Forbidden To Say No - The Billionaire's Plaything (An Erotic Romance Novel) (6 page)

"And yet, here you are. Hollywood. Trying to carve a career out for yourself. And not just any career, but one of the most extraverted careers of all. I want to know, if you're so unhappy being you, why exactly do you think you've got what it takes to put yourself in a movie?"

I don't know how to answer. I have to consciously stiffen my hands before me to stop them trembling beneath this intense, magnifying, all-seeing, all-hearing and all-knowing gaze of his. Seconds go by, as the dancing candle flames seem to taunt me, swaying from side to side childishly, as I struggle to think of an answer.

"I think, uhm," I say, before trailing off into thought once more. "I think it's about becoming a different person. If I can surrender myself to the right role, to the right script and the right character, everything seems different somehow. Like I don't have to worry about myself anymore."

He watches me intently, and for a split-second I swear I see that wry grin back on his lips, contorting upwards into his cheek, before he steadies himself and goes back to that courteously serious expression.

"It's nice to just be someone else. I don't have to think about what sort of decisions I'm making, or saying the wrong thing, or doing the wrong thing, because as long as I've learnt the lines in the script, I know I'll be fine."

I've said everything I have to say; my entire philosophy on acting, and my wholesome intentions as an actress. If this is truly an interview for a movie role, I couldn't have put it any clearer. Daniel, however, is content to keep staring at me, his eyebrows raised quizzically, and his elbows planted firmly upon the table. Eventually, to dispel the silence, I feel compelled to speak again.

"So, what sort of movie role are we talking about?"

"No movie" he answers succinctly, before finally diverting his eyes from me, and back to the menu below him.

"Okay, television?"

"Nope. Not television either."

I'm confused; not a movie, not television, what sort of role does he think I'd take? I'm too pale for the pornographic industry in this town, to state just one objection.

"Oh - kay. Then, what are we here for?"

He exhales loudly, arousing within me yet again the briefest memory of his gorgeously delicate breath on my skin. I wait, nervously digging my nails into my palms as he calculates his words, carefully.

"I'm looking for someone. Someone to work for me. Someone to work
with
me."

What happened to the movie role I was mentally psyching myself up for? Now I find he instead wants a glorified secretary?

"You want a personal assistant of some sort?" I mount the courage to ask, as two pristine glasses of wine are brought to the table, and sparkling white wine is poured into each. He pauses until the faceless, wordless waiter has left, before continuing.

"No. I don't like to use labels."

"So what do you want from me, Daniel?"

"I want someone I can control," he says with gusto, making the candle flames dance again before us. "Somebody untainted by this corrupted and superficial business we're part of. And you're the perfect candidate."

Someone he can
control
? What the hell does he mean by that? I tighten my legs together, pressing the sides of my knees against one another, trying very hard to dispel the mental images of being ‘controlled’ by Daniel Grant. It feels like I'm tensing every muscle in my body, but I can't help invoking images of the last time I surrendered every last bastion of control to him, and the feelings I had.

"I guess I just want someone who won't say no."

He's staring into me so intensely I just have to look away; two piercing, expressive eyes studying my every movement, and every facial expression for clues on how I might feel about this. I look down, realizing that I'm digging two painful nail-marks into my own palms, and put my hands down to the table, as he watches my every move. A strange silence grips us; far from awkward, but then not exactly comfortable either. He's content to spend these passing minutes staring directly at me, occasionally showing me glimpses of that duplicitous grin.

"Okay," I finally say between gritted teeth, feeling myself melt under the pressure, "and what would I have to do for you?"

I feel I already know the answer. I bat my knees together, and try to ignore what feels like a growing dampness between my legs, excited at the very prospect of being a billionaire's muse. Now he doesn't hide it. He breaks out into a beaming smirk that reveals to me almost every one of his impeccably white teeth.

"Anything and everything I say, Miss Everett. It's the best sort of working relationship there is." The mere mention of the word relationship has my ears burning. I take a sip of wine, finding the taste rather too bitter and fruity. I'd hate to know how much he paid for it. "Of course, there would be the necessary disclosure documents to sign, contracts, whatever. But right now, I just want to know if you're interested."

The unhappy thought enters my mind; I know so little about him. I mean, when you meet up with a guy, and consider surrendering yourself to him, shouldn't you at least do more than search wikipedia for his name? I'm just stalling the inevitable, though, as I feign indifference, trying my best to present a face of indecision. I know fully well what I'm going to do. It's truly an offer I don't dare refuse.

"Yes." I say, solely, opening my mind to the possibilities of characters he'd want me to portray for him, all of them submissive, and all of them delighting in the opportunity to give themselves wholly to their billionaire host.

"Good," is all he offers, sipping from his glass quietly, in a demeanor no different from having concluded some generic business deal. I sit nervously, tapping at the table with my fingernail, before he continues; "then, do something for me, right now."

"What?"

"Take off your underwear."

What
? I pretend I didn't hear that, leaning in toward him closer, and seeking assurance that he didn't just say what I think he fucking said. He's ice cool - his face an unchanged, stony picture of calm, collected confidence - and he does little more than repeat himself.

"Your underwear. Take it off."

I feel my pulse racing once more and the thinnest layer of sweat builds on my brow. This is insane; they may be on Daniel's payroll, but there are waiters here nonetheless! I look around with watery, worried eyes, hearing the jostle of activity in the kitchen, and the occasional metallic clanging of pans and dishes. We're not alone, and never would I dream of doing such a brazen public exhibition! So as I put my hands to my legs, and anxiously skirt them along the tentative, goose-pimpled skin of my thighs, the manic question reverberates around my mind:
what the fuck am I doing!?
 

He doesn't say anything more; he knows he doesn't have to. He just watches me with lecherous eyes, enjoying the power he apparently has over me. I've never felt like this before; compelled by a higher authority, unable the face the prospect of disappointing my new employer, and driven by the rush of nerves this whole experience brings me. I put my index fingers to the hips of my underwear, and picking my butt up from the chair whilst pretending to adjust my seating, slide them to my upper thighs, maintaining eye contact with him the whole time. My heart pounds away inside my chest - my fingers and toes tingling with anxious, nervous tension - as I push them to my knees, and down to the floor below.

He looks back to the menu as I step out of them, signaling the presence of someone behind me. I quickly pull my blue dress back down to my knees, feeling a gentle draft of cold air upon my moistened vulva beneath. I can see from the look on his face - stern, and dutiful somehow - that it won't be enough for him.

"Why don't you show me just how committed you really are?" he asks, exciting a simultaneous twinge of excited nerves within me, "why don't you touch yourself?"

My jaw hangs agog, and my face quickly climbs to a crimson red, radiating heat from every pore. I knew he was going to put me through my paces; after this morning's events, I sure knew I wasn't coming here to bake girl scout cookies, but hearing him utter those words make it sound so much more
real
! In my head I cycle through a stock selection of rejections -
hell no, I'm not that kind of girl, that's cheap
, etc - but of course, my mind isn't exactly in control right now. He is.

I close my eyes, blotting out all accusing stares from the non-existent restaurant-goers nearby, and put both my hands back beneath the table, finding my inner thigh - almost ticklish to the touch - before tracing a finger along my skin, up to my awaiting and impatient pussy.

I hear him take another sip of wine, undoubtedly enjoying what he sees, as I find my clitoris already engorged and impetuously demanding my attention, standing out from between my lips. I circle a fingertip upon it, slowly, feeling the blood rush around my body sumptuously, and the tides of nerves within me slowly dissipating. When I open my eyes, I see exactly what I expected; Daniel sitting quietly and calmly, watching me intently, the side of his lips contorting in a smug, knowing grin.

I'm startled when the waiter glides up to us, smiling graciously, apparently and thankfully unaware of the salacious things his boss is making me do.

"You know, I think we'll skip dinner for a bit" he tells the waiter, folding the menu and placing it in his arms. "I'm not hungry yet. Are you?"

I shake my head, trying to ignore the fact my damp panties are still lying on the floor down there. The waiter departs, and we're all alone again.

"How about I show you around," Daniel says, with a sly grin. All I can think about is how high his gorgeously jagged cheekbones ride in his face when he's satisfied. "I have an office upstairs. I think you'll want to see it."

I nod, silently, and subserviently. He climbs to his feet, bathing me in shadow, and breezing one of the candle flames out with his action. Extending a hand to me, he lifts me from my seat genially, and ignores my antsy glances beneath the table, to where the last layer of resistance protecting me from this rich and raucous billionaire lies, abandoned. I can't believe this; I feel like the girl who got the golden ticket, like this entire day's events have been just one delirious, fevered dream. A few days ago I was rehearsing lines for TV commercials, now I'm dining with the most powerful man in Hollywood?

He leads me through a set of double doors, and to an ornate staircase - dark brown, mahogany wood, silver chandeliers, and bright red painted walls, making this look like something out of pre-revolutionary France - before leading me upstairs, one step at a time. I don't dare ask where we're going; it wouldn't be fitting with my role, I understand that. I just keep my head bowed down low, and try to mentally prepare myself for what Daniel asks.

When we reach the top, and pass through another set of doors, I'm surprised by what I see; no bed, no couch, and no kinky, sordid sex dungeon. I guess I shouldn't be so prudishly expectant. All I find is a small room, with bare red walls, and a laptop sat lonely upon a desk.

"I told you it was my office," he says with glee, letting go of my hand. It's lonely in here, not what I'd expect; there are no expensive looking paintings, no posters of movies past bearing his proud name as producer, not even a mirror. Strange for a guy so well-groomed.

"It's a bit -" I hesitate, wondering whether or not to question my new employer directly. As he looks upon me with waiting eyes, I continue; "- empty?"

"What, did you expect a hot tub?"

I giggle to myself a little, more out of nervous expectation than anything else.

"It's Spartan. No distractions, no indulgences, no fucking about, and no excuse not to work."

"No personality," I pipe up, forgetting myself for a moment. I instantly regret it, and putting a hand to my mouth, immediately go to apologize. I needn't bother.

"Hah!" he erupts in laughter, finally raising his voice out of that calm, collected monotone, and assuming a much more exasperated manner. "Yes! You're the first person who's dared to tell me that, Miss Everett!"

I blush, tilting my face to one side, hiding it from his beaming, smiling intensity.
The first person who's dared to tell him
? Maybe I should be flattered; maybe I should be happy to have finally snapped him out of his controlled, superficial coolness. In actual fact, those words drive me to a sense of overriding guilt; like there's something I need to get off my chest, immediately.

"Daniel," I say, keeping my eye line carefully away from his, "I guess I should tell you, I mean, uhm -"

I've lost my train of thought again. He gives me the time to finish, waiting in silence, undoubtedly studying my every movement with those eyes again.

"I don't know where this is all going. I don't expect to know, I guess that isn't in the job description. But - there's one thing I should say. I'm a virgin."

I'm a virgin
; God those words are so pathetic. I hang my head low, feeling the sweat-matted, crimson heat radiate from my forehead and cheeks. He doesn't speak, even as the moments turn to seconds, and the seconds turn to minutes. I finally look up to him, and he's standing with his arms crossed, and an eyebrow raised. Oh fuck,
what have I done
? Did I fucking ruin things
already
!?

"I'm sorry, I just -" I don't finish my sentence. I don't have the time. He charges across the room, angrily making up the short distance between us, takes me within his strong, thick arms, enveloping me tightly, and plants an impassioned, driven kiss upon my flapping lips. I'm shocked - I open my eyes wide only to see his closed for the first time - and nervously find a place on his back to put my hands, as his lips smack against mine repeatedly, taking me by force, and removing any opportunity I have to reject him. I close my eyes at last, relaxing my shoulders, and my back, as his tongue darts energetically into my mouth, teasing and tantalizing me. I'm so caught up in his embrace I don't give my mind the chance to jump its inevitable nervous somersaults.