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

by
Alexandrinha Abbott

Copyright
2013 Alexandrinha Abbott

All
rights reserved.

Curvy
Girls Need Love

Book
design by Alexandrinha Abbott

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?”