Curves Envy 2 - Curvy Girls Do It Better: BBW Billionaire Romance (10 page)

“Then it happened. We didn’t even have time to react. The truck swerved to avoid us, but it was coming at us too fast. Nate turned the steering wheel sharply to try to avoid an accident, but he didn’t notice the cliff to his left. The front tire hit a rock and the Jeep tumbled down a steep cliff. I was lucky… I guess. The impact propelled my body out of the car and I landed on the side of the road before Nate plunged to his death in a ravine.”

“Oh, my God,” I cry out in horror, yanking my hands from his to cover my gaping mouth.

“Yeah. Apparently, a passing car dragged my unconscious body for miles before stopping. I found out after four days in a coma that my left arm was the only part of me seriously injured. I had some pretty bad scrapes and bruises, but they would heal. My arm, on the other hand… I still remember when I came to. My mom was so broken and scared. She must have been crying for days.”

“How did they find your parents?”

“I was fortunate my guardian angel was on duty when the Jeep tumbled. My wallet was still inside the pocket of my jeans. My mom had insisted on inserting an emergency card just in case and her motherly advice allowed the hospital to contact my parents in New York and inform them of the news.”

“I can’t imagine how your mom must have reacted,” I lie. I know too well how empty you feel inside when you get an unexpected call from the police to let you know your loved ones have been involved in an accident and you need to rush to the hospital.

He closes his eyes before continuing. “When my dad told me Nate hadn’t survived, I went into shock. The ordeal changed me, as you can imagine.”

“Of course. The death of a loved one create a monumental shift in your life.” I should know.

“It does. It took me eight months to recover emotionally and physically. I couldn’t fully use my left arm for nearly a year, but after months of physiotherapy, I was almost as good as new. One year after the accident, I summed up enough courage to visit Nate’s mom, Jasmine. When she opened the door, she was unrecognizable—she had aged at least three decades from the emotional toll.”

“Was Nate her only child?”

“No. He had two younger sisters, but his mom pretty much checked out after his death. She fell into this massive depression. She locked herself in her bedroom and refused to come out for seven months straight. One day she snapped out of it, but her family unit was never the same.”

“It must have been equally difficult for Nate’s sisters and his father.”

“The whole family was devastated. Our entire school was in mourning for weeks after my best friend’s death. Nate was the kind of guy everyone gravitated towards. He was a top athlete and he had a great heart. What he lacked in academic ability, he made up for with his unbounded generosity. The visit with his mom was a turning point for me when I asked her what allowed her to keep moving forward despite her tragic loss.”

“What did she say?” I ask, surprising myself by how engaged I am in his story. I guess a selfish part of me is dying to find out how someone else dealt with losing a loved one.

“One of Nate’s teachers had returned some of his essays to his mom. She read one my best friend had written about friendship.” For an instant Max fights his emotions. “Nate had written this long essay. I’ll be honest, I don’t remember all the words and he even admitted in his paper he needed some help from his girlfriend to fully express how he felt about us, but the conclusion remains with me to this day. He said our friendship had taught him how to live, love and matter. He was this star athlete who stood six foot five inches tall—a beefy guy with more muscle mass than any champion MMA fighter—and he was describing our friendship with such depth. Jasmine asked me to honor her son’s memory by living, loving and by only doing meaningful things. Those three simple wishes I took to heart and I’ve been on a crusade ever since to make good on my promise to her. Even though she died two years ago, I’ve still kept my word to her.”

“You’re right. They are simple wishes, but they are so meaningful.”

He nods his head in agreement and brings my hands to his lips. The tenderness of his actions catches me off guard.

“I guess I still haven’t explained how I got inked.”

I shake my head and lean in towards him to listen to the rest of his tale.

“Nate died one week after I had turned nineteen and for six years I hated my body. The scar was a reminder of my loss and the unsightliness of my skin made me feel disfigured, like a monster. For my twenty-fifth birthday, my older brother Gabriel suggested we take a trip to New Zealand and Australia. For one year, we picked up as many odd jobs as we could to save up enough for our adventure on the other side of the planet.”

“Wow. You’ve been a globetrotter your entire life,” I marvel.

“I wouldn’t go that far. I shut down and refused to leave the US upon my return from the Dominican Republic. This was my brother’s way of pushing me out of my self-imposed boundaries. After my South Pacific trip, I couldn’t wait to explore more of the world.”

“I envy you. I’ve traveled across the US, but I haven’t traveled internationally as much as I’d like.”

“You’re still so young. You have a lot of time in front of you. If you hang out with me more, I’ll make sure you see more of this wonderful world we live in.” He winks.

“If I decide to hang out with you more, I’ll hold you to your promise.” I wink back.

“You’re feisty after some bacon and eggs.”

“Funny.”

“My brother was the one who initiated the trip and a few days after arriving Down Under, Gabe suggested I conceal the scar behind a tattoo. At first I thought he had gone mad. My parents would have been furious. It’s not as if I was part of a gang or anything that edgy. I laughed it off until he revealed he had already talked to Mom and Dad about it and they were unanimous. They all felt I needed help to stop grieving my friend—six years was long enough.”

“It’s not fair someone else would put a time limit on your grief. You’re entitled to mourn your friend as long as you need.” Suddenly I’m quite irritated by the fact his brother and his parents tried to shake the sadness out of him. Trish and my aunt Caroline tried to push me out of my misery numerous times, but there was nothing to be done about it. The pain of losing my parents nearly ate me alive and there weren’t enough pep talks in the world to make me see things differently.

“You’re so spirited and passionate. It’s almost as if you have firsthand experience.”

Gosh. I’m so not ready to share such a tumultuous part of my past with him. It’s too soon. I don’t even know where this is going.

“I’m sorry. I’m being too involved—too empathetic.” I’m suddenly riddled with guilt for allowing myself to transfer my own emotions on to him.
This is about his best friend Nate. Not about Mom and Dad.

“Not at all. This is a very difficult part of my past. I felt compelled to share it with you because I could see from your eyes you were intrigued even though you didn’t dare to ask.”

“Why did your brother suggest getting a tattoo in New Zealand? Why not go down the street to any tattoo shop and get inked here in New York?”

“This tattoo was more about healing than making a statement of how much of a bad boy I was.”

“I don’t get it.”

“Shortly after we set foot on the other side of the planet, my brother asked our tour guide to seek out a Maori tattoo artist to cover my scar with ancestral symbols of courage to change my perception of my past.”

“I don’t know much about tattoos and I know even less about the aboriginal people of New Zealand. I must confess you’re the first tattooed man I’ve ever slept with.” I blush at my own inexperience.

He smiles before tenderly stroking my cheek. “The Maori are the indigenous people of New Zealand. They have a form of body art, known as 
moko
 but more commonly referred to as Maori tattooing. The art form was brought to the Maori from Polynesia and it’s considered highly sacred. For the Maori, tattooing was, and for some still is, a rite of passage, which meant it was highly revered and ritualized. The great thing about Maori tattoos is their uniqueness—no two tattoos are alike. Maori tattoos are one of a kind, like people. They are always highly intricate and detailed and display the craftsmanship and artistry of not only the artist but of the Maori culture.”

“This all sounds so fascinating, but it must have been painful as hell.”

“You’re adorable. Your horrified look cracks me up. I won’t lie, the first touch was biting, but every pinch of the needle moving over my skin reminded me of my commitment to my best friend’s mother. Even when the pain threatened to devour my resolve, I remained stoic. The tattoo wasn’t about me, it was about Nate’s memory.”

“Nate was lucky to have you as a friend. Your tattoo is magnificent. It’s been hard for me to take my eyes off of it—it’s like nothing I’ve ever seen before. It’s so much sexier than a chick on a bike, a cartoon or a horseshoe.”

For the first time since he started sharing his heart-wrenching story, he lets out a genuine laugh. “I love your flawless skin. You don’t have any scars to hide, therefore unless you were a fan of tattoos, there wouldn’t be any good reason for you to get inked.”

It’s too bad you can’t tattoo an aching heart. Maybe it would have helped me deal with my loss.

Chapter 7

I’m standing in line at Mazama coffee shop for my daily shot of caffeinated elixir. It doesn’t matter how early you try to sneak into this place, it’s always jam-packed with New Yorkers desperate for a cup of java.

Since seeing Max, I’ve had to rely on coffee a lot more to perk me up because he works me so hard I’m constantly exhausted from his sexual prowess. I can’t believe I’ve seen Max every single night this week—it’s still so surreal. It’s taken me a little time, but I’ve accepted the fact I might be one of the luckiest women in the world to have accidentally bumped into a gorgeous and successful man who happens to adore women who have a little skin on their bones.

I never imagined submitting myself so wholly to a man could allow me to experience such heart-stopping orgasms. I was never confident enough to demand certain hedonistic pleasures from a man, which is why Max’s domineering nature in the bedroom makes me lose it so much. It’s as if he knows what my body craves even before I do. Everything about our sexual interludes is naughty, raunchy and downright dirty. The man is so gifted, I could climax simply by listening to him whisper in my ear. I still remember how Vince used to boast about how big an Italian stallion he was. Well, he’s got nothing on Max. Vince never filled me up the way Max’s huge dick does—Max could fuck me twenty-four seven and I still wouldn’t get enough of him.

Someone is speaking, but I’m still too caught up reliving my frolics with Max and I don’t catch the guy’s question.

“Are you going to stand there with a grin on your face or are you ready to order?”

“Huh?”
Shit. I’m so not paying attention.

“I have thirty desperate New Yorkers waiting in line behind you for their morning fix. What will you have, sweetie?” The barista’s abrupt question wakes me up from my reverie.

“Oh. I’m sorry. I’ll have an extra-tall, extra-hot, skinny chai latte with a double shot of espresso and I’d like it half sweet, please.” Does anyone order a simple cup of coffee with cream anymore? Nowadays, coffee sounds more like a chemistry project than a dark cup of goodness.

I barely have time to order before my peevish barista is back. Something must’ve happened within the last few minutes because he’s now smiling at me. Since I’m in such a good mood, and I’ve been fucked so well, I return his smile before paying and grabbing my salvation in a cup. I wish him a good day and wiggle my way out of the busy coffee shop.

I’m not usually an early riser, but since I stayed over at Max’s place last night, I had to leave extremely early because he had to be at the office at an indecent time for a conference call with a German magazine. There’s something quite invigorating about strolling down the streets of Manhattan this early in the morning while sipping on my favorite caffeinated drink. I might be tired as hell, but I’m determined to make the most of this day. Carpe diem, right? Being up and about alongside the Big Apple’s movers and shakers makes me feel like anything is possible today.

As I ride the elevator up to my office, I can’t help but marvel at how quickly things unfold. Eight days ago, I hadn’t planned on a trip, but in forty-eight hours I’ll be on a plane heading south. I’m really looking forward to visiting the Sunshine State for the first time in my life.

When I push through the doors, I’m taken aback by the quiet of the office. It’s usually so noisy and animated, but most of my colleagues are still waking up while I’m ready to tackle a few unfinished articles for upcoming editions.
I might have to get to the office before everyone else more often.

The workweek has been packed with the humdrum of working in the fashion industry while trying my best to stay out of the way of Maleficent—aka my boss, Jennifer Lau. The only remotely interesting thing this week, other than the multiple toe-curling orgasms Max rewards me with every time he lays his hands on me, will be spending the evening with my best friends. I love those three more than life. Since I’m leaving for Miami in a few days and I’ve been pretty much MIA because Max has been keeping me so busy, I haven’t hooked up with Devin, Lexi, and Lia in what seems like an eternity. Tonight, we’re finally catching up. Each one of my friends has been eagerly texting me to try to find out the juicy details behind my affair.

I get to the office ninety minutes early in order to get as much work done as possible before being cooped up in the conference room with eight of my colleagues to listen to Jennifer for an hour. Not only do I want to cross things off my list before the weekly meeting, I also want to get there early enough to snatch a spot as far away as possible from my irritating boss.