Dancing With A Dom: A BBW Romance by Katherine Deane Page A

submission, and relinquishing control—at least for a little while—when with him. I loved this new side of me.
    I even lost weight. I must have lost thirty pounds. I could say I went on a healthy-foods diet, and took out all fast foods, sodas, ice cream, and novelty sweets, but I’d be lying. No. My body transformation came from hours upon hours of grueling dance sessions, followed by long, hard lovemaking. Sometimes, it wasn’t long. And sometimes, it wasn’t lovemaking. It was rawer. Wilder. Sexy. Amazing. Toe curling.
    I was falling head over heels for this man. Dane had opened up a part of me I didn’t know existed, and because of our many hours together, I felt liberated—both sexually and emotionally. And I saw myself through his adoring eyes. Now I liked my body. Curves and all. Even the cushiony parts. Said fluffy parts were Dane’s favorites. He liked to pay extra attention to my ass. He said he loved the way it wiggled when I lay over his knee. His blotchy red handprints decorating my ass. He liked how aroused and accepting I became from his spankings. He took me in bed, the couch, a wooded trail—you name it, he took me there. The sex was amazing. And he never found me frigid or unwilling. Maybe he knew best. Maybe I did need the right touch.
    But now. Peering at the full audience, the blank teleprompter, the dark tote board which would light up with votes… It all hit me at once. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t get enough air. The station expected us to bring in enough money to save the day. Every dance would get votes. Every little bit would help. The attention from viewers, the ratings, would get our sponsors back. The pre-show publicity had garnered us enough commercials to get the show on the air, and pay at least part of the debts. But what if they didn’t like me? What if they saw me for the completely out-of-control failure I felt like?
    I had entered this competition hoping to ignore today. But beautiful pink and white paper signs strewn with hearts were everywhere. Sponsors with signs proclaiming their chocolate as the best. Love was in the air. Everyone wanted their damn happily ever after. What if I couldn’t give it to them?
    Reminding myself at the last second not to ruin my perfectly coiffed hair, I resigned myself to picking at my nails. They had been colored a shiny pale pink with a heavy gloss—prim, proper, cute, and sweet. I wore a full chiffon skirt that swayed with each step I took. And my tight, dark-pink top, cinched at the waist, but not enough to cut off my circulation. I mean, a girl has to be able to breathe while she is spinning and dancing, right? But it was tight enough to push up my breasts, making them pretty and voluptuous—in a demure, Sandra Dee kind of way.
    But no matter how pretty the pastels, how fluffy the skirt, or how delicious the chocolate, I still felt like a fraud. I was lying to these people. Valentine’s Day was supposed to be about love and commitment and hope and all the things normal people wanted. And I wasn’t giving them love. I was just trying to dance my way through the last three years of heartache. I was ignoring the love-in-the-air bullshit, so I wouldn’t melt down in front of hundreds of people with my own truth. I might be unlovable.
    It made sense when my analytical side of my brain kicked in. List three, bullet number 514 for why a man like Dane would never really go for a woman like me. Besides the obvious—he exuded wealth, fitness, and sex appeal and could have his pick of any bed partners he wanted. And I was the opposite. There was also the cold hard truth. Number 516. He was my dancing partner, trying to save his uncle’s beloved tiny little failing cable TV station. He wanted to win. He wanted to raise funds. Yeah, he had seemed to enjoy fucking me and beating my body into a submissive pool of warm goo. And I’d be lying if I didn’t say I had loved it, too. But there was no future for us. This was it. Our time together,