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

by Ashley Spector

  Heavily overexposed scenes follow; scenes shot so brightly I wonder if this actually ever actually made it to editing. I take my eyes off the screen for one moment to sink my head between my knees, resting my eyelids from the effervescently bright shots. When I pick my head back up, and stare back into my laptop, I can't believe what I see.

  "Danjel Subotic is 10 years old. He has nothing. No parents. Not anymore. No home. Long blown off the map."

  It's him; as clear as the day, as sharp as the moon. Daniel Grant, in picture: a tall and emaciated boy, with jet black hair, tanned skin, and a rather misplaced mischievous grin, staring directly into the camera from no more than two feet away. Ten years old.

  "Like a lot of Bosnian War victims, Danjel has his share of scars."

  He lifts his shirt with some encouragement from the director, to reveal a set of snake-like blood-red wounds, curving up and down his chest like writhing, slithering worms. Shrapnel injury, the voice-over says. Daniel Grant; ten years old. I couldn't mistake those sharp cheekbones, giving him a certain look of incongruous confidence.

  "I want to see America!" he yells with a empty smile. Then, as if nothing was wrong, the movie takes its next turn, a profile of a set of refugees, walking tirelessly across the plains.

  I'm so engrossed I don't even realize my fingers pressed deeply into the fleshy skin of my thighs, gripping myself so tightly that I have to pry them out one by one before I can fidget. My heart is thumping again; my mouth dry and wordless. Daniel Grant. Danjel Subotic? The Bosnian orphan and refugee? It can't be.

  I brave the blinding rays penetrating my blinds, and search the floor for my cell phone. When I get there, he's already beaten me to it: one missed call, one voicemail message. I'm back in the producer's trap; entwined within his suspenseful story, gripped by his mystique. If this is all one big test of my loyalties, I've fallen for it hook, line and sinker.

  "Miss Everett," he says as formally and businessman-like as ever, speaking in a deep, Los Angeles accent so far removed from that skinny ten-year-old that I can scarcely believe it. "Why don't you come back to my penthouse suite tonight? Come when you're ready, I don't have any commitments until the morning."

  It's an offer I really should think about, but ultimately one that I know I can't refuse. I scoop the DVD out of my laptop, put it back inside its anonymous, blank case, and fly out of the house as quickly as my creaking knees will take me. It's rush-hour, and the streets of LA are choked with black, foreboding smog, but I take the car anyway, wasting no time to see my employer once more.

  I still can't get the image out of my mind; the blackened, burnt out buildings, legions of tall, gangly men in camouflaged fatigues, and one ten year old boy in the centre of it all. Nothing but a face, a name, and the tattered clothes on his back.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The same skyscraper shining in the evening sun; it almost hurts me to look at. I avert my eyes to the floor, careful not to crash into anyone in my urgency. The same rude receptionist, and the same sturdy palm on my shoulder, surprising me from behind, and shaking me out of my mindlessness.

  "It's okay," he says, showing more than a delightful set of teeth to the receptionist, still shooting dirty looks at me from behind that empowering desk of hers. "She's mine."

  It's true. I'm his. But I feel different now. All of a sudden, the dynamic between us has changed. As we walk, his hand still perched upon my shoulder, and my head turned to the side, watching the outline and contours of his square jaw and chin as we make our way to the elevator. In my pain-cleansed, burn-scarred body, I feel somehow pure. Like I have no secrets.

  "Thanks for coming," he says to me behind the closed elevator doors, sounding genuinely appreciative. Part of me wonders just what he'd have done with himself tonight if I hadn't showed. I try to put the thought out of my mind.

  "It's okay."

  And not another word is muttered between us until we make it back to Daniel's penthouse 'office'. A large, thick mahogany oak door is unlocked, and inside I'm surprised yet again. The entire place has changed. The room of my prior imprisonment is filled to the ceiling with ornate decorations; somber paintings, movie posters hung behind glass frames, and sculptures filling the floor - a mixture of small marble statuettes, and strange wooden artifacts - so many I can barely stretch my legs in here. One thing is the same: the armoire still stands, its doors ominously closed. I'll admit I feel a misplaced twinge of excitement between my legs upon seeing it again.

  "What happened to this place?"

  "Character, uhm, personality" he replies, distracted somehow. I turn to him quick enough to see him withdrawing a fingernail from between his teeth. "I thought you were right. No personality."

  "Oh Daniel." I don't even remember saying that, but it does sound like something I'd nervously blurt out, before regretting it wholly. I take another look around; there must be thousands of dollars worth of decoration in here. Beautiful, gorgeously subdued paintings, in grays and blacks and browns and whites. Vivid colors of posters mingling together upon the walls. And still no personality.

  "I watched the DVD" I finally say, watching his every expression. He grins - that wry smile from the side of his mouth - and runs a couple of fingers through his hair. I wouldn't have thought it before, but having seen that same smile so many times, I start to wonder if it's the only one he's got. "A home movie, right?"

  He nods.

  "My father, Conrad, was everything. My father had everything. But he didn't have a son."

  I slowly drop to my knees, and then lean backwards, propping myself up against the wall behind, careful not to knock the glass frame of the poster above me. He does the same, kneeling pensively before me.

  "I don't actually remember much of my life in the old country."

  "How did you get over here?" I ask, letting my obtrusive curiosity get the better of me.

  "Uncharted flight. Forged documents, forged social security number, whatever. My father had the money to make it happen." He laughs to himself, yet another vulnerable chink in his immaculately controlled armor. "I guess you could say I'm an illegal immigrant. Father was so jealously guarded he could make it happen. Luckily for me, the government doesn't tend to look for undocumented immigrants in penthouse suites."

  I should be amazed. I guess on some level I am, but I certainly don't feel it. I always knew he was different. Cut from a different cloth from the rest of us; eternally mindful of his appearance and the words and diction he uses. So utterly controlled, and hiding such a monumental secret. Forged in the fires of war, and tempered by tragedy.

  "What happened to your real parents?"

  "I don't think about that" he coldly replies, his small blue eyes glistening in the florescent white light. "It's not my life anymore."

  I can see him now for what he is: scarred in more ways than physically, and carrying a great burden upon him.

  "And your father left you everything he had?"

  Again, he nods. I replay that one sentence he uttered in the cafe back to myself; this life wasn't for me.

  "Wow," is all I can think to say. How ignorantly unimaginative. His shoulders slump unenthusiastically from his body, and he breathes heavily, puffing his impressive chest out with every deep exhalation. He looks almost as though I've broken him; even the smile is gone from his face. I can sit here, hugging my knees, pondering just what he's thinking all night. And I'm sure I'll never know.

  "I've been rude," he immediately barks at me, shaking me from my ponderous slumber, and leaping to his feet with a renewed energy. "I haven't even shown you the rest of this place."

  He seizes my hand with an overeager grip, and drags me to my feet, holding my hand and leading me back out of the door and to the corridor. More rooms; each as anonymous as the last. Giant plasma TV in the living room, set against huge wall-length windows with gorgeous views of the darkening city, but nothing more than red paint to decorate the other four walls. The kitchen is full of shiny chrome appliances, each looking like th
ey'd never been used, and an innumerable amount of en-suite bathrooms, connected to bedrooms with nothing in them other than rather obtrusive four-poster beds.

  "I guess I haven't gotten around to decorating these rooms yet," he says, with the faintest glimmer of guilt.

  "Looks like you just moved in yesterday."

  We pause in the bedroom, and I run a hand along his sheets; black, silk, and fine to the touch. I always wanted silk sheets, but never felt I was living well enough to deserve them. Now I feel them between my fingers, I feel guardedly disappointed.

  "So, Miss Everett" begins my employer, straightening his posture, and again assuming his businessman-like stance. "Shall we get to work?"

  He delves under the bed, and retrieves a set of handcuffs. Two sets of handcuffs in fact. No fluffy cuffs; just harsh, brutally cold steel. Exactly his style. I feel it once more; the buzzing, fiery flame of lust. Looking into his eyes I know he feels it too. And I'd be crazy to deny him. Even crazier to deny myself. But something isn't right.

  "I uhh," I pause, trying to find the right words to convey my feelings. He doesn't realize, turning his back to me and affixing the handcuffs to the bedposts one by one. He expects to have me as he wants me; to impose himself upon me, to make him follow his every command, and his every delightfully debauched impulse. I want it too, but not like this. Not after the revelations that have passed between us: "I can't."

  "What?" he barks back, surprised by my reticence, wholly expecting me to fall into line like every other struggling actor he works with. "What do you mean you can't?"

  "This isn't right" I reply, feeling the unnerving urge to chatter my teeth together anxiously. He's staring right at me; deep into my soul. I can't quite believe I'm doing this. I can't believe I'm standing up to him. "Not like this."

  "Are you saying no to me?" he finally says, after several moments pause. It hadn't occurred to me, but he's right. I'm actually saying no. "I think you forget, Miss Everett. You’re the girl who can't say no."

  "I know that," I answer, slowly losing my tongue to a wordless paralysis. It's true. That's the reason I'm here, after all. I'm the centerpiece to Daniel Grant's scandalous, sadistic tendencies. I'm the bare back, and gagged mouth, humming and groaning with every lash of his whip. But I can't do this now. "Something feels different, Daniel. Surely you must feel it too."

  It was fine when he was the emotionless, expressionless billionaire, too controlled and too guarded to show me anything other than a saucer-full of burning wax, and a rough, remorseless fucking. But now that I've seen more of him - the vulnerabilities, the war-torn body, and the revelation that there's a real person inside that cold, monotone shell of a man - I want more of him. I want to touch him, and to coax that warm, loving man that I know must exist out of his cage.

  I don't know how he'll react. As I watch him right now he doesn't move - no expression of anger, sorrow or warmth - just an immovable, gorgeously sharp face, calculating my intentions.

  "I know, this must break my contract, but -"

  He interrupts me, closing his eyes and waving a hand in front of him as if batting away an imaginary fly.

  "You didn't read the contract. If you did you'd realize it was nothing more than bullshit. Gibberish. Pages of legal nonsense and gobbledygook. You didn't sign up to anything."

  My jaw drops to the floor in surprise, and my heart jumps to my cavernous mouth. He's absolutely right; I didn't read it. But I didn't expect this.

  "What? So why make me sign it?"

  "I wanted to see how far you'd go," he says, dropping his eyes to the floor with guilt. "I wanted to see if you'd sign your life away to me without a moment's thought, without even acknowledging the consequences. You did."

  "It was a test," I say, more to myself than anything, as the method behind Daniel's madness becomes clear.

  "Yes. You're free to go whenever you choose, free to say no. Your only impediment to saying no is yourself."

  I look down. And then to the ceiling. And then to the walls. I don't know what I expect to see, but anything seems better than staring into those eyes right now. Eyes that I know have tricked me; eyes that have gleefully played me, and manipulated me all along. This isn't an employment. It's an opportunity for Daniel Grant to see how far he could take someone like me; to their very moral boundaries, pain thresholds, and beyond. After spending so long believing him to be my boss, my master, my dominant overlord, unable to be disobeyed, I finally see that we're both equal after all.

  "Haha," I laugh to myself, walking the short distance to the foot of the bed, and sitting myself down upon it. He soon joins me, sitting next to me, and we both fall onto our backs in unison. Then it hits me; "so what now?"

  I don't want to be Daniel's psychologist, his maid, or his empty vessel for inflicting the various sadistic pains of his childhood upon. I want him. I want him more than anything. But I realize now, we must be equals. He's a billionaire. He's one of the most powerful men in the world. And I'm a so-called actress with barely two hundred dollars to my name. But we're both the same when it comes down to it; two people with hidden personalities, too nervous, and too guarded to truly express ourselves.

  He finally answers my question, slowly picking his body up, and drawing his face over mine, spending a second to look into my distrusting eyes. He closes his eyelids, and lays his lips upon my own. The feeling is electric; his lips dance over mine, teasing me with the tantalizing prospect of a kiss, finally locking and caressing me with his mouth. I sigh deep inside, feeling his tongue dart onto my bottom lip, alluring me tenderly, giving me the soft, sweet embrace of his lips as a saccharine expression of love. My tongue leaves my mouth, meeting his briefly, as my fingers begin to explore the soft, ever-present fabric of his suit jacket, pressing deeply within, searching for those tense, sublime muscles beneath.

  He lays his body on top of mine, delving below my head with a hand, holding my head sweetly, and running his fingers through my hair. I close my eyes, giving in to him, letting him take me once more to a world I never knew before we met. His other hand dances nervously upon my hips, rubbing my skin through the obtrusive cotton of my long-sleeved t-shirt. I feel it again; the warmth inside me, buzzing and fizzling like a lit firework. My back arches, my skin is aflame for him. His kisses excite the hairs on the back of my neck to stand on end, and I already know I want him in me.

  "I don't know what happens now," he says, speaking in a soft, quiet tone, a million miles from that monotone I got to know and love. "Let's just find out."

  My hands are impatient, rubbing and kneading his clothed skin with an unrestrained energy. For once I don't feel nervous, or anxious. I'm in control at last, using my hands and lips as I wish, not just an idle spectator anymore. I pull his suit jacket backwards over his shoulder, exposing the pristine white shirt beneath, and the fabulous contours of his body as I open my eyes once more. He soon opens his, and feels the need to surprise me yet again:

  "You're so beautiful, and you're too scared to admit it."

  I'm suddenly transported back to that blindingly lit room, and our auspicious audition together. My mind replays the lecherous, licentious way he spoke that word: perfect. It's a compliment I've never forgotten, since I've received so few in my life. Spoken from his lips, I could barely believe it. And I still don't. Yet now, when he tells me I'm beautiful, I almost trust him.

  We're wrapped up in another procession of kisses, as my hands work tirelessly to rid him of his suit jacket. It falls to the floor, and I feel his taut pecs and abs back upon my body. I don't dare remove his shirt. This feels like our first time - my first time - back inside that anonymous, blank room above the restaurant. His hands warming me, caressing me softly.

  He crawls down to my stomach, lifting up my t-shirt, and kissing the flat, pale skin of my midriff, making me writhe and giggle against the ticklish sensation. Then, with calculated ease, the button on my jean pants is unfastened, and they're pulled down my skinny frame and shaven legs, wasting no time to get
me just how he wants me. I comply, and feel my racing pulse in my veins as he waits before me, looking into the dampened, eager crotch of my panties with rapturous intent. I meet his eyes, and smile joyously, giving more than enough consent for him to take me.

  "Make love to me," I tell him, forgetting my earlier apprehension, and using those words for the very first time. I throw my head back to the silk sheets, and draw my hands to my face - by now radiating with lusty crimson heat - and remove the messy, errant strands of black hair from my sight. I feel his breath on the insides of my thighs, sending a shiver down my spine, and feel his fingertips begin their slow and tantalizing march from my knees to the hips of my panties. When they finally get there, after an eternity of breathless expectation, my underwear is pulled from my body without mercy, passing my knees and ankles with no resistance.

  Silence. I don't know what he plans. I don't know what he's thinking. His eyes are down there, his knees presumably on the floor, kneeling into me broodingly. Then, I feel it; his humid breath on my vulva and pussy lips. I'm wracked with excitement; my body bending to his will. He kisses the insides of my thighs - first my left, then the right - before laying a sweet kiss upon my hood.

  I sigh, breathlessly emptying my lungs into the tense atmosphere, as I feel his tongue begin to explore the reaches of my vulva, darting in and around my clit, by now growing impatiently as every drop of blood rages to my pussy. My fingers tighten around my own locks of black hair, and I bite a lip expectantly. He's taking it slowly. The pressure is immense; I've never experienced this before. Feeling the tip of his tongue begin to explore my erogenous zones, only to pull away when it begins to feel good is torturous. I even begin to thrust my hips into his mouth, imploring, pleading, and begging him to stick his whole mouth around me. He doesn't. Not yet.

  "You make me squirm Daniel" I tell him, between gritted teeth, and agitated, labored breaths. "But I love it."

  He laughs to himself - at least, that's what the patterns of breath on my inner thigh tell me - before running his tongue delectably down the length of my pussy like an overeager dog. I grasp the silk sheets behind my head, finding a sturdy grip for the scenes that I know will follow, as he in turn puts a palm over each of my thighs, and squeezes. It feels like he has me locked up, only in loving hands this time, rather than the steely cold chains I'm used to.