Dancing With A Dom: A BBW Romance

Dancing With a Dom

By

Katherine Deane

Table of Content

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Dancing With a Dom

To this day, I’m still not sure which is more embarrassing.

Being left by your husband who says you are fat, overbearing, and frigid in bed.

Or having to change partners midway through a season of televised dancing—because your partner can’t lift you.

Both hurt. A lot. The first made me want to curl up into a little ball and hibernate. Since I had plenty of fat to store away for the winter, it didn’t sound like a bad idea.

The second left me so angry, I waltzed the man through his own set of moves—straight up to the full mirror. Then I lifted
him
. Luckily, he didn’t get hurt. And I didn’t get sued.

But that’s how I ended up over the knee of the hottest man I have ever met.

After he spanked me, he became my new partner.

We danced.

NOTE: This novella originally appeared in the USA TODAY BESTSELLER Bound, Spanked and Loved: Fourteen Kinky Valentine's Day Stories.

This story has been reedited. 10k words of hot new scenes!

Chapter One

“Are you sure you want to do this?” My best friend, Jodi, trailed behind me, trying to keep up with my determined steps. “You have never ballroom danced in your life. You said so yourself.”

“I know.” I waited for her to catch up, and we entered the mall together. “Two left feet.” And the rest of me was what you would call hourglass. Huge hips, an even bigger ass, boobs with a mind of their own—especially when left to their own devices—like the first few minutes after getting out of bed braless. I called it fat. Men don’t like size fourteen. They want size two or four, like Jodi. Perfect, petite, curves—not mountains.

We got into the long line for potential dancers. Who would have thought there would be so much interest in a televised “dance off”? This show was going live on a little known cable station on Valentine’s Day. Everyone else would be home cozying up with a loved one, talking about stuff like romance, flowers, chocolates, and true love. Disgusting. There was no such thing as true love. At least not for someone like me.

What had Derek said last year when I found him fucking not one, but two other women? Oh yeah. “Happy Valentine’s Day, babe. Sorry, but I needed someone warm in my bed this time.”

I lost my job the next day. It wouldn’t have been a huge deal if I still had a husband and a home. But the timing? Holy crap, Mercury must have been in retrograde or something. Either that, or I had pissed off the wrong guardian angel. The timing sucked.

Jodi was a big help. Her husband’s a lawyer. He got me divorced and set up in their guest room, until I could find a new apartment. Jodi brought me extra-hot Mickey D’s french fries, Chubby Hubby ice cream, and red wine. It helped. For a few weeks, I snuggled in bed, ate, and slept. I called it my hibernation slash recovery time. Jodi called it bullshit. Even though she weighs at least forty pounds less than me, she can get me off my ass quicker than a
buy-one-get-two-free
sale on peppermint-mocha creamer. She said I had wallowed enough. Hey, I wasn’t wallowing. I was recov-er-ing. She told me Derek was laughing and enjoying single life, screwing every woman he met. She’s a real friend. And she was right. I had wallowed enough. So I got off my tired ass, updated my resume, and signed up at the temp place downtown. Then I started looking for new, adventurous things to do. Anything that was opposite to the “married to the jerk” me. Like skydiving, bungee jumping…or dancing.

Now, I stood at the back of a long line of hopefuls, all vying for ten spots. A chance to ballroom dance our way to television stardom. For me, a chance to tell Derek to fuck off and that I had moved on. And to be busy—very, very busy—all the way up to and through the most horrible of all holidays. Valen-fricking-tines Day.

“Okay, here are the forms.” Jodi furrowed her brows as she read them. “Are you up-to-date on all your shots? And do you have a will?” Laughing, she stuffed the forms along with the cheap black pen into my palm. “I’m kidding about the last one. But, seriously, try not to trip, ’kay?”

“I’m not going to trip,” I muttered under my breath as we inched our way up to the stage. I was going to be beautiful, stunning, poised, and graceful. Well, at least beautiful in a sort of retro jeans, loose T-shirt combination paired with funky high heels. I couldn’t find anything else to wear, since I had tossed everything into boxes and taken to living as a hobo in my friend’s guest room. I would make that show if it killed me.

I tripped walking up the steps to the stage.

***

Dane stood in the small hall across from the stage, overseeing everything from his vantage point in the shadows. Though in charge of this whole event—he had been the one to come up with the idea to save his uncle’s small cable station—he didn’t want anyone to see him yet. People would kiss up to him for spots on the show, and he wanted to see what they were like when they didn’t realize he was present.

His earpiece whined, almost piercing his damn eardrum. Cursing, he turned it down to a reasonable level. “What’s up, Mac?”

His head judge and best friend’s drawl came through the earpiece. “I’m not sure about number fifteen. She’s pretty and she’s a schoolteacher, but…”

“Put her file in the second, to be considered, pile. We still need a teacher. But you’re right, she’s a bit
too
pretty, and she’s trying too hard.”

“You saw the fake smiles and the way she flirted with me?” Mac asked.

“Her boobs were in your face. I think everyone saw it. Why do you think I’m over here?” Dane stepped back farther into his quiet dark corner.

“But you said you wanted real people,” Mac reasoned. “Teachers, firefighters, single parents—”

“Wounded soldier. Right there.” Dane pointed toward a man in olive-green fatigues, with silver bars on his dark cap and a noticeable limp. “Find out if he’s legit. A former army captain hurt while protecting his country is the perfect addition.”

“How the fuck is he going to do the lifts? What if he falls?” Mac grumbled.

“Just do it. We’ll figure out a way around it—partner him with a professional who can steal the show. He’ll be there for the overall good energy.”

“Shit, you’re good at this.”

“That’s why the old man agreed to let me head this. It’s our last chance before the station goes bust.”

The link went silent as they watched the next few potential dancers go through the brief interview session followed by three minutes of “show off your moves while pasting an overly dramatic smile on your face.” The boob-in-the-face schoolteacher had nothing on some of the potentials. One male entrant beat-boxed “The Star-Spangled Banner” in fuchsia high heels while twirling a baton. The dude did not make the cut. After another fifty entrants, Dane wanted to close down the preliminaries. They had selected the fifteen potential dancers he wanted—everyday people who did
everyday
jobs. Paired up with the hottest dancers—within budget confines, of course—they would make television history this Valentine’s Day. Either with an epic fail or by luring enough of their sponsors back to raise the fifty thousand dollars needed for their overdue payroll. They were going for broke.

“Wake up, asshole. Last dancer is coming up.”

Rubbing his tired eyes with the back of his hands, he released a long sigh, ready to get this last one over with so he could go home, grab a beer, and, what…the…fuck?

The most beautiful woman he had ever seen—dressed in the most god-awful outfit of faded jeans and a too-loose T-shirt—wobbled her way up the stairs in high heels and tripped, falling flat on her face with a loud
oomph
.

The judges raced around the table to help her up. Her baggy shirt rode up and above her ample hips giving Dane a very good glimpse of her curvy ass, the perfect round globes hugged by blue jean material. Damn shirts shouldn’t hide an ass like that.

She shoved off from the stairs and turned to glare at the men trying to help her up. “I’ve got this. Thank you.” Then she stared right at him, green eyes full of fire, fists clenched, and pink softening her cheeks. Straightening her back, she walked to the center of the stage, rolled her shoulders, and stood there. Like a goddess. A warrior goddess with dark-chestnut hair falling from a loose ponytail, and curves that would make Helen of Troy jealous. “I’m ready to dance.”

She grabbed her professional partner’s hand and yanked him into her, surprising everyone in the room, especially the poor man trying to lead her. Furrowing her brow and focusing on her feet instead of him, things only got worse as she tried to compensate by taking the lead again. The dancer looked to Dane for clarification, and Dane nodded at him to keep going. He did, right until the final foot-high-heel-to-foot combo stomp, leaving him wincing and hobbling through the rest of the tryout.

“Oh my God, she’s terrible,” Mac groaned after the woman fumbled her way through another easy set of moves demonstrated by her professional partner. “All she has to do is step and turn and follow his lead. Damn.”

Frustration roughened his best friend’s voice, but Dane ignored it. The way her hips swayed… The way she bit her bottom lip in concentration… She wore only a little mascara and plum lip tint, her natural beauty needing nothing further to accentuate her high cheekbones, expressive eyes, and plump lips. A formfitting emerald dress would look gorgeous on her. No. Red would suit her. Damn, he didn’t care what she wore. He was already turned on by seeing her in loose T-shirt and jeans. It didn’t matter.

She didn’t have much in the way of natural dancing talent. But her body moved so beautifully, it wouldn’t take much to teach her the basics. If she could get past this round and stop trying to take over the dance. The professional teamed up with her for the tryout seemed flustered, sighing and rolling his eyes at him every time
she
misstepped. The young man cringed and grunted when she stomped on his foot for the third time.

“I’m sorry.” Her fifth apology in the past ninety seconds.

“Stop.” All eyes turned to Dane.
Shit
. He hadn’t planned on making himself known yet, but he had to get closer. Get her through this first round. Striding to the center of the stage, he waved off her partner. “Thanks, Peter. I’ll take it from here.”

Her eyes widened and she swallowed, a deep flush tinging her cheeks. Blushing necks and cheeks, averted gazes, soft, stuttered inhalations, and subtle shifting back and forth…Dane had this effect on women. Especially submissive women.

“Ballroom dancing isn’t about equality, Miss…”

“Rogers,” she murmured.

“The man leads, the woman follows. Like this, Miss Rogers.” He took her hand and yanked her into him. “Watch my eyes. Not the floor.”

Her silky plum lips trembled as she gazed up at him.

“One, two, three, four.” He gripped her against him as they swayed and stepped. Her heart rate fluttered rapidly against his chest and she took short, choppy breaths as he commanded her body to dance for him. He knew the exact moment when she yielded. Her forehead lost its furrow, the corners of her mouth tilted up into a grin, and her gaze met his. The cloudy green depths pooled into a smoky heat that rumbled through him like a freight train, and he was as lost as she.

Energy crackled between them as he pushed her out and then yanked her back into his chest. She smelled like lavender and rose water. Not perfumy but floral and clean, natural. Sweet and calming to the senses. He wanted to kiss her as they swayed in time. Lifting his arm, he brought her under, twirling her slowly before pulling her against him again—where she belonged. She never wavered. Never faltered, her beautiful emerald eyes on his the entire time. Her breasts pressed against him. This was ballroom dancing at its most natural, most perfect.

The loud applause and cheers awoke him from his perfect world. She blinked, took a deep breath, and misstepped, tripping them both. They landed in a heap—he flat on his back, and she on top of him with a loud
sorry
.

“Great dancing, until the end.” Mac laughed and held out his hand to help her up.

She stood up with an angry groan, embarrassment tinging her cheeks again. “Sorry. I’m going to get going,” she said, turning from him. “Good luck with your show.”