Forbidden To Say No - The Billionaire's Plaything (An Erotic Romance Novel)
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Authors: Ashley Spector
Forbidden To Say No - The Billionaire's Plaything
Ashley Spector
Copyright 2013 by Ashley Spector
All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part by any means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the explicit written permission of the author.
Published by Forbidden Fruit Press
All characters depicted in this fictional work are consenting adults. Any resemblance to persons living or deceased, particular businesses, events, or exact locations are entirely coincidental.
Table of Contents
Note from the Author
So, it’s 2013, and billionaire romances are sweeping the planet faster than anyone in publishing could have ever imagined. It's a popular genre, but also a very simple one in many ways. With this novel, I wanted to introduce a certain depth of character, whilst ramping up the sexual voltage as far as I could. I wanted my characters to think, experience, and
feel
. And I hope I've accomplished this.
I’d like to give an eternal thank you to my fans, and indeed anyone who takes the time to read this book from start to finish. It truly means the world to me. I do hope you enjoy reading this novel as much as I enjoyed writing it.
Chapter One
I watch as shiny beads of water drain from the tips of my knees, running down the length of my pale thighs to join the body of water below. When every bead of water falls from me, leaving nothing more than a trail of glistening liquid behind, I sink my knees back underwater, only to surface them again and repeat the process. I'm time-wasting; pointlessly distracting myself from the task at hand, but
whatever
.
After a few minutes soaking myself, dipping my head beneath the water briefly, only to resurface to face reality yet again, I reach over and grasp the thin paper pages of the script.
Intended for Chloe Everett's eyes only - When The Night Is Young - Pages 13 - 15
A set of lines I'd requested from some Hollywood agency, with the intention of attending an audition next week. Little did I know it'd be this
explicit
. Sinking back into the waters, I hold the pages barely above the surface, and scan across them with my eyes. This is the third time I've read it, and it never gets easier:
Mike and Jessica lie together in the moonlit grasses, naked, their clothes scattered around them. Slowly, he raises a hand to her breasts, and runs a fingertip along her skin, thoughtfully. She shudders in ecstasy, the pair of them struggling to contain their teenage urges.
MIKE: I love you Jessica,
JESSICA: I love you too, Mike.
They're disturbed by the howling of a wolf, but Jessica knows she's safe with him. He wraps his arms around her, and their bodies become one.
MIKE: You'll be safe with me.
Jessica: I know.
I close the pages, holding them tightly between wet fingertips, and shut my eyes slowly, basking in the warm, sweet embrace of the bath water, and try to put my mind to work. I can feel it - the moonlight upon my skin, the windswept fluttering of grass blades against my body - and I like it. I imagine hands on me, caressing my skin, feeling the soft, fleshy mounds of my breasts. I look over to see a faceless man - whoever would be unfortunate enough to act alongside me in this role - and immediately begin to feel the heat.
I try to recite the line to myself.
I love you too, Mike
. Suddenly, my heart begins pounding, and I feel a lump beginning to gather in my throat. My fingers tremble beneath the water, and my cheeks start to blush. It's no use.
I can't fucking do this
.
I toss the pages of the script onto the floor beside me, and surface from the water, holding onto the sides of the bathtub tightly. Why am I so scared of things like this? I can't even watch a love scene on TV, it makes me so anxious. I jump out of the bath, and begin to dry myself with a towel, excising all thoughts of the script and the audition out of my mind.
Fuck it
, I think to myself,
two auditions in a week is too many anyway.
I have the one tomorrow, and I'll have to make it count.
It's
the night before
. I truly hate this feeling, really I do; knowing that the very imprecise actions I'll take the next day will decide whether I eat for the next month. There it is, that dreadful feeling that the tone, depth, and manner in which I say a bunch of words clumsily printed upon a sheet of paper tomorrow will dictate whether I have to beg my sister to feed us yet again. God it kills me. Maybe I'm being overly dramatic, but that can't be a bad thing. It's my business, after all.
I've never been happy in my own skin. I know that's something people say when they want to change their lives, but I really mean it; I'm pale, and freckled slightly around my shoulders, which roll unenthusiastically from my neck. I haven't got the body of a fifties starlet; my breasts are too small for the Marilyn Monroe look, and today's breed of permanently tanned, ever-immaculate leading ladies would laugh me out of the room.
"What is this life, if it isn't
ours
to enjoy?"
Reciting some meaningless line of dialogue from a soap-opera I watched earlier this week, it takes me a moment to realize but I'm tensing every muscle in my body. I step backwards, letting go of the sink before me, whilst still staring into my reddened eyes in the mirror. My knuckles turn from white to pink again, and I try to empty my mind, creating a mental image of a tranquil plain. My calm place.
"What is this life, if it isn't ours to
enjoy
?"
Fuck, I don't look like I even believe what I say. Holding my arms to my breasts, and squeezing the air from my lungs in one last exasperated effort, I finally divert my eyes from own pallid, naked body, and recite it one final time.
"
What
is this life, if it isn't ours to enjoy!?"
My words echo around the tiled walls of the bathroom, providing a strange and ghostly crescendo to my chorus of anxiety. Of course, I don't think I'll get the part. I never walk into an audition believing I'm the one for the role, because I'm not. I'm the daughter of a lawyer and the sister to a law student; I've experienced no life-affirming moments to draw from, and suffered no more than any other struggling actress straddling the poverty line.
Luck
seems to be the name of my game.
The part is a supporting role in a rather
hush-hush
movie; they haven't even revealed the title to me yet, nor any part of the script. How do I know it's even going to be a decent film? Funnily enough, by this point I don't even care. Finding a supporting role in a big production studio's movie is enough for me. The paycheck is a nice convenient bonus, of course.
Again, without realizing it, I've leant forward to the sink once again, clutching it tightly with trembling fingers, and inch my face closer and closer to the mirror. Bloodshot eyes, mascara beginning to run, and wet black hair clumped up around my face in matted, uneven tangles. I should really sleep.
"What is this life, if it isn't
ours to enjoy
?!"
My only applause is the furious banging on the wall opposite. I guess she's trying to sleep. Still, it's nice to have an appreciative audience. I close my eyes, and take a deep breath, gulping loudly. Come this time tomorrow, it'll all be over. At least, that's the thought that'll get me through the night.
Chapter Two
Fuck, it's hot. I put my elbows upon my knees and peer out of the window next to me, watching the heat rise from the black tarmac car park in effeminate, dancing waves. The whole room is bathed in a supreme golden glow, rifling through the blinds in visibly warm shafts of light, and still doing nothing to ease my nerves. I bat my hair away from my face with the back of my hand, feeling the first beads of sweat begin to build upon my brow. It won't be long until I have that nervous sheen of sweat upon my face, and after that, the tell-tale make up smears. They're gonna read it in me as soon as they see me; the hopelessly nervous, anxiety-ridden mess. They're gonna eat me alive in there.
Shut up Chlo,
shut up!
I've waited here for thirty nerve-wracking minutes, and agonized for sixty whole seconds of each. One by one, I've watched different women of different looks, different races, and different minds walk into the room beside me. None have yet returned.
I clutch my fingers together, trying my damnedest to hide my trembling fingers, shooting a quick glance to the girl who sits opposite - blonde and curly hair, and an effervescent smile, not to mention tan - who seems quite happy, and composed enough to read a magazine. I fucking hate people like her; how can she not be nervous at a time like this? At least, why doesn't she show it?
I'm startled from my anxious bitterness by the shrill cry of the receptionist;
"Alyson Grieves?"
The blonde jumps to her feet, giving me one last smile, before neatly closing the magazine and placing it back upon the coffee table beside her. She slowly, calmly paces into the unknown, leaving the waiting room a lot less warmly illuminated without her. I crane my neck from side to side, ironing out the considerable nervous knots that have worked their way into my muscles, and realize that I'm all alone now.
Relax Chlo, close your eyes, and find your calm, tranquil place.
I do as my inner monologue says, and try to relax, imagining a prairie, beset by glowing green grasses and dotted with daisies. The sky is blue, and the wind is gently lashing against my body. Yet throughout all of this, I can't erase the memory of the heat rising from the ground, dancing prettily before me, bringing me back to the same sweat-inducing, nerve-wracking waiting room.
"Chloe Everett?"
Jesus
, that was fast. How long have I been away from this world? I jump to my feet, swaying to-and-fro, before steadying myself with a deep breath and a firm handle on my hips. I try to ignore my beating, pulsing, deafening heart, and slowly put one foot in front of the other, walking to the audition room slowly.
Here goes.
"Hi Chloe," a soft, but stern voice says as soon as I push aside the door, finding a sparsely-decorated room almost as stunningly bright as my so-called calm place. "How are you today?"
Three men, of differing ages, expressions and builds, sat at a table at the end of the room. Oh yeah, it's an audition alright. I find a comfortable place in the center of the wooden floorboards, close enough for them hear me clearly and yet far enough so that I can't see their displeasures without my glasses. I open my mouth to answer his question, and yet manage to distract myself by standing upon a creaky floorboard.
"I'm very - uhhh," I stammer, apparently unable to handle both a simple pleasantry and a creaky wooden floor without losing myself.
"Is something wrong, Miss Everett?"
I pause, hearing little but my own pounding heartbeat in my ears, before looking up at my inquisitor; sunglasses, a baseball cap, and a leather jacket. How the fuck does he wear a leather jacket in this weather?
"Oh, no, sorry, I'm fine, thank you to meet you - Uhh! - I mean -"
The man to his right - a fellow with fine, graying hair, and yet not a single wrinkle upon his face - snorts quietly with laughter, before finding eye contact with me and smiling graciously. The man on the left doesn't move an inch, looking down upon a sheet of papers stacked neatly upon their desk. I wouldn't even know he was there, if not for the shiny silver suit jacket he wears, immediately grabbing my easily-distracted attention in a room of otherwise dull colors.
"Chloe," says the baseball-capped man, "try to relax."
Fuck, there they are. The words no actor in their right fucking mind wants to hear. I've been here for seven seconds and I've already blown my chances.
"Yes," I answer despondently, rolling my shoulders, before picking myself up with a deep breath and finding a proud posture yet again, "I will."