against the couch, kicking off her black flats and crossing her ankles. “What’s the plan?”

  It was my debt to pay back, but I knew Melody would be there for me emotionally. Though we were two years apart and lived a few hours away, she was there for me when it mattered. She was the only one.

  Sighing, I kick my flats off, too and lay my head back on the worn couch, the same one I’d been sleeping on next to mom’s hospital bed for the last two years. The living room suddenly looked big without all the medical equipment.

  “I’ll need at least one more job, probably two more since the part-time job at the Stop’n’Shop won’t cut it. And they won’t make me full time there. So maybe I can waitress in the evenings? I’m not old enough to serve booze so the good tips made in bars and clubs are off the table. Maybe I can sweep and clean in a salon on the weekends or something.”

  I’m thinking out loud at this point, because though I knew this day was coming, I couldn’t bear to plan the future, the ‘after’.

  “How long will you need all those jobs for?” she asks, her eyes holding their size. My stomach churns with nerves as I imagine myself working multiple jobs day and night, just to hand over most of my earnings over to the dark hole of debt.

  “As long as it takes,” I say truthfully.

  I will pay this debt off, my last way to show respect to my mother.

  “How much do you need, seriously Britta?” she scoots to the edge of the couch and leans forward, the ends of her box-dyed hair sweeping over her knees as she does.

  “Oh, not much, just a tiny $237,563.20,” I smile, and then laugh, because what twenty-year-old will be able to pay that off within a reasonable time with zero education and no real skills. It is kinda funny. If you’re exhausted and emotionally depleted and you choose to laugh instead of cry.

  I won’t cry about this, it’s not good, but still, I know I could have it a lot worse. And crying won’t help. Laughing will, if even for just the moment.

  “Down to the cent?” Melody doesn’t see the humor; her voice is tight and strained. “That’s not fair. How can they expect a girl to pay all that back?” She scoffs and I look up in her eyes, which are darting all over the front door, her mind running like a hamster in a wheel.

  “I’m an adult. And trust me, there’s no loophole. I have to do this. I told her I’d take care of things after she was gone and I will. And the lawyer at the hospital said I can take as much time as I need.”

  It makes me laugh now, thinking of how the stout man wiped his head with an embroidered handkerchief as he graciously allowed me “extra time” to pay a massive amount of debt. Debt incurred by impending and resulting death, no less. How generous and kind the establishment had been to me, us.

  “Are you sure?” she asks, and I can see her mind still trying, desperately, to find some dusty, long-undiscovered ‘gotcha’ that just wasn’t there.

  “I’m sure, Mel,” I say, resting a hand on her knee. I don’t want this to be her worry, too.

  She sinks back into the couch and sighs heavily, a sigh I feel and understand so deeply.

  “I know,” I reply, matching her position, settling into the worn leather, the afghan on the back of the couch sliding down over my shoulders.

  “What about the house? Please tell me she owned the house.”

  I can hear the hope in her voice as she asks, and I turn my head, the afghan weighing me down with warmth, making me suddenly sleepy. I swear I haven’t really slept well in two years.

  “Yeah, it’s paid off. Thankfully she always paid the mortgage before she bought her booze,” I said, letting my eyes briefly close. “But it’s not worth much. The lawyer told me they work with a company that will help me sell it, to make it easier on me. I’ll probably call him this week.”

  “Hey,” Melody grabs my knee and is leaning forward again, jostling me from my sliver of rest.

  “You should come work with me. Seriously, now that I’m thinking about it, it’s almost perfect,” she adds, her head nodding to outwardly match her inner thoughts. “Mavis just put in her notice; they’ll need someone new soon. And if I tell them you’re my cousin, they will definitely hire you. They love me. And you want to sell this place anyway! So you need to move!”

  Melody had started cleaning high-end houses of the elite in the rolling New York countryside.

  “Why’d Mavis quit?” I’d never met Mavis, but she was described in detail to me by Melody a few years ago, and the image had always stuck. A middle-aged woman with a perfectly twisted white bun and long, boney fingers adorned with gold rings. She sounded eccentric, and kind of cool, honestly. After all, how many truly unique people did you come across these days? However, Melody always found her pretentious and strange.

  “She’s going abroad, that’s all she said,” Melody shrugged. “But seriously, you can stay with me and Donny until you find a place. And you can get a really cheap little place downtown and make way more money with just the one job. And you can save and pay back way faster.”

  Looking at her as she nodded, her dark hair shiny under the dim living roo
m light, she looked so hopeful and happy. I wanted to be hopeful and happy, too.

  “How much do you make? You’re full-time, right?” I knew Melody had been cleaning the homes of the wealthy and elite for a few years but we’d never really gotten into the details.

  “Full time, yep. 8am to 5pm. Benefits, too. The pay is really good and the clients usually tip us too,” she smiles, still nodding, edging closer to me, her hands wrapping around mine in my lap.

  “Come on, it makes sense. Then you can be near me! And one job is way better than two or three. I mean, it’s cleaning houses. But it’s not like being a hotel maid. Half the time the homes are spotless anyway because most people don’t even live in them. These people are so loaded, Britta. Wait til you see these homes!”

  Her coaxing is enough, I need a change and it hits me in that moment that a move and a new job is exactly what I need to repave my road, to make sure going forward I have some slice of happy, not just darkness and debt.

  “How much?” I nudge her again.

  “You have to sign a non-disclosure agreement and you can’t bring your cell phone inside the house,” she says flatly, “no negotiating.”

  “Means nothing to me, I have no one to tell things to besides you, anyway.”

  “$100,000,” she whispers.

  I nearly leap from my seat. “What?!”

  She sticks her hands out and gives me the universal sign for ‘hang on a second’ as my eyes go wide and my jaw is on the floor. $100,000 a year to be a maid to rich people. “What?! Why didn’t you mention this earlier?” I ask.