Big Girls Do It Boxed Set

by Jasinda Wilder

  Contents

  Title

  Big Girls Do It Better

  The Long Drive Home

  Big Girls Do It Wetter

  Big Girls Do It Wilder

  Big Girls Do It On Top

  Also By

  BIG GIRLS DO IT

  by

  Jasinda Wilder

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, places, organizations, or person, whether living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  ISBN: 978-0-9891044-9-4

  Copyright © 2012 by Jasinda Wilder

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from the author.

  Big Girls Do It Better

  My mom says I was always fat. She once tried to tell me she had to buy my baby clothes in the husky section at Sears, but I don't for a second believe that nonsense. Mom exaggerates. She took me with her to my first Weight Watchers meeting when I was five. All I remember is all the talking about food making me hungry.

  I've always had a passion for life and I think that translated into a bit of overindulgence. What can I say? I've never met a cupcake I didn't like.

  Two things always get me into the most trouble: food, and my mouth. That's how it all started with Chase. I had just finished my shift DJing at a bar appropriately called "The Dive" when I drove by Ram's Horn and decided I needed a snack. Let's just say the tips at The Dive were usually liquid and I tended to get tipped well. I stumbled in the door and bumped right into trouble of the tall, dark and handsome variety. He apologized as I looked away, flushing in embarrassment and lust. This guy was HOT. I couldn't make myself meet his eyes. Not pretty but plus-sized me. I mumbled an apology and scurried to my usual corner booth and hid behind the menu.

  Why am I such a klutz and why do I always embarrass myself in front of men? I thought to myself, pretending to peruse a menu I knew by heart.

  "Can I sit with you?" His voice was like a mellow, throbbing bassline.

  Of course you can sit next to me, Mr. Sexypants, I thought. I was blushing scarlet from my forehead all the way down to my ample cleavage.

  "Sure," I mumbled, trying to act like I didn't really care either way.

  I looked up at him again, wishing he wasn't twice as sexy as I remembered when I looked ten seconds before, but he was. I wanted to say something cool and nonchalant, but all I could was focus on keeping the menu to single images, rather than double.

  Mr Sexypants ordered water, because he was just that cool. I thought about ordering salad, so I could be cool too, but when I actually opened up my mouth to speak I said pie.

  Lemon pie? Really? Awesome job, Anna, I scolded myself. No way will a guy this hot ask me out, now that I've gone and ordered freaking pie.

  My mind was racing now. Why in the world was this guy sitting here with me? Why hadn't I just gone home, and why did I do so many shots of Jäger after work?

  I played with my hair, twisting a lock of my bottle-blond hair between my fingers. It smelled like smoke.

  "Do you come here often?" Mr. Sexypants asked.

  "No, not really. I DJ down the street at The Dive."

  Why did I just tell him where I work? This guy could be a killer.

  "You're a DJ?"

  "Yeah, I sing and play music at a few local bars."

  "Oh really?" he said, flashing his absurdly straight and white teeth at me. "I sing too."

  Of course Mr Sexypants would be a singer.

  "Really?" I said. "Like at church?"

  "No, in a band. We're called 6 Feet Tall. We just got back from playing at CBGB's in New York."

  I smiled and ate my pie and twirled my hair again. Is this actually happening to me right now? I put my hand down onto my leg and pinched myself. Yep, really happening.

  I glanced down, more to get away from Mr Sexypants and his fiery brown eyes than anything else, and that was when I remembered what I was wearing: knee-high black hooker boots, fishnet stockings, and a size-eighteen sequined leopard-print mini dress.

  Dear God, I bet he thinks I'm a stripper. I went ten shades of scorching red all over again.

  "How's the pie?" He asked, still with that too-damn-cute little smirk. He knew exactly what he was doing to me, and he was enjoying watching me squirm.

  "Uh...great, thanks." I scarfed down the last couple bites. "I really need to get going."

  "The pie is on me," he said. "I was lonely in here studying and I'm glad you came in. I needed a break and some company. My name is Chase, by the way."

  "Nice to meet you Chase. I'm Anna." I shook his hand, trying desperately to ignore the sparks of heat that ran up my arm at the touch of his strong, calloused fingers. "Good luck with your band."

  With that I got my big butt out of that booth and into my car as quick as I could. I turned the key in my car and looked at the clock: three-thirty eight am. I needed to get home before my roommate Jamie started calling the police to look for my dead body. She hated my job and was always worried guys were going to attack me leaving the bar. I've tried to explain to her that serial killers don't kill fat girls but she doesn't care. I turned to check for a car before I started to pull out and my car door opened.

  "I didn't want you to go without getting your phone number." His bassline voice washed over me as his massive presence filled the passenger seat.

  Holy shit! What do I do? If I give him my number I'm easy. If I don't I may never see Mr. Sexypants again.

  "My mother taught me not to give my phone number to strange men."

  "So I'm strange, now, huh?"

  "Ok, well not strange, but I don't know you." It took all my control to keep my voice even.

  "What if I want to get to know you?" He smiled at me again and I swear I forgot what my name was.

  And then he kissed me. Not a tiny, friendly, introductory kiss either; it was a deep, almost-tongues-touching kiss. A soul-scorching kiss. My foot slid off the brake and the car started rolling, and he had to jump out of the way to avoid being run over.

  "Sorry about that," I mumbled, trying not to touch my lips where his had just been. Can my face get any hotter?

  "I'll see you again, Anna, and soon." He shut the car door before I could finish mumbling "Goodnight."

  He smiled at me as he turned to run back inside the restaurant.

  I didn't remember the drive home, so wrapped was I in thoughts of Mr. Sexypants and the incredible kiss.

  The next morning it all seemed like a weird dream.

  * * *

  Being a DJ sounds like a way cooler thing than it is. Most people think it's all sexy bars and talented singers crooning into a microphone just before their break into the big time, or hysterical groups of hot guys singing their theme song in a rousing, raucous chorus. Nothing could be further from the truth. You have to buy your own equipment, for starters, and that stuff ain't cheap. Then you have to load it into your car and unload and set it up in the bar's usually-too-small stage-space. Then you have to have all the music tracks and the song selection binders and the request forms, and you have to know how to use a mixer to get the sound right, and you have to be comfortable in front of crowds and you have to be able to sing yourself. That's all before the people come up, asking you if you this song or that one, and can I get you a drink, and I bet DJing isn't too hard. And then they get drunk and they think they're all Tony Bennet or Nikki Minaj. Let me tell you, out of an entire crowded bar, maybe two or thre
e hundred people depending on the size of the bar, maybe one or two people will have even halfway decent singing voices. If I DJ three nights a week, I might come across three or four people who can actually sing and who know how.

  Chase knew how. I mean, he was good. He had the natural talent plus the technical skill to use it properly, as well as the stage presence to have the best effect. He swaggered into The Dive the following week, wearing tight leather pants and a sleeveless black T-shirt. It was a look not many men could have pulled off, but he wore it like he'd invented it. I mean, damn, those pants hugged his ass like a second skin, and his arms were brawny, bulging, and writhing with gorgeous tattoos. He was lean in the hips, wide in the shoulders, and...

  I was completely screwed.

  And that was before he picked up the mic. He let a few others go first, some not-quite drunk regulars that had decent voices, people I could rely on to get the night started. Chase picked "All I Want" by Toad the Wet Sprocket. He took the mic in one hand, curled the cord around the other hand, standing with his weight on one foot, head down, tapping a toe to the opening notes. Most people, when waiting for their Karaoke selection to start, glance at their table of friends for encouragement, or stare with nervous eyes at the prompter for the lyrics to start turning blue.

  Chase milked the moment like a true performer. He drew everyone's eyes, and he knew it; rather than just waiting for the cue to start performing, he was building tension, making sure every eye was on him. The music shifted from the intro to the first verse, and Chase lifted the mic to his mouth, drew a deep breath...and blew me away. The man could sing. He knew how to transition from the low notes to the higher ones without cracking, knew how to belt it without screaming. He worked the crowd, getting those who knew the song to join in on the chorus, got the rest clapping and trying to sing along. He turned a dingy dive bar into a concert hall before his first number was over.

  Of course, at the time, all I could see was his glorious body and dark skin. All I could feel was the rush of pure desire coursing through my body to pool in a damp pool beneath my thighs. I was remembering the heat and pressure of his lips on mine one week ago, and desperately wanting more.

  His eyes burned into me as he owned the stage. Every time he glanced my way—which was often—I found myself pinned in place, my legs turned to jelly by the blaze of raw lust burning in his eyes.

  Why is he looking at ME like that? I kept asking myself. There were dozens of other women in the bar, prettier, richer, skinnier women literally half my size. Just about every other woman in the bar was oozing desire for Chase, practically lining up around the little raised stage area, all of them wearing sexy little outfits that sized in the single digits instead of double.

  Yet Chase had eyes only for me, with my size-eighteen mini skirt and three-inch heels that made me stand nearly six feet tall. I knew I looked good for me, but compared to all these other skinny bitches with their size-zero little asses and itty bitty titties, I knew I didn't have a chance in hell with a guy like Chase. But yet here he came, burly arms swinging, eyes fixed on my like he was a lion stalking a gazelle across the savannah. I was no gazelle. I was more of an elephant. At least, that's what my ex used to tell me.

  I'd told myself after breaking up with Bruce that I'd never again date a guy that called me names. Hell, he didn't have to compliment all the time, he just couldn't outright call me a whale like Bruce used to. I know I wasn't skinny and I owned it, but it still hurt every damn time.

  "You've got a great selection," Chase said, voice rolling over me, flustering me so badly I dropped the CD I was holding. He was suddenly somehow mere inches from me, gazing down at me with what could not possibly be, could never be, surely wasn't desire.

  "Selection?" What was he talking about? My selection? Was he talking about my boobs?

  Am I popping out of my top? I looked down at my chest, suddenly unable to put two thoughts together.

  Chase laughed, a low, amused chuckle. "Your song selection. You have a lot of songs to choose from."

  I glanced back up to meet Chase's eyes, and as our gazes met, Chase let his slide down to my cleavage and hung there, an obvious, intentional ogle.

  "Oh," I muttered. "Yeah...well, you can't be a DJ without music."

  "True. But your selection is especially...vast." He was talking about my tits, now.

  "You sounded great," I said, because it was true, and a complete thought.

  "Thanks." He reached past me, his arm going over my shoulder and brushing my face, his lips now mere inches from mine with the whole bar watching.

  I thought he was going to kiss me, but he just bored his gaze into me and grabbed a song request slip from the waist-high counter running along the wall behind me. He picked a mini-pencil and scribbled something on the slip, and then handed it to me.

  "Sing with me," he said. It wasn't quite a direct command, but almost.

  I was tempted to say no just to show him he couldn't order me around, but damn it, I wanted to sing with him. I knew, in the same way I knew when I was nailing song just right, that Chase and I would sound incredible together. My deep alto voice would provide a perfect counterpoint to his powerful tenor.

  We would make beautiful music together, I thought. I had to suppress a naughty giggle then, because the thought had nothing at all to do with singing.

  "I would love to," I said, before I'd even taken the slip from his fingers.

  Our fingers touched when I grabbed it from him, and I felt again an electric current zapping through my entire body from that one split-second contact.

  What I wouldn't give to feel his hands on me. I couldn't stop the thought from zooming through my addled head. If I felt such electricity from just our fingers touching, then...oh my god, what on earth would it feel like to have his hands on my tits? Pinching my nipples and slipping his fingers into my—

  I actually, literally gasped as I forced the thought from my mind. Chase was still gazing at me, and now the gleam of lust was bearing down on me full force, unmistakable and undeniable and totally, completely focused on me.

  "Stop looking at me like that," I said.

  "Like what?" His voice was pitched low so only I could hear, even though with the fill music pounding from the speakers he could have spoken in a yell and no one would have heard. He spoke low on purpose, so I'd have to get closer to him.

  It worked, and I wasn't protesting.

  "Like you want me." It was hard to get the words out. I didn't believe them, and I was afraid he'd laugh at me.

  His eyes sparked and flashed, and the corners of his luscious mouth tipped up in a smirk. "Oh, but I do."

  "You can't," I said, in a voice barely audible even in a silent room

  Of course, he read lips too.

  "Why not?"

  "Because I'm—" I started, and then had to cut myself off and grab for the mic, because the fill song had ended and the next number was up and needed introducing.

  I read the name and song title, my brain working on autopilot. Chase was still standing there, his brow furrowed in a slight frown. When I sat back down, he moved to rejoin me, but had to step aside for a line of people making song requests. I was forced to push him from my mind after that, busy with sorting CDs and prompter tracks and announcing songs, and by the time I looked out at the crowd again, he was gone.

  I took my break at midnight, slipping out behind the bar with a bottle of beer. This was my quiet time, my five or ten minutes away from the crush of the crowd to gather my thoughts and let my nerves settle.

  "You never put our song in the line-up." Chase's voice came from behind me, from the shadows of the building.

  I squealed, whirling around with my fist flying. The Dive was in an area where it didn't pay to let your guard down. I'm not a small girl, and I know how to punch. I've flattened men, before, with my fists and with pool sticks and with beer bottles. I've knocked teeth loose and caused concussions. I'm not a brawler, but I can take care of myself.

 
Chase caught my fist easily, almost casually. He held my closed fist in his for a moment, then curled his fingers around my wrist and pulled me to him.

  Oh Lord, I thought, resisting with all my strength and finding it futile. Here it comes. I knew I shouldn't trust him, I knew he'd turn out to be—

  His other hand drifted up as he slowly and inexorably dragged me against his chest. I flinched away from him, trying to get away from his hand, which I was sure contained a knife, but then I realized it was empty and reaching for my face. The backs of his fingers brushed my cheek, almost tenderly, and then he wrapped his hand around the nape of my neck and pulled my lips against his.

  His kiss made my knees buckle. He was still holding my wrist up near our faces, as if worried I might haul off and hit him for kissing me. I thought about it. I really did. This guy was trouble. He just wanted me cause he thought I'd be easy, and desperate. A lot of guys assumed that, and a lot of guys had gotten a rude awakening for it.

  But Chase, the way he was kissing me...it didn't feel like a guys who assumed he'd be in my pants. He was kissing me like he hoped he'd be in my pants, like he was planning on working to get there.

  Now that I could work with.

  His fingers loosened on my wrists, and I tugged my hand free. I didn't hit him, though. I let my arm drape across his shoulders, then, of their own accord, my fingers were tangling in the soft, dark hair on his neck and pushing subtly to deepen the kiss.

  He groaned, a low, animal sound in the very bottom of his throat, a primal growl that had my belly trembling. I wanted to hear that sound again, wanted to feel the power of his voice and know that I'd caused it. So, naturally, I grabbed his ass.

  Oh, my sweet Lord. The man's ass was a perfect globe of muscle, and I swear by all that's holy it was made to fit in my hands. Once I had a hold on that fine piece of leather-cupped flesh, I couldn't let go. I was actually, factually electrified as if I'd grabbed a high-voltage wire.