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

  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

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  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 tomor
row, 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."

  "Shall we begin?"

  He nods to a single, solitary sheet of paper at the foot of his table. I guess those are the lines. Without saying another word to further incriminate myself, I make up the ten feet or so separating me and the script, pick it up briskly, and saunter back to my spot on the creaky floorboard, clutching the sheet before me tightly, hiding both my face, and my trembling hands.

  The lines are standard-fare, vaguely dramatic stuff. I flick through them quickly to get a feel for it, before dropping them to my hip, and engaging my panel of judges with my eyes once again.

  "Well, whenever you're ready for a simple reading, Chloe. If I may call you Chloe?"

  He's satisfied by a simple nod.

  "Good. We're assessing voice clarity, and quality. Don't worry about misspeaking, or misreading, just do your best."

  Do my best. Right. I clear my mind, cleaving all anxious worries and paranoid pretensions asunder, and focus on the first sentence.

  "Jack, what a loathsome name, I've never liked it."

  So far so good; not a single waver in my voice, despite my inner compulsion to tremor wildly in fear. I open my mouth to speak the next line, when I'm startled from my train of thought by the graying man on the right of the table, holding a similar sheet aloft and speaking deep and solemnly. Oh, I guess I’m reading alongside him.

  "What do you care?" he reads from the next line, "You don't have to work with him like I do. You don't have to deal with him. And what does his name have to do with anything?"

  Trying to shake the notion that these lines don't make any particular sense, I catch another glimpse of the third judge - yet to speak, or even look at me - content simply to sit slouched in his chair, following us line by line, and raising the occasional eyebrow.

  "I'm just not comfortable with it, that's all,” I read aloud, trying my hardest to pronounce each word clearly, and ignoring the overbearing eyes watching me from all directions. "I mean, you can surely read a person by their name. I believe that."

  "You believe all sorts of bullshit."

  With every break in the script, I put my eyes back upon the man on the left, sitting completely motionless, almost as if he were trying to appear invisible. A shock of immaculately styled black hair makes him stand out from the other two like a sore thumb, and a set of small, expressive eyes scan each line of script aggressively. If only I weren't standing so far away, I might just be able to see what color they are.

  "Don't belittle me, you're constantly - be, uhm, - belittling me."

  My little mistake strikes the fear of failure into me once again, and I feel my heart drop to somewhere around my stomach, before rising back between my lungs with a reddening, blood-curdling rush of nerves. The anonymous man on the left raises an eyebrow. The man in the cap and sunglasses sits forward in his chair, and his partner on the right shoots me another self-assured smile, doing very little to ease my fears.

  "I don't like being spoken to like that."

  "I'm sorry, I just want us to be happy, I don't want any of this any more."

  I narrow my eyes at the text before me. This script goes fucking nowhere. Only after straining my eyes at the words one final time do I realize it's not supposed to. They're assessing my emotional response, after all.

  "Good," my co-reader announces, splitting the warm air with his thundering depth, "I'd hate for you to make this into a big deal."

  "I know," I say, allowing my voice to croak a little, trying to feel something other than shuddering,
eclectic nerves. "I love you."

  In the corner of my eye, I see the man to the left drop his script to the table, crossing his arms, and looking sideward to the baseball-capped guy, without uttering a single word. I look up, dutifully waiting for the next line. It doesn't come.

  "Chloe, thank you," says the baseball cap and sunglasses. I widen my eyes, furrowing my brow, and open my mouth to make some futile protest, before his graying companion repeats his words.

  "Thank you, Chloe. We'll be in touch."

  That's it? That was barely two fucking minutes! With a clattering of steel chairs, the three of them climb to their feet, averting their eyes from me, apparently trying to pretend I no longer exist. One week of body-shattering nerves, half an hour of being cooked alive beneath the glowing aura of a room of blonde, gorgeously tanned stunners, and three minutes of jolted, stilted dialogue later, and I'm back below the fucking poverty line. I can already imagine my frantic chat to my sister, begging for enough money for this month's noodles.

  I guess this is the point where I leave the room. Yet, strangely, I'm still here. My right leg trembles nervously beneath me; my lungs quickly dispersing of breath. I feel my face radiating to a lustrous crimson, and my fingers subconsciously furl themselves into my knuckles, tightening assertively. As much as I'm caught between a disheartening desire to run out of the building, and a childlike need to fly back to my calm place, I'm still standing here.

  "Chloe," he repeats, finally noticing I'm still blighting their vision, "you can leave now."

  "Look," I immediately bark back, in a voice so forceful I didn't even know I had it. "I can give a lot to this part. I'm ready, I can do it. You just need to give me a chance."

  "We'll be in touch" he repeats, in a tone more annoyed than gracious.

  "One chance!" I shout, losing all semblance of self-control, casting my nervous inhibitions to the fires of seething, raging disappointment. "Just one chance, please!"