Read Online Forbidden To Say No - The Billionaire's Plaything (An Erotic Romance Novel) by Ashley Spector - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Ashley Spector
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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.
Steel clamps, and the paint can easily be found elsewhere. I pick them up one by one, and lumber around the city streets with a multitude of bags in each hand, feeling the abrasive plastic handles of the paint cans cutting into my soft skin. Finally, a farmer's market gives me all the opportunity I need to pick up one tangerine , and one sprig of ginger . Out of everything, I guess these are the two that confuse me the most. I'm doing his food shopping now? Maybe this is part of some diet - the secret to everlasting youth - shared only by billionaires and Hollywood actors. Or maybe he's just playing with me, making me run around town looking for an arbitrary list of trivial items.
When I climb off the bus, and make the short distance home, Carissa is already waiting for me, fresh from whatever bar she was delighting with her presence the night before.
"Chlo, where've you been?"
"Oh, you know," I reply, staring my twin sister directly in her bothersome face, planting each bag down next to me with an audible thud . The curtain rod briefly springs from its position in its tiny bag, panging against my face, and eliciting a giggle from Carissa. "Shopping. Getting the stuff I need."
"Curtain rail?"
"I'm sick of blinds."
She raises one eyebrow in disbelief, but it doesn't stay there for long. Her cynicism is soon displaced by the swelling, throbbing desire to extract every bit of billionaire gossip from me that she can. I can almost see it in her eyes - the fizzing, bouncy energy just waiting to be set free - and as soon as she opens her mouth, I try to prepare a story.
"So come on, tell me everything! You met him last night? What happened? Did you get the job? What is it!?"
She bounces up and down on the spot, childishly exhibiting all the energy I wish I had. I replay the night in my mind, using this one brief moment to relive the deliriously dreamlike events that unfolded. The restaurant, the chat, the sex . But in the end, something happens; I can't explain it, but I
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.
Steel clamps, and the paint can easily be found elsewhere. I pick them up one by one, and lumber around the city streets with a multitude of bags in each hand, feeling the abrasive plastic handles of the paint cans cutting into my soft skin. Finally, a farmer's market gives me all the opportunity I need to pick up one tangerine , and one sprig of ginger . Out of everything, I guess these are the two that confuse me the most. I'm doing his food shopping now? Maybe this is part of some diet - the secret to everlasting youth - shared only by billionaires and Hollywood actors. Or maybe he's just playing with me, making me run around town looking for an arbitrary list of trivial items.
When I climb off the bus, and make the short distance home, Carissa is already waiting for me, fresh from whatever bar she was delighting with her presence the night before.
"Chlo, where've you been?"
"Oh, you know," I reply, staring my twin sister directly in her bothersome face, planting each bag down next to me with an audible thud . The curtain rod briefly springs from its position in its tiny bag, panging against my face, and eliciting a giggle from Carissa. "Shopping. Getting the stuff I need."
"Curtain rail?"
"I'm sick of blinds."
She raises one eyebrow in disbelief, but it doesn't stay there for long. Her cynicism is soon displaced by the swelling, throbbing desire to extract every bit of billionaire gossip from me that she can. I can almost see it in her eyes - the fizzing, bouncy energy just waiting to be set free - and as soon as she opens her mouth, I try to prepare a story.
"So come on, tell me everything! You met him last night? What happened? Did you get the job? What is it!?"
She bounces up and down on the spot, childishly exhibiting all the energy I wish I had. I replay the night in my mind, using this one brief moment to relive the deliriously dreamlike events that unfolded. The restaurant, the chat, the sex . But in the end, something happens; I can't explain it, but I
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