Forbidden To Say No - The Billionaire's Plaything (An Erotic Romance Novel) (7 page)

He holds his arms around me tightly, clutching me like some precious, invaluable artifact. I like the feeling; I'm warm, and for the first time this evening feel somehow secure. I even manage to kiss him back; pressing my lips against his, and teasing the surface of his lips with my tongue. Then, he takes a step back, releasing his grip on me, and leaving my standing alone in the middle of the room.

"You've kissed before. It isn't so bad, is it?"

I shake my head, fighting back the blushes of embarrassment.

"Miss Everett, I want someone who will be willing to be there for me always. To deal with my best moments, and my worst moments. And most of all, like I said, I want someone who won't say
no
to me."

I nod again, and again, fretfully processing everything he tells me. We're building to a climax, and I think I can tell what it is.

"There are no legal documents yet signed between us. This will be your last opportunity to say
no
to me."

He's forceful - the smile long gone from his face, replaced by nothing other than a burning, impassioned assertiveness - and I don't think I have it within me to reject him, even if I wanted to.
No, my virginity is his
. I know I tacitly consented to that as soon as I followed his lustful commands downstairs.

"I won't say no." I state, confidently banishing the specters of timidity and anxiousness from my mind, at least for now. "I won't say no to you, now or ever."

"Good."

I throw my arms back to my sides, and close my eyes, as he charges back across the room, seizing me back within that warm, immaculate grip. He picks my waiting, donated body up from where I stand, hoisting me into the humid air, before dropping me upon the floor, laying his own body upon me. I struggle for breath beneath his languid frame, as he plants more kisses upon me - upon my neck, my shoulders, and my cheeks - and I can almost feel my eyes rising up into their sockets as he does so.
Fucking hell,
I've never felt this way before! For the first time, my heart isn't pounding against the insides of my chest from nerves; this time it's just sheer exhilarated excitement!

I feel his hands wandering up my body, exploring my knees, my thighs, before darting over the surface of my dress, and teasing my eager, soaking pussy over a layer of flimsy fabric. I cry out, yelping as the feeling drives me up the wall, and he responds with a swift palm over my mouth, silencing me from the accusing ears downstairs. I've learnt my lesson.

"You can tell me if it hurts" he whispers in my ear while pulling the dampened material of my dress up to my belly button, exposing every inch of my waiting pussy to his touch. I bite down slightly upon his finger over my mouth, as I feel his finger dart over my clit. God he knows how to fucking tease me; I writhe my body against his, anxious awaiting the arrival of a digit, a finger, a thumbprint,
anything
upon my devoted clit. When it finally comes, I hum gratifyingly through his fingers.

"Let's go with one finger" he whispers, circling the digit of one finger upon my bud, before tracing it down the length of my vulva, and pushing it into my sopping hole, meeting utterly no resistance from within. I fidget around on the spot, delighting in the sensation of his joints grinding against my inner walls, as he tries his best to steady me from the top. My hands go to my breasts, rubbing and kneading them selfishly over my dress. Daniel knows just what I need next:

"And how about two?"

With that, he pushes yet another finger into me, spreading my slit even more so, and giving me something to really hold onto. I clench myself around him, jealously gobbling his fingers up, involuntarily feeling my pussy and asshole tighten in rhythm, as he plays me like some divine instrument. I bite the fleshy joint of his fingers at my mouth, suppressing another moan, and he obviously likes what he sees.

"Three."

The word comes as shock and a relief to me.
Three fingers
? I've only ever put one in there before! He drives the ring finger of his right hand into me, pushing past my soaking exterior, meeting the other two within. He has me now; I'm penetrated, and utterly receptive to his every wish. It hurts as I clench around him a little more, but any pain is soon overwhelmed by the throbbing, swelling pleasure that floods from inside.

"Mm, that's - really - nice," I whisper between a rare gap between his fingers, apparently unable to think of anything more descriptive to say. Then, as soon as the niggling, abstract moments of pain subside, he stops, and pulls his fingers from me slowly.

"What's the mat -"

He presses a finger to my lips, implicitly shushing me, before putting the strong, potent palm of his hand to the side of my breast, caressing it briefly, and flipping me over onto my stomach. I lie with my chin resting upon the hard, carpeted ground, my dress riding up to my waist, and my bare, rounded ass seated high into the air, presenting him with an open, defenseless target. I gasp loudly, as he lies back on top of me, and feel something hard jabbing me in the back of my thigh.

"You're - going to - fuck me?" I ask, managing to stammer my way through a complete sentence. He doesn't reply; the unbuckling of his belt, followed by their descent down his legs to the floor beside us is a response enough. His boxers soon follow, and as I lie beneath him - my heart pounding into the floor and my lungs gasping for breath - I feel the tip of his unseen cock begin to prod around my ass and pussy lips from behind. God, the tension is
killing
me.

"Do it," I beg of him, unable to stand the teasing any longer. I'm so wet I swear I can feel the occasional bead of juice flowing from me; my stomach is alive with butterflies and my fingers and toes tingle in expectation, "
Please
."

He has mercy, driving the length of his hardened rod into me, prizing my pussy lips apart from behind, and grinding his way past my dampened defenses. I bang my fist upon the floor, yelping with pleasured pain into the carpet. It hurts - a slight throbbing, seething pain - but not enough to make me hate this. The pleasure he brings me conquers all, and when he's fully enveloped inside me, and I can't extend my ass any further into his hips, he reaches around with the soaked fingers of one hand to play back upon my delirious clit.

I gasp yet again as he withdraws, and slams himself back into me, violently deflowering me. My nails dig into the carpet, my mouth open wide to taste the dirtied, dusty floor, and my eyes screwed closed, putting me back inside my own little world. He's found a steady pace now, slamming his hips into my ass with more force than I'd expected, paying no heed to the delicate sensibilities of the virgin, while his fingers rub my clitoris from side to side, upwards and downwards, driving beads of juice out of my pussy and down his dick.

"God," I murmur, trying to keep my voice down, and losing my breath to the joy. "Daniel, I never - thought - it'd be like this."

He chuckles warmly, before moving his arm energetically across himself - wiping away the sweat I'd imagine - never granting me a moment's rest. I extend my ass backwards to meet his strokes, one by one, and soon feel the inevitability of my orgasm building in writhing, twitching torrents.

"Oh God, Daniel,
I'm gonna
-"

I don't even get to finish my sentence. My throat is possessed by a shrill cry, as my right leg sets off in shuddering spasms, apparently trying to escape the intense feeling he brings upon me. I clutch my breasts selfishly, squeezing their erogenous flesh, giving myself something to hold onto while he batters my pussy from behind. I clench, tighten, and constrict around him, but he doesn't care, pounding himself into me like a man possessed. A tidal wave of satisfaction breaks over my wracked body, followed by another, and I have to jerk myself away from the activities of his finger; my clit a hypersensitive mess.

When it's over, I lie face down, depleted; my pussy a sore, sopping hole, and my nerves quite rightly cooled. Daniel slows to a stop, before withdrawing, his role in my defloration apparently over.

"How was your first time, Miss Everett?"

I bat a handful of sweaty, unkempt black hair away from the front of my face, opening my eyes for the first time to find everything ever-so-slightly blurred. His face takes a moment to appear to me, covered in a sweaty sheen, but otherwise as impressibly dapper and cool as always. I'm wrecked.

"Was I your first?" I ask him, seized by the demonic curiosity of my post-orgasmic haze. "Your first virgin, I mean."

"I don't know," he replies, going through his past memories, arching his eyebrows down towards his eyes, thinking as hard as I've ever seen him. "You're certainly the most honest."

The most honest?
Is that a good thing or a bad thing? I'm too orgasm-addled to think about it right now, but I at least enjoy the compliment. I lie for a moment, catching my breath, as he does the same. Then, something strikes me; a sense of responsibility or duty I didn't have before.

"This job," I say, speaking to him on a familiar and cozy level I thought I'd never find, "the role of
the girl who can't say no
. When do I start?"

He breaks out into smile. I do so love to see those teeth of his, and that strangely duplicitous smug smirk. He springs to his feet, and for the first time I see his member; glisteningly wet, semi-flaccid, and remarkable simply for the fact I just had it inside me. Businessman-like as always, he apparently had the forethought to keep his pink shirt on throughout.

"The day after tomorrow" he begins, lowering his voice to an impersonal, cold tone; the one I imagine he'd use for business. "I'm going to give you a list. A shopping list, if you will. And your preparation for this
role
, as you put it, will be to find me every item upon that list."

A role
; I like to think of it this way. It makes me feel less like an object, more like a professional. Less like the prostitute in
Pretty Woman
, and more like Julia Roberts herself.

"Sure. A list. I can do that," although something tells me I won't be buying Gucci handbags and sublime fur coats, "I can't wait."

As he slides his boxers back up his legs, and stretches for his pants, discarded messily upon the floor, he reaches inside the back pocket, picking something out and handing it to me.

"Expense account" he says tersely, pushing a silver credit card into my shuddering, trembling hands. I should perhaps be jumping up and down with the excitement of a shopping spree on the billionaire's dollar. As it turns out, I have more important things to consider.

I look upwards, my eyes slightly straining against the light of the sole light bulb hanging lonely in the centre of the ceiling. He's fully dressed, straightening his hair between the fingers of his right hand, before tucking his shirt in dutifully. A gorgeous, radiant, dapper man, standing proud like a cowboy in one of those old cigarette advertisements. I don't know if it's the light settling around his head like a glowing halo, or my growing affinity towards him, but for maybe the first time, I'm completely in awe.

I gussy up, pulling my dusty dress back around my knees, and straightening my long, black hair. As he seizes my hand, and draws me back downstairs, I realize I broke a nail on the carpet.

"I bet you're hungry," he states confidently, going back to the diligent businessperson he likes to portray. Nothing could be further from the truth, but I hang around regardless, sampling the gourmet delights of whatever billionaires prefer to eat. Few words pass between us, but I don't care. I think we shared enough tonight to warrant a few moments of comfortable silence together. We soon return to the Los Angeles night's sky, and stand hand in hand outside.

"I'll e-mail you the list tomorrow," and with that, he kisses me on the cheek, and hails a fortuitously positioned black car outside; a private driver, I later learn. "Goodbye Miss Everett."

Miss Everett
. As I tell the driver my address - who complies wordlessly, speeding into gear - I can't help but toss those words over in my head.
Miss Everett
. He knows my first name; hell, he knows everything about my acting history, my past education, my cup size and what I look like naked. My phone number, my e-mail address, my pictorial range and countless other things I put on my resume. Yet he still calls me Miss Everett. And, don't get me wrong, I understand why; I'm an employee. From tonight, I am
the girl who can't say no
. But, this cold, impersonal professionalism can only go so far. Maybe I'm being naive, but I can't stop my cynical, nervous mind wondering; will I ever be anything but Miss Everett?

Chapter Seven

The past few hours have been agonizing. I've done little more than perch myself on the end of my bed, undecided whether to watch TV, read a book, or finally clean the flat, ultimately opting just to sit here in indecisive limbo. Finally, when his e-mail does come through to my smartphone, I can't help but experience that old familiar feeling; the wrenching depths of anxiety, like a freezing cold dagger in my heart.

Glancing down it with curious eyes, I couldn't imagine a more disparate, unrelated set of items if I tried. If anything, it reads more like a DIY list than something I'd expect to come from his kinky mind:

Six feet in string cords, a tangerine, duct tape, a sprig of ginger, a plastic curtain rod, steel clamps, paint: red and black.

And of course, any direction for me to spend five hundred dollars or so on clothes is conspicuously absent. I grab the bus to Los Angeles central, and immediately hit the streets. The days are getting hotter now; the Sun riding high in that smog-choked sky above. The entire city is a humid mess, but a little bit of sweat won't stop me from satisfying my new boss.

I manage to pick up the string cords from a simple camping store on the outskirts of town: the sort used primarily for affixing tents to the ground, I gather. As for the curtain rod and duct tape, a DIY store close by serves me well. I should know better than to question Daniel Grant at this point, but what the hell does he want with a curtain rod and duct tape?
You surely can't mean to tell me he does all his own DIY,
I think to myself.
Whatever
. I have orders.