The Girl Who Can't Say No: Bound To The Billionaire (Part One) (A BDSM Erotic Romance Novelette) (6 page)

"It's always open," he says nonchalantly,
speaking every word in a dull-set monotone. He leads me to a table
- a large rectangle, covered in a classy white tablecloth - and
seats me at the far end, courteously pulling the chair out for me,
before walking to the opposite side for his own position. The
candles are gorgeous; burning sullenly and quietly, leaving bright
imprints on my vision as soon as I tear my face away from them.
Daniel, too, is quite the picture: a dark blue suit jacket, dark
blue jeans, and a pink shirt beneath; top button undone in the
obligatory style.

"So, what," I finally knock up the confidence
to say, "no-one else comes here?"

He deftly tosses me a menu across the table,
narrowly missing the line of candle flames that separate us.

"I like peace and quiet," he says after a few
moments pause. "And I like the food in this restaurant."

I stare back into him blankly, unaware of the
brazenly smug point he's trying to make to me.

"I bought it."

We're interrupted by the waiter - a short
fellow, apparently voiceless - bringing us a selection of wines. I
don't care for any of this; I just pick the first bottle that's
presented. Daniel does the same. I'm so overwhelmed by this entire
experience - by the gentle breeze of the air-conditioned
atmosphere, and the sight of my gorgeous, enigmatic billionaire
host sitting just feet away from me once again - that his statement
sails right past me, and I'm back inside my own world, feverishly
battling my own insecurities.

"Look," I say, putting my hands upon the
table, trying to keep myself composed, and straddling the fine old
familiar lines of giddy schoolgirl admiration, heart-pounding
nervousness, and an all-defeating desire to put him on the spot,
and find out just what I'm doing here. "What is this all about? The
audition? This
role
of yours?"

He looks into me with those expressive eyes
of his, reflecting the dancing flames of the candles in his pupils.
His expression doesn't change, even as I mention this morning.

"And, uhm, the nakedness."

I can’t find any easier way to say it, so I
just blurt it out. I feel a tinge of shame upon hearing myself
utter those words, and a flooding rush of embarrassment. But he's
still unchanged.

"I feel I should apologize, Miss Everett," he
starts, putting down the menu, and clasping his fingers together
humbly, and diplomatically. "You're not stupid. I can see that. And
I can also see that you might not appreciate being played like some
insignificant fledgling actress in some cheap B movie. My methods
might not seem all too clear to you, and for that I am sorry."

Being played? His methods
? He managed
to answer a question with only more questions. I plant my chin upon
my outstretched palms, leaning in towards him to study his
expressions further. He's remarkably composed; he never diverts his
eyes from me, not even for a mere second. He's a picture of every
trait of confidence I wish I had.

"I see something in you," he says, grasping
my attention once more. "There's something about you. You don't
seem happy about yourself, almost as if you're dissatisfied with
what you were given in life. You don't seem so comfortable in your
own skin."

I don't know whether to feign offence, or
commend him for such a successful reading of me. I'm everything he
describes, with any extra measure of anxiety thrown in for good
measure. I open my mouth to speak, but he goes on before I can have
a chance to state whatever it was I wanted to say.

"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?