Dancing With A Dom: A BBW Romance (2 page)

“Wait right there.” Dane did not raise his voice. But she stopped. Her back to him, she stood rigid at the bottom of the stairs. He caught up with her. “What’s your name, sweetheart? What do you do for a living?”

“Macy. Macy Rogers. I’m in between temp jobs. And I obviously can’t dance in these stupid high heels.”

“Do you know how to dance at all?”

Wrong question. Her expression closed up, and she clenched her fists. “I don’t know how to dance with a partner, but I’ve seen it on TV. You move back and forth, and you shake what your mama gave you. I’m willing to learn the rest.” She tilted her chin up, her eyes glinting in the fluorescent mall lighting.

Strength and submission—the perfect combination in a woman. And, with the right training and the right partner, Macy Rogers would dance beautifully.

“I want you.” When her eyebrows reached her hairline, he amended his statement. “I want you on the show.” Turning to Mac with a fierce growl, he gave his next order. “Put her through.”

Done for the day, he walked out the main doors, forgetting about his earpiece until it buzzed to life again.

“Okay, I’ll clean up the mess here. No problem, jackass.”

He smiled as he got into his 1969 Boss Mustang. “I want her. Macy. And the soldier. Use your best discretion for the final entrants.”

“One problem.”

“Yeah.”

“Who are you going to pair with her?”

“Find someone strong.”

“Yeah, she’s a little heavy.”

Dane growled and the laughter stopped. “Emotionally strong. Dominant.”

“You mean you.”

“I’m not dancing.” He started his car.

“Fine. Make it hard for everyone.”

“See you tonight.” He turned off the earpiece and tossed it into the passenger seat. Dammit, Mac was right. This woman was a true gift—beautiful, strong-willed, curvy in all the right places, and submissive. And she would be paired with a man who would bring out those qualities. But it wouldn’t be him. His dancing days—his Dom days—were over.

Chapter Two

Day five of the most intense training—and probably the worst decision of my entire life. No. Marrying Derek was the worst decision of my life. But this came a close second. On my third partner, I aimed to make dancing history for going through the most partners in less than a week.

It wasn’t my fault. The first guy had seemed nice enough, but he had super-thin blond eyebrows and brown eyes like Derek. I may have stepped on his feet a few times—
hard
. Every time I met his gaze, like the head guy had said to do at tryouts, I kept seeing my ex’s taunting face as he screwed those women.

I hadn’t meant to be cold or “frigid” as Derek called it. But I like structure and rules and for things to make sense. And I am a little bit on the control freak side. But only a little. Yes, I’m one of those people who buys Christmas presents in July. I plan out what I'm going to do during the day. I choose my lunch based on what I’m going to eat for dinner. I write out birthday cards on the first of each corresponding month. I always have two bottles of wine and two peppermint-mocha creamers in the house—for when one is empty. I like to plan. I don't like sudden changes or deviations from the schedule—at least not without forewarning. I’m not sure why I’m this way. My father was a control freak—stern, rigid, silent; Mom was the flighty, fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants sort who dabbled in everything from Pampered Chef to Mary Kay and every pyramid you can think of. But neither seemed overly unhappy with their lives. But for me, that blinding moment of panic set in when I didn’t have a plan or know what to expect. And it made me angry and even more controlling. Vicious cycle? Maybe. What those habits have to do with sex, I don’t know.

Sex with Derek was
okay
. Not great. But not…yeah, not great. But I’m sure it was my fault. Sometimes, I wasn’t in the mood, and he gave in easily. But I wanted him to be stronger—sweep me off my feet and push me into wanting it. It’s crazy, I know. Someone who likes to be in control of every single minute of my day… But I hated it when he said, “You wanna? You know?” Followed by a little waggle of his thin blond eyebrows.

It went against every instinct in my body and my head. But I wanted him to change things up a bit. I wanted him to
not
take no for an answer. I desperately wanted him to talk dirty to me—like the books I read.

If he had ever, in our eighteen months of marriage, said, “I am going to fuck you so hard you’ll cry,” I would have come right there.

But, like I said, it was my fault. A normal woman—and a good wife would have opened her legs—and a wet, ready pussy—for her husband.

So I didn’t key his car or tell his mother or take everything in the settlement. As bad as I felt about his cheating, I knew the truth. I was the faulty partner. The fat-assed, frigid, control freak, with a french fry problem who got dumped on Valentine’s Day.

And my latest partner was about to dump me again. As he already had. Twice on my ass.

“Why the hell won’t you tell me what you’re planning, Frodo?” His name was Chaz Ferredo. I was two inches taller than him—without heels—and outweighed him by at least twenty pounds. His nostrils flared and he cringed whenever I called him his new nickname, so I’m guessing he didn’t like it. Normally, in a less snark-induced, french-fry-deficient mood, I would have been kinder. I knew his hot boyfriend, Roberto, had broken up with him recently, and I should have shown a bit more compassion for him. But I was tired, angry, and very hungry.
Hangry
. Yes, I had my hangry face on. And anyone with half a brain would have seen it and given me some space.

But no. He kept trying to do this crap without letting me know what to expect. And after three assplants with no warning, I’d had it. “That’s it, Frodo!”

He flinched and backed away with tears in his eyes. Great. I’d made the poor guy cry.

“Listen, I’m sorry. But this isn’t working. You need to get your head into the game. If this Roberto is such a great guy, why isn’t he here with flowers begging you to take him back?”

Chaz started sniffling.

“And another thing. You can’t throw things at me like lifts and checks and center point-of-balance crap without warning me first, okay?”

“But, but you’re supposed to let
me
lead.”

“Well, I don’t trust you to lead me. Sorry. But I can’t blindly follow someone I don’t trust. And if you fricking pick me up again without warning me, I will seriously lose it.” I got right up into his face. “I am hungry. You have had me doing this shit for seven hours and”—I glanced at my watch—“forty-seven minutes. We missed lunch, which is okay. Because, hey, I could stand to lose a few pounds. But what about snack breaks? Aren’t we supposed to have
onesies
and
threesies
? I need. Some. Food!”

He looked helplessly over at the camera dude filming our practice. “Help,” Chaz squeaked. “She’s going to kill me.”

“I am not going to
kill
you. But I am going to show you what you’re doing to me.” Without thinking, I grabbed him by the waist and hoisted the young man off his feet. Dead lifts are hard. He didn’t get too high, but high enough to see I meant business. Twirling around a few times, I let him go—on his feet, at least—when he started shrieking.

“Don’t like it when someone doesn’t warn you, huh?” I growled. Holy crap. I had never been so angry in my life. It turns out I still had a bit of rage to let go.

“You are so mean!” he sputtered, and pointed a wobbly finger at me. “I can’t dance with you.” His eyes shimmered with tears again. “And, for your information, I can’t lift you.”

I lost my patience and grabbed the back of his pants, preparing to lift him again. “
You
don’t get to call me fat.”

“I meant because you keep wiggling around!” Between his huge, glazed eyes and the way he squirmed, he was about to either pass out from fear of the hangry, fat woman—or pee his pants.

But I still couldn’t let go of him or the rage building inside me. It was because of his sex— a male—the Mars people—I was in this predicament.

“If he hadn’t cheated on me, I wouldn’t be skipping meals and dancing with people who drop me,” I yelled at him.

Then I felt bad. I was a big, mean bully who made my partner cry. “I am so sorry.” I released him and he turned his red nose and wet, puppy dog eyes up at me. I almost scritched him behind the ears—poor, pitiful Frodo puppy.

The door to the studio slammed open, and
he
walked in. The camera dude turned toward him. My soon-to-be ex-partner’s eyes rounded as if he had just been caught doing something Daddy wasn’t going to like. Everything went silent. Still. Eerily quiet as Mr. Tall, Dark, Dangerous, and Handsome appraised the situation.

“Listen, um, I’m sorry. I got a little carried away, and—”

His brows snapped together and he cleared his throat, stopping my comment—and all reasonable thought—from entering my head. This sharp scrutiny had me shivering in my tennis shoes during the tryouts. His piercing blue eyes commanded me to be silent, and I couldn’t help myself. I dropped my gaze and stared at the lines on the floor.

I could tell he was still watching me—waiting for me to peek back up at him. I’d had to look up on our first meeting. The man was huge, towering over my five foot four—the largest, sexiest, most dominant man I had ever seen. My eyes wouldn’t leave the floor, but they did inch over to see his faded blue Converse tennis shoes.

“Chaz, why don’t you go take a break,” he said softly. “You, too, John.” Ah, that was the camera dude’s name.

They left before I could apologize again to Chaz. I’d find him later and bring him some tissues and chocolate. And if he wanted me to hook him up with a new guy, I would. Anything to get rid of the awful guilt.

I knew I could be a bit abrasive, and a bit controlling. But I had never bullied someone like I had that day. It felt yucky and turned my stomach sour. Poor guy. He had only been doing his job, and I had treated him like… I don’t know. Like I wanted to treat Derek?

Groaning, I peered solemnly into the wall of mirrors. I saw nothing but a big, fat bully.

The head dude in charge loomed above me, for a few minutes. Waiting for me to make up my mind, I guess. Since I couldn’t go invisible, I had to face him. I straightened and acknowledged him with an embarrassed grimace.

“I’m sorry. I don’t know what got into me. I’m not usually like this.” Why I pleaded my case before this stern-faced man I don’t know. But I did. Maybe I didn’t want him to think I was a bully. I certainly felt like one.

“When’s the last time you ate?”

Of all the questions he could have asked me—where are you from, why are you so angry, are you married, why did you make my dancer cry—this one caught me off guard.

“I…”

“Have you taken a break since you started this morning?”

“No, sir.” Where did that come from? Great, I was falling for the big, stern daddy type.
All right, spank my bottom like the naughty girl I am. Just please don’t send me to bed hungry
.

The corner of his mouth quirked up.

Oh God, did I say that out loud? I waited for the universe to swallow me whole, as my whole body overheated with embarrassment.

“Here’s what’s going to happen.” He took my hand, and propelled me toward the door. “We’re going to head over to the deli and get something in your stomach. Then we’re going to talk about what’s going on in your head. And then I’m going to turn you over my knee and spank you for being so mean to my favorite employee.”

Okay, we had a plan. A course of action for the day. A full list with everything laid out— “Wait, what did you say?”

Leaning in with a toothy grin, he pulled me closer to him. “You heard me the first time. I’m going to spank your ass, naughty girl.”

Well, that made my panties wet.

***

I sipped my water and squeezed another lemon wedge into it. The chips and salsa had helped me feel a bit more human while waiting for our server to get back.

I was still looking through the menu, trying to figure out how to fill my tummy without looking like a pig. I really wanted the double cheeseburger with all the toppings and a big order of those delicious looking spicy french fries. Okay, a chocolate shake sounded good, too. Or the peanut butter pie. Good Lord, how was I going to get out of this without completely disgusting the man?
The Man
!

Dane was in charge of this whole thing. He oozed confidence, intelligence, dominance… Okay, could I think of any more “ences”? Beautiful-
ence
, white teeth-
ence
, big muscle-
ence
? Yeah, I was losing it. I guess I was hungrier than I thought.

A man like that, with a firm chest, chiseled jaw, biceps that flexed wonderfully when he picked up his water glass and when he used his finger to push up the lemon seed that was inching its way down the cool glass. The coolness in his always assessing, piercing blue eyes. He was probably waiting for me to order a salad. Maybe I should order a salad. A plate of dry green leaves with tiny, bright-orange carrot shreds that would most likely get caught in my teeth. Was he the sort of man who would tell me if I had carrot in my teeth—at least before we got back on camera?

I hated that camera. The dude was nice enough, but he followed me everywhere. Except the bathroom, thank goodness. I’d tried hiding in there for half an hour, last week. It didn’t work. My first partner found me and gave me this high pitched tsking sound, and said he hoped my “feminine issues” wouldn’t be an issue. When my big booty “accidentally” bumped into his groin, during our waltz, he decided my feminine issues were a bit too much for him and limped out of the room.

Dane was watching me openly as I perused my menu for the fifth time. He didn’t even hide his gaze behind the façade of looking at his own. Nope, he just watched me go back and forth between the twenty items the place had. Lighter side, “real food” side.
Gah!