Curvy Girls Need Love (BBW Romance, Rock Star Romance)

by Abbott, Alexandrinha

  Curvy Girls Need Love

  by Alexandrinha Abbott

  Copyright 2013 Alexandrinha Abbott

  All rights reserved.

  Curvy Girls Need Love

  Book design by Alexandrinha Abbott

  Curvy Girls Need Love

  I hate to admit it, but there are two things that are always on my mind: food and sex. If prompted to choose between cheeseburgers and a good roll in the hay, I would be hard pressed to decide. My friends always asked me which I liked better. I joked back that there is no reason why I can’t have both, although perhaps not at the same time.

  My hearty appetite displayed itself prominently in my thick thighs and heavy breasts, my tight size 18 jeans and the nearly endless stream of chubby chasers anxious to get their hands on me.

  There was only one problem with the men I typically attracted. That’s a lie. There were many things wrong with them. Principal among their faults was their propensity to screw me once and then disappear.

  I was experienced enough, but I lacked skill. The men whom I’d bedded never seemed to be interested in more than a one-night stand. I have to admit that my occupation created some of the problem.

  Working as a burlesque dancer had its charms. No other job afforded me the opportunity to don skimpy clothes and shake my ample assets for a stream of admirers with an endless supply of dollar bills. I wasn’t a stripper. Let me make that clear. We burlesque dancers prefer to leave some things to the imagination. Unfortunately, too many men had trouble differentiating between my job and my personality. The two were very different.

  I liked to think of myself as the full-figured Dita Von Teese while I was working. I often wondered whether the brunette beauty who served as my inspiration ever enjoyed the pleasures of a greasy cheeseburger smothered in fried onions and ketchup. When I was off-duty, I was actually quite shy and insecure about my body. It was a dichotomy that I didn’t even understand myself.

  One night after I finished my shift, I squeezed into my jeans and headed to my favorite 24-hour diner. I don’t drink, so I was stone cold sober as I sat there amid the drunks who had filtered out of the nearby bars. I ordered the usual.

  By the time my waitress delivered a burger and fries to my spot at the counter, I had attracted an admirer. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not conceited. I know that my softer body and plentiful curves don’t appeal to everyone. However, contrary to what some people may think, there are plenty of men willing to sleep with a woman who is pleasingly plump, especially if they have seen my act.

  The man to my right was achingly handsome. I could see his face out of the corner of my eye. For good measure, I checked out his reflection in the shining surface of the polished metal napkin holder. Even distorted, the man was a thing of beauty.

  I felt somewhat guilty for looking at him as a sex object. If being a burlesque dancer had taught me one thing, it was what it felt like to be objectified. It was a good feeling when the money was flowing. It was considerably less pleasant when some stranger tried to grope my ass onstage. I wasn’t that kind of dancer.

  He caught me staring. “Hello,” he said with his perfectly shaped mouth. “My name is Stone Street.”

  “Your name is Stone Street,” I repeated dumbly while congratulating myself on being such a brilliant conversationalist. It’s a good thing I wasn’t drunk. I would have been completely incoherent. It was also too bad he wasn’t drunk. I might have appeared more intelligent.

  Stone smiled at me and waited expectantly.

  “My name is Tessa Snow,” I said. Brilliant, I thought. Keep this up, and you’ll be married in no time.

  “That’s a beautiful name,” he murmured from his perch on the stool next to mine.

  I continued to bite and chew and swallow as he gazed at me from less than a foot away. I’m used to people staring as I eat. It doesn’t really get any easier. “Were you at my show tonight?” I asked, trying to determine the real reason for his rapt attention.

  “Are you a performer?” he asked.

  “I’m a dancer,” I said. I waited for him to laugh or express incredulity. Then I would have to explain myself. There’s nothing in the world I hate more than having to explain myself, so I began to plot my exit. Unfortunately, the waitress was nowhere to be seen, and I had yet to receive my check.

  “I should have known you were a dancer. You’re so graceful.” He leaned toward me. “You could say I’m a performer, too.”

  “Is that so?” I saw my waitress on the other side of the diner and began signaling frantically for the check. Helplessly, I watched as a high-maintenance drunk on the other side of the room caught her attention and slowed her progress toward the place where I was trying to escape from the enraptured gaze of the most handsome man I had ever seen.

  I couldn’t wait to get away from Stone. His flawless beauty reminded me of my own imperfections. I prefer my men with a little more meat on the bones. It was insurance that they wouldn’t get too cocky about my own weight, which was none of their business anyway as far as I was concerned.

  “Have you ever heard of Shattered Bones?” he asked.

  “Shattered Bones?” I repeated. I was getting good at this. If I lost interest in burlesque dancing, I could probably have a rewarding career as a parrot.

  “It’s a band,” he explained. “I’m the drummer.”

  “Sorry, I don’t listen to that kind of music,” I said.

  “I didn’t even tell you what kind of music we play,” he protested.

  I turned my head to locate the missing waitress. She had disappeared into thin air. If she didn’t reappear soon, I was going to find her and throttle her with my bare hands. Leaving without paying had never occurred to me. Guesstimating the bill and leaving the money on the counter didn’t occur to me either. I was trapped there with the brutally handsome but somewhat boring drummer of some band called Shattered Bones.

  “Well,” I said, “it was nice meeting you, but I have to head home. It’s a long walk, especially in the middle of the night.” I was still planted on my seat, waiting for my check, but I figured it was only a matter of time before my waitress materialized.

  “I could give you a ride,” Stone said hopefully. He placed a hand on my arm, drawing goose bumps from my skin. Then he slapped a hundred-dollar bill down on the counter. “This should take care of everything,” he said.

  Without preamble, he literally pulled me from my stool and hauled me out of the diner just as a crowd of drunken girls poured inside. They stared at him as if they had seen a ghost. I can’t say that I blamed them.

  Once we were outside, he pulled me into his arms and kissed me hard on the lips.

  “I’ve been dying to do that since the moment we met,” he said.

  I was shocked, but I wasn’t speechless. “We only met less than an hour ago.” My voice was clear and steady, if a bit indignant. I was rather proud of myself. There was nothing in my voice to give away the pounding of my heart or the shaking in my knees.

  As I stood there, willing my traitorous legs to start moving in the opposite direction of the old diner, a black limousine pulled up alongside us and a uniformed driver disembarked. He opened the door to the back seat and stood there waiting.

  “I forgot to tell you,” Stone said. “I’m kind of a big deal.” He ushered me into the back seat of the limousine. I didn’t resist.

  The driver slammed the door shut behind us just in time. The herd of tipsy girls who had filled the diner spotted the limo and poured into the parking lot. I heard one of them yell, “I knew it was him,” as she flung herself at the car door. Fortunately, the door was
locked, and the driver was quick.

  The limo pulled away as a crowd of faces pushed against the mirrored glass of the rear windows, straining to get a peek of the drummer of Shattered Bones, the same man who had somehow managed to work one of his calloused hands under my blouse.

  “Hey,” I said. “I don’t know who you are, or who you think you are, or who you think I am, but I’m not that kind of girl.”

  He had the good sense to look penitent. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Let’s just say the girls on the road have set unrealistic expectations when it comes to real women like you.”

  “Apology accepted,” I said as I wondered what he meant by real women like me. I didn’t know whether he meant girls who were bigger than size zero, women who had never heard of him or some combination of the two.

  He leaned back into the plush leather upholstery. The faded denim covering his legs was as loose as a coat of paint. I couldn’t help but notice that the fabric covering his crotch was under tremendous pressure. With some difficulty, I raised my eyes to look at his face instead.

  My eyes may have been focused on his face, but my brain was focused on what I had seen below the belt. To borrow a line from the movie This Is Spinal Tap, Stone looked like he was packing an armadillo in his trousers.

  “What’s your address?” Stone asked.

  “Why do you need my address?” I asked suspiciously.

  “I need your address so that my driver can bring you home,” he said.

  When he laughed, I had the sinking feeling that he knew exactly what had gotten me so distracted. Then he leaned back further, sliding his legs down the leather seat and prominently displaying the growing bulge in his pants. The armadillo had transformed into a mountain. It was quite a feat.

  To my dismay, Stone dropped me off at my lonely apartment without even offering to come inside and show me exactly what he had to offer. I knew that I was being ridiculous. He was a stranger, and I was a good girl who just happened to dance nearly naked for a living. I went to bed, determined to forget that he existed. Unfortunately, fate had other plans.

  Nearly one month later, I was at work when I saw Stone waltz through the crowd. He wasn’t alone. His entourage included several impossibly large men whom I rightly assumed to be bodyguards. The rest of his party was composed of young women in slutty clothes and several men whom I recognized as members of the band. A month earlier, I wouldn’t have recognized them. Thanks to an almost obsessive bout of searching for pictures of Stone on the Internet, I knew his band mates like they were the back of my hand.

  From my vantage point on top of the main stage, I could see Stone clearly. However, his perfect form was quickly obscured by the body of a pale redhead who straddled him like she was giving him a lap dance. That wasn’t a service that we provided in this particular establishment. She was with the band.

  I continued with my performance. Ordinarily, I felt almost completely confident as I danced onstage wearing nothing but a G-string and tassels. Sneaking glances at Stone while he was being mauled by a girl who couldn’t have weighed more than a hundred pounds was making me feel significantly less confident.

  Finally, my set was over. I was free to go. With a final glance over my shoulder, I headed offstage. As I turned my head, I saw Stone waggle his fingers at me from around the girl’s body. I didn’t wave back.

  Back in the dressing room, I threw on my street clothes faster than I ever had before. There was nothing I wanted more than to exit stage right and disappear into the night. With the exception of the night Stone had given me a ride home in a limousine that had definitely seen more action than my bed, I always walked home. It was the perfect way to clear my head.

  I suppose I should have known that I wasn’t going to get away that easily. As I left the smokiness of the club for the relatively fresh air of the parking lot, a familiar limousine was waiting. One of the windows rolled down to reveal the very person whom I had hoped to avoid.

  “Stone,” I said. Brilliant, I thought to myself.

  “Do you want a ride?”

  “That depends. Is your little redheaded friend inside?”

  “No.” He grinned, revealing his perfectly straight white teeth. “It’s just me.”

  “How will your friends get home?” I asked, as if I cared.

  “Don’t worry about them. Another limo can be here in twenty minutes. It’s no big deal.” He opened the door from the inside. “Get in.”

  I obediently climbed into the back seat of the limousine. A girl could get used to a ride like this, I thought. “Was that your girlfriend?” I asked, cursing myself for sounding jealous. One kiss in a darkened parking lot didn’t give me the right to ask questions.

  “I don’t have a girlfriend,” he said. When he reached for me, I was ready for him. I let him press the hardness of his body against my soft curves. I could feel his heartbeat through the tight fabric of his pants. With horror, I noticed that he was actually wearing spandex. I wondered what I was getting myself into as the heat of his tongue slipped between my lips and invaded my mouth. With some surprise, I noted the lack of a smell of alcohol on his breath.

  When we broke for air, I took the opportunity to ask him about it. “Do you drink?”

  “That’s an interesting question,” he said thoughtfully. His hand was still on my breast. I pretended not to notice. “I do not drink. Do you?”

  I shook my head. “Why don’t you drink?” I persisted. “Do you have a problem with alcohol?”

  “I don’t have a problem with alcohol. I have a problem with alcoholics. I don’t enjoy their company, so why would I join their ranks?”

  “That’s an excellent answer,” I said. “I feel the exact same way.”

  His fingers had found my hardened nipple, and he was pressing against it in ways that made me feel moist down below.

  The flesh between my legs was pounding like a drum, and I wasn’t sure what to do about it. I asked myself whether I was actually prepared to go all the way with a virtual stranger in the back seat of a limousine. The answer surprised me. I was ready; I just had to wait for an invitation.

  “I looked you up on the Internet,” I said. “You were right. You are a big deal.”

  “I told you so,” he said. Stone moved his hand to my other breast and moved it around. I could tell he was trying to find the nipple. My breasts were full, round and heavy inside my bra. The nipples tended to shift around when I moved, never landing in the same place twice. It was one of the hazards of having such a large bra size.

  “Your tits are huge,” he murmured.

  I assumed he meant it as a compliment, but I felt a little miffed. “Your powers of observation are extraordinary, Sherlock Holmes,” I said.

  He looked at me strangely, but he didn’t stop his pursuit of my errant nipple. Stone located what he was looking for. With a look of triumph, he lowered his mouth to my breast and began to suck the nipple right through the fabric of my shirt and bra.

  I gasped in surprise and pleasure. In the back of my mind, I wondered about the driver. He had probably seen all this before. It was disappointing to think of how many women Stone had shagged in the back of this very limo, so I tried not to think about it as he pressed one of his hands between my legs.

  Instinctively, I tried to sit a little taller and suck in my stomach as he swirled his palm over the curves of my body. I held my breath as his hand passed over my belly, concentrating hard on trying to make it flatter.

  People tended to think that I was confident with my body considering I danced wearing very little to cover my ample curves, but that wasn’t the case.

  Dancing was my job, and I loved it. However, acting was as much an element of my routine as dancing. When I was onstage, I was playing the part of a big beautiful woman who was secure with her body. Offstage, I was just another woman with self-esteem problems.

  Stone’s wet mouth left a circular damp spot on the front of my blouse when he abandoned my nipple for my lips. He kissed me deeply
with the hard, slow kisses to which I had already become accustomed in such a short period of time. I was reasonably sure that I would measure the kisses of all future lovers against Stone’s and find them lacking.

  My hands traveled of their own accord. They explored the sides of his face, the thickness of his shoulders and the muscles of his powerful arms. My hands ventured lowered. They caressed his chest. It felt exactly the way I had expected.

  I dragged my fingertips down the hard slope of his taut belly until they rested on his waist. Then I reversed their direction, pushing his t-shirt upward to reveal his sculpted abs. My desire for him suddenly became overwhelmed by my own feelings of inadequacy. I have never had flat abs. My legs were thick and strong. My arms were toned, but my belly was decidedly soft. I let the fabric of his shirt fall back down to cover his perfection.

  Stone sensed my hesitation. With one smooth move, he hooked a hand into the hem of his shirt and pulled it over his head.

  I couldn’t stop staring. His body reminded me of Michelangelo’s statue of David. It was immaculate. Before I could protest, Stone had removed my shirt and tossed it onto the seat beside his own. My confidence took a further nosedive, and I tried to cover the softness of my body with my hands.

  “You’re so beautiful,” Stone whispered in my ear. The heat and moisture of his breath temporarily drove all other thoughts from my mind. That’s when I felt his hands fumble behind my back. With a sense of trepidation, I realized that my brassiere was about to be discarded.

  My cushiony mounds swung into view. I noticed that flecks of adhesive were still stuck to my areolas from the tassels I had worn at the club. Embarrassed, I tried to obscure his view with my palms.

  He didn’t seem to notice that anything was amiss as he turned his attention to the button that fastened the waistband of my denim jeans. Without fumbling, he popped the button free of its hole and unzipped my zipper. My pliable lower belly obediently moved into view.

  “I don’t know if I want to do this,” I said, trying to push his hands away.