Big Girls Do It Better

  Big Girls Do It Better

  Jasinda Wilder

  ORLY Press

  www.orlypress.com

  This is an erotic short story, or episode. Each episode stands alone, like a TV episode, but is part of a larger story.

  WARNING: This story contains explicit sex and erotic scenes, M/F. For adults, 18+ only.

  Big Girls Do It Better

  Two things get me into trouble: food, and my mouth. That's how it all started with Chase: first food, then my mouth. I had just finished DJing at a bar appropriately called The Dive, and I needed a snack. I headed to the twenty-four hour Ram's Horn a few miles away from the bar.

  That night, I was way more sober than I usually was whenever I visited Ram's Horn. Let's just say the tips at The Dive were usually of the liquid variety, but that particular night, I hadn't been tipped as well as usual. Still, I'd had a couple, and I swayed as I made my way through the crowded parking lot. I stumbled through the door and bumped right into trouble of the tall, dark and handsome variety. He apologized as I looked away, flushing in embarrassment.

  I snuck a peek, and embarrassment turned to lust. This guy was HOT. I couldn't make myself meet his eyes. I mumbled an apology and scurried to my usual corner booth, where I hid behind the menu.

  I pretended to peruse a menu I knew by heart. I've always had a passion for life and that translated into overindulgence. What can I say? I've never met a cupcake I didn't want to get to know better.

  I was still staring at the menu when he came over. He was so sexy, even his pants were sexy.

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

  Anything you want, Mr. Sexypants, I thought. I blushed scarlet from my forehead all the way down to my ample cleavage.

  "Sure," I mumbled, acting like I didn't care either way.

  I looked up at him again, and he was twice as sexy as he'd been ten seconds before. I wanted to say something cool, but in my tipsy state, I could barely focus, and my menu kept shifting between single and double images.

  Mr Sexypants ordered water, because he was just that cool. I thought about ordering salad, so I could be cool too, but when the waitress came and I actually opened up my mouth, I said "Lemon pie."

  Pie? Really? Awesome job, Anna, I scolded myself.

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

  "You seem like you know your way around this place," Mr. Sexypants said.

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

  Why did I just tell him where I work?

  "You're a DJ?"

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

  "Oh, you sing," he said, flashing his absurdly straight and white teeth at me. "I'm a singer 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."

  The waitress brought our food, I think. She must have, since food had appeared and I was eating it.

  I smiled, ate my lemon 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 dress. I went ten shades of scorching red all over again.

  "How's the pie?" He asked, still with that too-damn-cute 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, sitting all by myself. 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 scooted my butt out of the 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 explained to her several times that serial killers don't kill fat girls. I turned to check for a car before I started to pull out, but jammed the brakes when the passenger-side door opened.

  "I didn't want to let you go without getting your phone number." Chase's bassline voice washed over me from the open door.

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

  "So I'm strange, now, huh?" He shot me the smirk again.

  "You know what I meant. 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.

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

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

  *

  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.

  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, standing with his weight on one foot, head down, tapping a toe to the opening notes. Most people, when waiting for their song to start, glance at their table of friends for encouragement, or stare with nervous eyes at the prompter, waiting 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 singing, 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 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 smooth skin. All I could feel was the rush of pure desire coursing through my body to gather in a damp pool between my thighs. I remembered the heat and pressure of his lips on mine one week ago, and desperately wanted 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 wondered. There were dozens of other women in the bar, prettier, richer, skinnier women half my size. Just about every woman in the bar was oozing desire for Chase, lining up around the sta
ge area, all of them wearing sexy little outfits 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 elevating me to nearly six feet tall. I knew I looked good, for me, but compared to all these other model looking women, I knew I shouldn't have a chance in hell with a guy like Chase. But yet here he came, burly arms swinging, eyes fixed on me like he was a lion stalking a gazelle across the savannah. I was no gazelle, but he didn't seem to care.

  "You've got a great selection," Chase said, his voice rolling over me.

  I was flustered enough to drop the CD I was holding. He was mere inches from me, gazing down at me with what could not possibly be, could never be, surely wasn't desire.

  "Selection?" I asked.

  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, 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 sentence.

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

  I thought he was going to kiss me, but he grabbed a song request slip from the waist-high counter running along the wall behind me. He took 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 was sure, in the same way I knew when I was a nailing song just right, 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, because the thought had nothing at all to do with singing.

  "I would love to," I said, as I took 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.

  If I felt such electricity from just our fingers touching, then dear god, what 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 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."

  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.

  "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 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 had 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 outside to the deserted alley 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. It was a dark, narrow alley, lit by a single light hanging from a string between adjacent buildings, shedding sickly orange light and long shadows. I leaned a shoulder against the rough brick of the bar's exterior wall and sipped my beer.

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

  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 against most men.

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

  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 held a knife, but then I realized it was empty and merely reaching for my face. The backs of his fingers brushed my cheek, 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 because he thought I'd be easy, and desperate. A lot of guys assumed that, and a lot of guys had gotten a rude awakening.

  But Chase, the way he was kissing me...it didn't feel like a guy who assumed he'd be in my pants. He was kissing me like he hoped he'd be in my pants, like he was working to get there, and I really liked how it felt.

  His fingers loosened on my wrists, and I tugged my hand free. I didn't hit him. I let my arm drape across his shoulders, and my fingers tangled in the soft, dark hair on his neck.

  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 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.

  His chuckle was the same amused leonine rumble of pleasure, but laced with amusement. He slipped his hand from my neck and let it trace a sensuous, teasing line down my back to rest just above the swell of my hip, no more sexual a touch than if we were dancing in a club. I curved my spine into his palm.

  Our kiss broke for a moment, and he pulled his face back to meet my eyes. His hands slipped down to grasp my buttocks, watching my reaction. I pressed into him, lifted up on my toes so he could get a better grip on me.

  He kissed me again, and this time it wasn't a kiss meant to surprise, like the first two, quick and hard and shocking, all lips and startling power and zero finesse. This time, he kissed me slowly, languorous and deliberate and skillful. He let our lips meet, and then he slipped his tongue out to touch my teeth and explore the contours of my mouth, the corner where my upper and lower lips met, the hollow beneath my tongue, and then farther in to slide along the surface of my tongue.

  I moaned, then, a soft murmur of my vocal chords. Chase tugged my hips flush against his, and I felt a hard length between us. It was only a bulge against the leather of his pants, but it was enough to get me wetter than a rainforest between my legs.

  My hands circled around away from his ass to slip between us, reaching to unbutton his pants. Even through his pants I could tell the man was endowed like a god.

  "Just a taste." The words actually came out of my mouth.

  "You can have more than a taste, sweetness," Chase said.

  I didn't
think he realized I was talking about his cock.

  "I didn't mean your lips," I said.

  What the hell is wrong with me? My brain seemed to be disconnected from the rest of me.

  Chase pulled away long enough to meet my eyes. "I know," was all he said, giving me the smirk, that stupid, knowing quirk of his lips.

  I wanted to wipe it off his face, either with my fist or my lips. I wasn't sure which. He was touching me and kissing me like he owned me, and it infuriated me and intoxicated me at the same time.

  Intoxication had the upper hand, by far.

  My hand found his stomach, and rested there as I warred with myself over whether or not I could bring myself to touch him farther down. I wanted to, of course I did, but I wasn't that kind of girl. I just wasn't. I was the girl that let guys convince her into bed. I didn't pursue them, because that never went well.

  But Chase was pursuing me, wasn't he? That was the argument the horny side of me offered up. It was starting to sound like the logical side of me too, which was odd. Usually the horny side and the logical side were telling me exact opposite things. So, when they started agreeing with each other, I listened.

  I snuck my fingers underneath his shirt to touch his stomach, and the slab of muscle my hands found was ribbed and cut into deliciously soft yet hard divots and squares. It was a tempting playground, and normally I'd jump at the opportunity to rub my hands on Chase's abs, but right then I was in search of another, more dangerous place to explore.

  The leather was rough and pebbled under my fingers as I dragged my hand south from his stomach to the waistband of his pants. The bulge was growing larger as my hands neared it, and I felt a tremble in his hands on my hips, the merest leaf-shake of his fingers, but it was enough. He wanted it, too. I mean, of course he did. He's a guy. All guys want their cocks touched.

  But this was different, right? He wanted me to touch him. And it was right there, waiting for me. Sure, I didn't even know his last name, but here was this ridiculously gorgeous guy decked out in leather pants with a ripped body and what promised to be a deliciously enormous package, and he was all but claiming me as his, if only for tonight.

  I found the button and slipped it through to let the tight pants spread apart, and then drew the zipper down, forcing myself to go slow, because you can't rush beauty. Then there was a thin layer of stretchy cotton between my hands and his cock, just black DKNY boxer-briefs that didn't stand a chance against my daring fingers. The bulge sprang free and I pulled the band of the boxers away from his belly to get a glimpse of the glory contained therein.