Forbidden To Say No - The Billionaire's Plaything (An Erotic Romance Novel)

by Ashley Spector

  I turn my head, and spin myself around, looking to each darkened corner of the elevator. I feel my hands shake - my fingers trembling nervously - and my sane, rational mind begins to slip away from me. Then I think of all the stupid, trivial little things I miss. All the stupid, trivial things I might never see again.

  "I left the front door unlocked," I say to myself aloud, echoing around the room, "the toaster's still plugged in, the milk's going to go off. I can't die in here, I've got too much waiting on me."

  I think of my sister - my only true friend in this world - and how she'd cope without me. The very image drives a blood-curdling torrent of energy to my vocal chords, and I scream loudly.

  "Ohhh Christ, help!"

  Suddenly I feel hands on me; sharp fingers gripping the bare skin of my forearms, bringing me back to the hotel, and back to the brutal white light I've tried so hard to escape from. I open my eyes, and see him before me; his face gorgeously lit, bathed in bright light, and staring right into me.

  "Okay, okay, I'm impressed," he says, holding me tightly. For the first time, I can see those eyes for how they truly are; bright blue, with thick, deep black pupils inside, so large I can almost see my own face staring back at me in adoration. He's taller than me, 6'1" at least, and his arms, although hidden behind a rather dapper looking suit jacket, feel assertive and forceful, enough to shake me from my imagination-induced stupor and bring me back to Earth, at least.

  "I'm sorry, was I too loud?"

  He smiles wryly again, contorting the side of his thin lips into a sly grin, appearing both graciously amused, and somewhat aloof.

  "You're fine, really."

  His hands leave my arms, and he takes a step back. My flesh tingles slightly, his fingers having left red marks upon my pale skin. I like the feeling.

  "Miss Everett," he says with a breathy sigh, diverting his eyes to the ground as though preparing to deliver bad news. "You know, being an actor has certain intricacies that, well, I'm not so sure your background would allow for."

  His words sail right past me at first. It's only when I engage my mind, and tear my eyes away from studying his handsome features that I comprehend what he's saying.

  "Intricacies? What do you mean?"

  "Nudity" he bellows, sternly echoing around the room. "Taking one's clothes off. I noticed in your work history that you haven't yet performed any naked scenes."

  Oh boy, we're having this conversation? I'd always wanted to stall this particular discussion until I'd won my first Oscar. I'd have settled for an Emmy, even. I step back involuntarily, betraying more insecurity than I'd like to admit, and put my hand over my mouth in a display of prudish shock.

  "Oh, well, uhm, I suppose, I uhm -"

  All of a sudden, I'm back inside the darkened elevator, and back inside my bathroom at home, trying my hardest to battle back the demons of anxiety and unease, confronting an unfortunate reality I always knew this line of work would bring me to.

  "It's something I might consider" is the only thing I can spit out, a diplomatic and non-committal answer, and one that by the look on his face doesn't please him.

  "Well, you can take orders can't you?" he replies with pointed disappointment. Then, crossing his arms, and cocking his chin to the root of his neck, looking down to my toes, almost, he pierces the warm, white air with a forceful yell. "Sit down!"

  I jump out of my skin, shook from my reluctant nervousness by his deafening cry. Without giving it a moment's thought, I do as he says, dropping to my knees, and back onto my ass, giving no mind to the dust I'll inevitably cover my sister's dress in. I look back up to my host, and see nothing but bright, white light engulfing his face like some malevolent halo.

  "Now stand up!"

  Again, I do as I'm told, springing to my feet with relish. The energetic exertion leaves me a little out of breath, but at this level I can at least see the sense of satisfaction so beamingly apparently on his face. I feel used and demeaned, as though I've been brought here to satisfy the every whim of some egotistical casting agent. But oddly enough, the thought of bouncing back down the corridor and back to my car isn't even an option to me right now. I’m ashamed to even admit it, but being used and demeaned doesn’t seem so bad right now.

  "You can follow orders. That makes you a better choice than most of the air-headed bimbos out there."

  I find myself nodding silently to him, before my conscious mind wrestles control back and I stop myself.

  "Now," he goes on to say, putting his hand to his chin, and stroking the black bristles of his five-o-clock shadow, slowly and thoughtfully. "Take off your dress."

  Wait, what? Take off my dress?! My heart feels as though it falls from its hiding place inside my ribcage to the very foot of my stomach, beating madly upon hearing such a shamefully licentious request. I open my mouth - ostensibly to yell a piercing refusal in his face - but find myself unable to speak. My hand trembles visibly before me, even as it rises to the back of my neckline, and fiddles with the tied strap holding the flimsy dress in place on my figure.

  I see his eyes ignite with an excited, exuberant flame, and a voice from within echoes around the entranced annals of my mind; what the hell are you doing?! I wish I could answer myself. My body acts of its own accord, unfastening the cord, and allowing my dress to fall to my waist, before I wriggle myself out of it slightly, letting it fall to the dusty white floor around my ankles. He smiles to himself, scanning his eyes over every inch of flesh I've exposed - my pale chest, hidden only behind a flimsy cotton bra, my freckled stomach, and my girly pink panties, clutching to my petite frame, perhaps as frightened as I am. Then the smile disappears, and he turns his expression back to my face.

  "You do as you're told, I see."

  I nod yet again, and this time I don't have the presence of mind to stop myself. My stomach is alive with the angered fluttering of butterflies, my skin crawls under the intensive, magnifying stare of his trespassing eyes, and my vocal chords have long given up the pretense of registering any sort of displeasure with this whole 'audition'. And, to my simultaneous surprise and horror, I'm not hating this. In fact, I feel good. Like the weight of a thousand worries has been lifted from my shoulders. I'm no longer in charge of my own short-sighted actions. I've given all power to someone else...

  "How about your bra? Are you willing to part with that?"

  I knew that was coming, but no amount of mental preparation could stop me flinching prudishly upon hearing the words. I close my eyes, take another great, deep breath, and find the fastened hooks with my fingers, forcing it open and letting the straps fall from my freckled shoulders with no resistance whatsoever. Then, I watch it fall to the floor, to join my discarded dress. I already feel his eyes on me, looking at my exposed breasts with lecherous relish, and feel my nipples harden to a rigid firmness beneath his very gaze. The warm air feels good on my naked skin, as I feel my cheeks grow hotter, and realize I must be blushing.

  "You’re nervous. Nervous and beautiful" he tells me from a mere two feet away, keeping his arms crossed, and one eyebrow raised quizzically. Something happens; I stumble slightly, feeling my knees jar from beneath me. Jesus, what is wrong with you Chlo!? I hear the niggling, judgmental voice inside bawling. You're going all weak-kneed at a simple compliment? But now isn't the time for shame.

  "Now," he announces, his voice deep and booming, carrying an ethereal authority I just can't put my finger on. "The underwear. How about it?"

  Again, I could see that request coming from a thousand miles away. You can hide nothing in a room as brightly lit and pure as this. But I know what's expected of me, and I'm in no mood to disappoint. My hands fall effortlessly to my hips, and with two trembling fingers tucked under the fabric of each side, my panties are slid dutifully to my ankles, exposing my shy, albeit neatly trimmed mound of hair to his awaiting eyes. He's grinning that grin again; the dry smile from one side of his lips. I don't see it - instead looking down to his feet, focusing on the delicately polished black sp
lendor of his shoes. But I feel it.

  "Well, Miss Everett," he says, in a tone much higher, and lighter than his previously barked orders, "you've done good. I think you're just perfect."

  A surge of thrilling, animated excitement rushes up from the depths of my stomach. I look up to him, finding those round, gorgeous blue eyes, and peer into them giddily.

  "Perfect?!" I can barely stop myself grinning. I must look pathetic. "Perfect for what?"

  "Perfect" he says one final time, putting one immaculately polished shoe in front of the other, and stepping towards me slowly, making up the ground between us until his bristled, handsome face is mere inches from my own. I feel like I'm back on stage at my school nativity. No, I'm back in the elevator! I'm waiting for one of a thousand auditions yet again. I can't stop myself shaking. I feel his breath on my neck, warm and sweet, exciting goose pimples along my naked arms, and for the briefest of seconds, I fidget around on the spot, feeling a certain dampness between my legs.

  I close my eyes, expecting his fingers dug deeply into my arms yet again, and the coarse fabric of his jacket against my skin as he embraces me tenderly. But it doesn't happen. Nothing happens. I stand alone.

  When I can't keep my eyes closed any longer, impatiently awaiting his touch upon my devoted, donated body, I choke a little with disappointment. He's back at his chair, picking up an armful of papers, and sorting them neatly into a folder. Then, when he's finished, he glances back at me gingerly, before striding past me - standing naked and pathetic in the center of the room - and makes for the door, putting his hand upon the handle.

  "Well Miss Everett, I'll be in touch."

  And with those courteous and infuriating words, he leaves.

  Two, maybe three minutes later, and I'm still standing here, naked and confused, bitter and bemused. What the fuck just happened? Was I stood up? Did I stand him up? Was there some thinly veiled part of that audition I didn't grasp? Was that even a fucking audition at all? It occurs to me way too late that I didn't even ask about the role. I just waltzed in here, died under a haze of brilliant white light, and gave my empty body to the enigmatic Daniel Grant. Hell, I don't even know if that's his real fucking name!

  My eyes swim upon a bed of watery tears, as I find myself battling once again to contain myself. Slowly, I pick up my underwear, my bra, and my dress, making myself respectable once more, albeit with a huge chunk of something removed from my soul. Bounding down the corridor and down the stairs - missing the elevator entirely - I'm still tossing it over in my mind, trying to figure out exactly what happens now. Do I wait? Do I go out and look for this guy myself, and ask him just what the fuck happened? You know, it's not that I'm disgusted, or even ashamed of what just happened. On the contrary; I'm frustrated.

  I charge out of the building, ignoring the judgmental eyes of the receptionist as I leave, and pace directly to my car. I need clarity here. I need to be washed clean of the sickly aspersions and dirtied, worrisome waters that alluring bastard left me in. I need a spot of soul-searching.

  Chapter Four

  As soon as I brush past the door, the smell of stale beer makes my head spin. My hardened nipples chafe against the inner wires of my bra as I replay the morning's events in my mind, and alcohol won't anesthetize the pain. No, what I want is validation.

  "Hey, guys," I announce, strolling up to a table of college-age--looking guys, before pulling a chair out from underneath and perching my elbows upon it. They each turn to me one by one, wordlessly studying my face and figure. Emboldened and empowered by a strange sense of vigor, I'm not to be perturbed: "Is today your lucky day?"

  They stare at me blankly. For a moment, I worry that I've come across a table of European exchange students, fresh off the plane with not a word of English between them, before one of them - small beady eyes and thin lips - puts his hand to his chin, and finally answers me.

  "Uhm," he says, looking over to his friends for a moment, and then turning back to me with suspicious eyes. "I erm, don't know?"

  I cross my arms, sighing deeply, before looking back to them.

  "Today is the day you get to fuck me."

  That's how I'd imagine it would go down. But back to reality I go...

  ***

  I haven't even left the car. The engine's off, and my hand is on the door handle, but I know fully well that I'm not getting out. Would I have the confidence and self-important self esteem to randomly proposition someone? Hell no. Would I even be able to command that sort of control over someone? Hell no.

  For the first time in my life, I was that close. For the first time I wasn't obscured by my own dumb anxieties and worries. For the first time someone had the opportunity to take everything away from me; my power, my control, my nerves, my worries, my virginity.

  Maybe I should have gone to college after all. Maybe then, being a twenty-two year old virgin wouldn't seem like such a blight over my head. I could have just gotten it over with; lost it to some squirrelly frat-boy, and lifted the great curse that guards the temple. I wish I could be different. I wish, just for one moment, that I could leave this body and jump into one of the characters I know so well. I wish I could give everything up, and be - I don't know - powerless?

  I start the car back up, and begin the gridlocked journey home. It’s almost lunch-time, but I'm in no mood to eat. I just want to get back, throw myself into bed, and put myself in a slumber so deep I can forget about all of this. The audition that got so close. The man who dared to undress me...

  Chapter Five

  The only thing I hear is the high-pitched and incessant whine of Carissa's voice, occupying some frequency that only dogs and my own self can hear. Laughing, gasping, shouting, screaming. I fucking hate it when she has friends over. Sure; I'm a hypocrite. I do my own share of laughing and joking and shouting and screaming. But at least I have the decency to be reading them from a script.

  I clutch the pillow to my face, trying my hardest to blot out every one of my senses in this world, and failing entirely. She truly has a voice that can cut glass. My voice, but still. I throw the pillow to the floor, and open my eyes to the brightness of the afternoon one more time; shafts of dust-speckled light piercing through the blinds, and the familiar orange glow of the California Sun outside, neither of which is doing anything to enhance my mood. Suddenly, I hear Carissa's droning voice coming to an abrupt stop. I'm in peace again.

  Knock, knock-knock.

  "Chlo, why didn't you fucking tell me?!"

  I feel my cheeks begin to fill with blood, radiating a flustered and angered heat. I so wish I lived alone.

  "Chlo, wake up, wake up!"

  I can't control myself any longer; I bolt upright, and throw another errant pillow at the door, watching it bounce off with all the playful energy of a toy. Somehow, she interprets that as an invitation to enter. Sigh. The door springs open, exposing my otherwise dimly-lit room to a memory-provoking ocean of bright light, and she hops inside; an annoying spring in her step.

  "Daniel fucking Grant."

  I strain my eyes at her, feeling a twinge of something inside that sets my heart back into overdrive - guilt? Panic? Lust? - as she repeats those words with sizeable relish, and plants herself at the foot of my bed.

  "Wait, what?" I manage to spit out, cautiously. She's almost humming with excitement; her outline against the harsh, brutal Sunlight buzzes with a certain juvenile energy.

  "You didn't tell me you'd spoken to Daniel fucking Grant this morning!"

  "I uhm..." Oh fuck, what does she know? Did he call? Did I get the job? Does she know about my indecent audition? I play it safe; act cool, Chlo. "I didn't know you cared."

  If I didn't know my own twin sister better, I'd almost say she looks insulted. Her face turns from giddy excitement to pointed dejection, and before I can sleepily draw my arms to my face in defense, she's picked the pillow back up from the floor, and flung it back into my eyes.

  "You bitch," she rasps between gritted teeth, using every bit of that l
aw-room education of hers. "Don't you think I need to know these things? Huh!?"

  "I audition all the time!" I yell back, scratching my head of unkempt black hair, trying not to let her unprovoked incredulity get the better of me. "What, are you my agent now?"

  Silence. Her expression inverts from a fizzling anger, to something much more sly. With a knowing grin, she drops to her elbows to the bed, and leans over to me, trying her hardest to read me. Then, in an apparent eureka moment, she's figured it all out.

  "You don't know do you?"

  Again, heart-pounding guilt; dry-mouthed confusion; nerve-wrenching anxiety. What the fuck is going on? She puts me out of my misery with a pointed finger to my laptop in the corner of the room, sitting precariously upon a pile of un-ironed clothes.

  "Wikipedia. Daniel Grant. Check him out."

  And with that moment of self-satisfied smugness, she picks herself up and leaps out of the room, leaving me to wonder just what the hell I've gotten myself into. Shaking the panging pain of a headache from my skull, I reach across for the laptop, boot it up, and do as she says.

  ***

  "So," is the only word I manage to coax from her as I sullenly plant myself back upon the couch next to her, taking an abstract moment to scan the place for rats and cockroaches. Jesus this place is filthy. I look over to her, and quietly process all the excitable questions she asks, and all incredulous protests she makes about my so-called audition this morning. I try to act cool; try to remain the icy and aloof Chlo that's won me so many icy and aloof-looking extra roles.

  "You know, we should really clean this place up."

  "What's he like!?" she barks at me with crazed eyes and flared nostrils, "What did he say? What was he dressed like? Oh, tell me everything!"

  I can't even believe it myself. I don't make a habit of researching my directors and casting agents and co-workers and so-on online. I guess I'm just scared of what I might find out. And, of course, I could think of better things to do than bury my head inside a gossip magazine for hours on end. But how come everyone knows who Daniel Grant is in this town, apart from me?