The Virgin Actress: A Billionaire and Virgin Romance

by Virginia Sexton

  “Y-y-yes,” she stammers, looking down and blushing from scalp to chest. Just how far down does that blush go? It’s taking all my self-control to not grab her and fuck her brains out right here.

  It’s been a long time since I’ve been so affected by a woman, much less a knock-kneed girl. I can’t deny there’s something startling about her and her wholesome naïveté. I want to fuck her and protect her, keep her all to myself.

  On the surface, she looks exactly like the kind of girl that these conservative assholes would be impressed by.

  I snap my thoughts back to Camellia and her wide blue eyes, and do my best not to look at the soft skin above her knee. She keeps trying to pull her skirt down, but it only makes me long to rip the skirt from her and see the rest of her legs and conquer her undoubtedly sweet pussy.

  “This is how this is going to work. Listen closely, because I’m not going to repeat myself,” I say, looking her in the eyes to make sure she understands. When she nods, I continue. “I have a big business deal coming up, but the investors need some convincing about my personal life. It will be better if they think I’m engaged, which is where you come in. I will need you to attend some dinners and probably an event or two. You weren’t lying when you said you could dance, were you?”

  “No,” she says, looking away from my eyes.

  “Good,” I look at her clothes again. “I imagine you don’t have any formal wear.”

  “I, umm, I have a couple of nice dresses,” she says, clasping her hands and twisting them.

  I remember the dress I saw her in after the Gallery Walk, and I make a mental note to have my assistant order some clothes from her. It’s almost guaranteed that what she considers nice is incredibly inappropriate for the image I need her to project.

  “Good. Now before we start this engagement, there are a few things we have to work out. First, we need to get to know each other a little, learn details about each other, so that we can reasonably look like a couple. Second, you’re going to have to stop being scared of me. Three, you will need to be available when I ask, without question, every single time. Four, in the event any of the tabloids or photographers bother you, and I imagine they eventually will, you are to let me know immediately and I will take care of them. Finally, you are not to discuss this with anyone or seek out the press yourself. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Yes, sir,” she says.

  “Excellent.”

  “Are you going to need me during the day or just in the evenings?” She asks, her eyes still wide and terrified looking.

  “Mostly the evenings. Is that a problem?”

  “No,” she says. “It’s just… my classes are during the day. I’ll talk to my boss, to make sure he knows I’ll need time off occasionally.”

  “I’ll provide a schedule of known events. There may be other things, too.”

  She nods her head and her blonde hair flutters, though I can’t quite read the expression on her face. She’s gone from looking scared to looking worried.

  “Anyway,” I continue. “We need to learn about each other. Build a rapport. Are you free tomorrow?”

  She looks at me, her eyes wide. She really has to stop looking like a deer caught in my headlights. I know I’m intimidating, but if she can’t show she has some backbone, I’ll have to find another girl.

  “Yes. What time and where should I meet you?”

  “I’ll send a car to pick you up. Seven sharp. Be ready.”

  “Oh,” she says, looking up at me with her big blue eyes.

  “Is there a problem?”

  “No. I… I’ll be ready at seven.”

  “Good.”

  Her phone starts playing a godawful song and she screeches, thrusting her hand into her bag and silencing it.

  “Your phone must never do that when we’re out together, whether it’s just the two of us or we’re at an event. Am I clear?” I glare at Camellia. Hiring a student sounded great, but the reality of dealing with a girl half my age? She sure as hell better not do something juvenile that costs me this deal.

  “Of course, sir.”

  “Also, we’re supposed to be engaged. Call me Blake. Okay, Camellia?”

  She nods, and for the first time she seems to not look like she’s about to explode from tension.

  “But, call me Cammie. My friends call me that.”

  I consider this, then shake my head. “Camellia sounds better. That’s what I’ll call you.”

  I go over a few more details, then have my driver drop her back off at the university campus. Despite how frustrated I am from her abject fear of me, it doesn’t lessen the raging hard-on in my pants. What is it about this girl that riles me up so much?

  “That’s so fucking fantastic you got the job! It looked all super spy and weird when that guy in a suit came to get you.”

  “Oh,” I say, feeling embarrassed, “that was his driver. That wasn’t him.”

  “Whoa,” Felicia says, pausing her fork mid-air. “Then who’s the guy you’re working for?”

  I knew this conversation was going to go like this and it makes me uneasy. Blake and I are meeting or our first ‘getting to know you’ meal or date or whatever it is, tomorrow. Aside from the NDA his driver brought over this morning, I’m still really uncertain about all this, especially now that I know he’s not just a worker in Westwood Holdings International, but that it’s his corporation.

  “Um,” I stammer, “I can’t really say. Sorry, Felicia.”

  Felicia slaps the table and her eyes narrow. “Why are you holding out on me? Am I, or am I not, your absolute bestest friend in the whole wide world?”

  I can see she’s totally angry, but there is a slight glassy-ness to her eyes that tells me she’s also really hurt. We never keep anything from each other. Ever.

  “I just,” I say, twisting in my seat, wishing I could escape, “It’s a lot of money. He made me promise not to reveal anything. Though,” I say, hoping she’ll feel better after hearing this, “he made it sound like I’ll be photographed with him at events, so it won’t be a secret for that long, really.”

  “That doesn’t make any sense, Camellia White!”

  I cringe as she uses my full name, which is what my Aunt Anne always did when she was angry at me. Felicia knows exactly how tiny and childlike it makes me feel when anyone, even her, uses my full name this way.

  “If you’re going to be in the fucking newspaper, why can’t you just tell me?” Felicia demands, her voice rising.

  “Shh. People are starting to stare,” I say, glancing at two tables with people openly looking at us. My cheeks are burning with embarrassment. I may have done theater in high school, but it was for something to do and because I thought it was fun – it wasn’t something I was actually very good at.

  “I don’t give a damn. What I do give a damn about,” she yells, waving her knife in front of my face, “is that my supposed best friend is keeping secrets from me, like she doesn’t trust me. Don’t you trust me?”

  “Of course I trust you,” I say, doing my best not to roll my eyes. Sometimes Felicia can be so totally self-centered! “I swear. I’ll tell you every last detail once this thing is over. I promise on everything.”

  I look at Felicia, hoping she’ll accept this and calm down. I can’t bear to have her angry at me, but I know she hates not knowing everything about everything.

  “I suppose,” she pouts.

  “It’s only for a few weeks,” I say. When I reach over to pull her into a hug, she’s stiff and won’t look at me. “I’m sorry, Felicia. Please?”

  By the time I’m home, I’m in a miserable mood. Saturday brunch is something we splurge on once every month or so, but now I feel like a total heel for making Felicia mad at me.

  I turn on the radio loud and start sorting through my closet, trying to drown out the memory of Felicia yelling at me. Before the first song is over, half my closet is spread out on my bed and now I want to cry.

  There isn’t anything remotely ap
propriate to wear for dinner with someone who’s clearly a millionaire. I mean, most of my clothes are used or totally cheap. Maybe I could wear the black dress again, even though he’s already seen it? I pick up my favorite dress, a bright blue mini and walk over to my mirror and hold it up against me.

  “Oh, fuck it all!” I yell when I see the stain. Of course, I remember now that the last time I wore this, Felicia and I went for late-night pizza after clubbing, and some drunk jerk bumped into me and sauce dripped down the front of the dress. “Double fuck!” I yell, realizing the stain is probably permanent now.

  I look around my tiny studio and pout. Everything is secondhand and shabby. It seemed cool and Shabby Chic until I started seeing how other students live. The only thing that isn’t dull are my clothes, but even I know they aren’t good quality. It feels like I’ll never have money of my own, even though I’ll be getting paid a fortune for this thing with Mr. Sexy Suit.

  Shoving the pile of clothes to the side of my bed, I flop down and grab my phone. I browse around on Pinterest for some outfit ideas, because how in the hell am I supposed to dress when I’m working for a millionaire? It’s not like I’m even going to be paid until the job is over! I squeal with delight when I find a couple of really cute and expensive-looking skirts on Pinterest and discover they are still on sale.

  “Hi!” I say, “I’m calling about some skirts I saw online? I wanted to make sure you have them in my size?”

  “Of course, dear,” an elderly woman says. Macy’s is a bit expensive, but I’ll just put it on my credit card, and deal with the late fee once Mr. Sexy Suit pays me.

  “Thank you so much!” I gush. I tell her which skirts I’m looking for and my size, and dance around as I listen to the hold music as she searches.

  “You’re in luck! We have both of them here and I can hold them for you until tomorrow.”

  “Awesome! I’ll be down in an hour!” I say, giving her my name and phone number. I bounce around my apartment, putting on my favorite skinny jeans and a funky t-shirt, then grab my purse and head downtown. I shouldn’t be spending this much on new clothes, but it’s totally going to be worth it!

  —

  My excitement fizzles and dies when the sales lady I spoke to on the phone frowns and looks up at me.

  “I’m sorry, dear,” she says, looking down her nose at me, “but your card is being declined. Perhaps you have another one you can try?” She also totally doesn’t look sorry at all and she’s not being quiet with her voice. The lady at the other cash register is looking at me and so is the woman she’s helping. I wish I could disappear right now. But I need these skirts!

  “Can you try it again?” I plead. “Maybe it’s just a mistake?” I add, even though I know it’s not.

  “Dear, I’ve tried your card three times already. Are you sure you don’t have an alternate form of payment?”

  “Let me check,” I say, heaving my purse up onto the little counter. There was one time I found a hundred bucks tucked away in my purse. It can’t hurt to look, right?

  The sales lady wrinkles her nose as she watches me dig through my purse and put things on the counter. I flip through my little notebook, but nothing falls out except some expired grocery coupons and my overdue electric bill. Whoops. My wallet is filled with nothing but receipts and coins, and is totally worthless.

  “Oh!” I exclaim when I see a fat envelope. My heart falls as soon as I pull it out. It’s my last credit card statement. I peek inside and see that I’m already way, way over my limit. Plus, it’s also overdue.

  “I’ll just put these back,” the saleslady says, taking my beautiful skirts out of the shopping bag and putting them back on their hangers. “You can come back,” she sniffs, still looking down her powdered nose at me, “when you can afford these.”

  By now, the other saleslady and a new customer are watching this like I’m some freak getting pranked on a reality TV show. I give a last glance at the skirts, which were so perfect and fit me so well! They totally looked classy, like they were the kind of thing I could wear when I go out with Blake, so I don’t look like a total fool.

  When I get paid, I’m totally going to go back to Macy’s and buy those skirts, and a lot more, and pay in cash. I’ll show that snooty saleswoman that she’s wrong about me!

  —

  I catch my breath at the top of the stairs to my apartment. Maybe I should get a new apartment when I get paid? I know the money won’t last forever, but it would be so nice to live somewhere that wasn’t a total dump, even if for just a little while. It’s still hard to wrap my mind around the fact that I’m going to earn so much freaking money for just a few weeks’ worth of work! Plus, I get to work for Mr. Sexy Suit! He’s so, so hot! I was so turned on when I was sitting with him, even though he didn’t really seem to like me.

  Alone in my apartment, I fantasize about what Mr. Sexy Suit and what it would be like to have sex with him. Unzipping my jeans, I stand in front of my mirror and watch myself as I slide my hand into my panties. I push my fingers into my wetness and gasp at how wet and swollen I already am. I imagine Mr. Sexy Suit roughly running his hands over my breasts, tweaking my nipples and teasing me. Rubbing my clit faster and faster, I look at my reflection and I’m surprised at how my eyes look glassy and wild. I pull up my tshirt and shove my bra up, lick my fingers, and then roughly pinch my nipple, imagining my wet fingers are Mr. Sexy Suit’s lips sucking my breasts and that it’s his fingers working my clit.

  I bite my lip, stifling the moan I feel rising up inside of me as I imagine Mr. Sexy Suit trailing kisses down my stomach, then putting his mouth on my pussy and licking and sucking me there.

  I stagger and fall back on my bed, moaning and panting as my body shudders. My orgasm is hot and powerful, and I keep touching myself, more slowly now, trying to make this moment last a little longer.

  Camellia has been sitting across from me for ten minutes now and nearly everything out of her mouth has been single-word answers. This is definitely not going to work if she is too shy or scared to talk…

  I catch the waiter’s eye and look to my glass, and a fresh Scotch is in front of me in no time.

  “So, what are you studying?” I ask.

  “Um… I’m really not sure,” she says. The way Camellia keeps looking at me with her big blue eyes is getting unnerving. She looks so fresh and pure that her gaze often makes me pause. It’s obvious she likes me, but she’s also intimidated as hell by me. I get why anyone is intimidated by me, but I thought actresses were better in situations like this.

  My God, this is like pulling teeth. “Well what classes do you prefer? I thought you liked acting.” I take a drink of my Scotch, savoring the peaty taste of my Laphroaig. If Camellia was older, I’d order some for her to drink, to help loosen her up, but she’s too young for me to do that when we’re out.

  When Camellia smiles and laughs, her whole face lights up. That’s it, more of that.

  “Oh, not really,” she says, her luscious lips curve into a smile. “I mean, I like art, but everyone knows that’s not a useful degree. I did some acting for fun in high school, but it’s really not my thing.”

  “Then why were you auditioning?”

  The smile falls from her lips and she gives me the doe-eyed look again. “Honestly?”

  “Honestly.”

  “Well, I need the money and my friend pushed me to audition. Landing this wasn’t even something I thought was possible.” Camellia looks down at her lap and looks embarrassed to have admitted this.

  “Why do you need money so much?” I ask, bracing myself for Camellia’s response. I don’t mind hiring a young woman for this job, but I need to know she’s not going to embarrass me or not follow through on what I need her to do.

  “I… Um… I don’t have anyone to rely on. My parents… well my parents died a few years ago and I lost my aunt last year. My aunt scrimped and saved so I could go to college. I have no idea what I’m going to do and I can’t help but feel like I’m n
ot really cut out for college, but I promised my aunt. And living in the city is really expensive…” Camellia admits, her voice nearly a whisper.

  Hearing that she’s alone in the world stirs something deep inside of me. I don’t know this girl from anyone, but her innocence and apparent lack of guile makes me want to protect her.

  “What about your job?” I ask, nodding as the waiter brings out our main courses.

  Camellia’s face collapses into a grimace. “I… I don’t really like my job. I mean, it wouldn’t be so bad if I had a different boss, because the job is so easy and chill, but…”

  “But what? What’s wrong with your boss?”

  Camellia freezes, her eyes wide. “Oh, it’s really not that big a deal,” she backpedals, looking scared.

  She’s trembling slightly. It moves me and an overwhelming urge to protect her hits me anew. I ask again about her job, but she locks down tight and won’t utter another word. I know she works security in my building, but it’s a mystery why she won’t talk about it, even if it is as dull as a bag of rocks. She bites her full, lower lip and shakes her head as she leans back in her chair like she’s trying to escape.

  I let the matter drop, though it’s something we will definitely be revisiting in the future.

  “That’s a pretty scarf you’re wearing,” I say, my voice lighter. I need to coax Camellia out of her shell.

  At this, her face brightens a little. “Oh. Thanks! I found it at a thrift store,” she says, then claps her hand over her mouth. “I… uh, I guess you don’t have to shop at thrift stores.”

  I smile. “Ah, no. I am, however, not unfamiliar with them. My family does well, as I’m sure you know, but while they paid for my education, I had to work to earn money to cover my living expenses and money for anything else I wanted to do or buy. There were times when money was tight and I shopped at thrift stores out of necessity.”

  This isn’t entirely true. But a college girlfriend dragged me along to thrift stores when she wanted some bad outfit for a costume party where everyone took glee in dressing in bad outfits. I never quite understood it, but I went along with it.