Lush Curves

Lush
Curves (A BBW Erotic Romance)

By
Delilah Fawkes

Aolani

The
carafe toppled off the counter, and I watched in slow-motion horror as it
headed straight for the hardwood floor of the studio. Coffee splashed
everywhere, making me shriek as the liquid hit my white blouse and began
running down my cleavage and into my bra.

“Shit,”
I said under my breath. “Shit, shit,
shit.
”

This
was my first time helping out with a photo shoot, and I was already making a
mess of things. I grabbed a handful of paper towels and threw them down on the
spill, hoping to contain it while I dealt with the coffee ruining my new top.

If
the marketing director saw the mess I was making of the craft services table,
or of myself, for that matter, he’d flip a gasket. The shoot was already
running a day behind, the models were restless, and he was taking out his
anxiety on all of us at whatever chance he could get. I suppose it’s not easy
pleasing the CEO of a company that designs and sells yachts to the wealthy, but
the man could still use a serious attitude adjustment.

“Please,
baby. Just get back on top of the set piece. You’re at sea! You’re loving life!
How hard can it fucking be, sweetie?!”

I
blotted at my chest, the fabric sticking to my curves in a way that made me
want to cover up and hide. I glanced over at the willowy blonde that Martin,
the photographer, was yelling at. She crossed her bony arms over her bikini and
glowered at him in a way that made me snicker. Although as I looked down at my
own body, my ample hips and breasts, the smile faded away. Growing up in
Hawaii, I’d never felt out of place, but here in L.A., I was plus size, and
stuck out like a sore thumb. My thick sheet of black hair flowing down my back
and brown skin certainly didn’t help among the sea of shimmering blondes.

I
sighed, wondering why I’d come here in the first place. Sure, I wanted to be a
photographer with my own studio, but that dream seemed farther away than ever
here, instead of just within reach, like I’d hoped. Instead of working my way
up, I felt trapped, stuck in entry-level hell.

I
remembered the words my grandma used to tell me when we’d sit on her lanai
watching the sunset. She’s run her calloused hand over my hair and tell me, “If
you don’t chase your dreams, Aolani, how will you ever catch them?”

So
here I was, taking the advice of a woman who’d never left the islands, feeling
like I was completely adrift. And about to get screamed at if I didn’t clean up
this spill pronto.

I
bent down to work with the soggy mess of paper towels at my feet when I heard
an unfamiliar voice behind me. There was a hint of Scottish brogue to it, which
made me glance over my shoulder, curiosity winning out over fear of my boss’
wrath.

My
breath caught in my throat.

Standing
next to the fake yacht deck and cranky model was the most gorgeous man I’d ever
seen. He was wearing a light grey suit that fit his body to a tee, and I
noticed it hugging his shoulders and waist in a way that suggested a lithe,
muscular build beneath the exquisitely tailored fabric. His chestnut-colored
hair was long, falling in waves just past his chin, but swept back away from
his face in a way that tamed it into sophistication. A hint of stubble ran
along his jaw, making me want to reach out and touch him, to run my fingers
along his cheek to see how rough his beard was. But when he turned and gazed at
me, it was his hazel eyes that held me captive.

That
is, until I realized I was on all fours, pointing my rear at him, with a
handful of dripping trash. His eyes traveled over my body, taking in the view,
before casually moving back to Martin and his shoot. I scrambled up and threw
the towels away, then tried hastily to blot my chest again. Who was this man
and what was he doing on set? He seemed like someone important.

Way to make a great first impression,
Aolani... Ugh.

I
looked down and sighed. My white blouse was rapidly turning translucent, the
top of my bra showing through the thin fabric. If I just could make it out to
my car, I had a jacket I could slip on.

“Lani!”
Martin screamed.

I
crumpled the paper towel in my hand, and winced. Why did he have to need me
now? I crossed my arms and walked over, inwardly grimacing as I approached the
photographer and Mr. Mysterious. He was watching me, a hint of a smile playing
over his lips. I wanted to sink into the ground rather than meet that gaze with
coffee still trickling down my body, making a beeline for my underwear.

“Lani,
this is Gavin Fletcher. He’ll be overseeing the rest of the shoot. Stan said to
get him set up at the Hilton before you go home tonight, yes? And schedule us
at the pier tomorrow. The lighting in this studio is fucking
killing
me.”

Gavin
held out his hand, his eyes twinkling as he looked me over, his smirk growing
into a mischievous grin when he saw the wardrobe malfunction I was failing to
hide.

“It’s
a pleasure to meet you,” he said. “Lani is a beautiful name.”

“Thank
you... It’s actually Aolani,” I mumbled.

I
took his hand, trying not to react to the way my hand tingled when it met his.
His skin was electric, and I couldn’t help but feel the charge in the air, like
something just passed between us. As his eyes dragged over the silk sticking to
my cleavage, I wondered what he was thinking. I was torn between wanting to
cover up again, and to keep holding his hand as long as he’d let me. I jerked
my hand back and smiled nervously.

“I’ll
make sure everything’s taken care of for you, Mr. Fletcher.”

“Thank
you, Aolani, but call me Gavin,” he said, his slight brogue making my heart
skip a beat. “I’m looking forward to working with you.”

I
turned and walked toward the exit, hoping to change and make my phone calls
from the privacy of the parking lot. But as I turned in the doorway, I noticed
Gavin Fletcher was still looking at me, that hint of a smile playing across his
lips.

***

The
next day, I dressed with care, wearing my most flattering black skirt and wrap
blouse, and brushing my hair until it shone. I stood in front of the mirror,
chewing my lip, wondering why I was bothering. He was in charge of the shoot,
not my blind date. He was the boss, and I was the photographer’s assistant. It
was as simple as that.

But
as I remembered the way he’d looked at me, the way his eyes hugged the curves
of my body, sliding over them boldly, without a hint of embarrassment, made my
whole body tingle.

I
ran my hands over my face and grabbed my keys.

Put him out of your head, Aolani. With
the model there, he’s not even going to know you exist anyway
.

I
sighed and hopped in the car, preparing myself for yet another day of blending
into the background.

***

When
I arrived at the docks, a breeze kicked up, whipping my hair into my face. I
pushed it back and shielded my eyes from the sunlight, squinting up at the
shining white yacht we’d be shooting on today. Silver lettering on the bow
spelled out
The Fiona.

I
tucked my purse under my arm and climbed the ramp, hoping to God Martin would
be in a better mood today working out in the sun and fresh air. But when I
reached the deck, the sounds of high-pitched sobbing met my ears.

What has the bastard done now?

The
blonde model from yesterday, Sophie, was sitting cross legged on the wooden
deck, clutching a life preserver and weeping so hard she was shaking. Her
mascara ran down her face, and I wondered what on earth could have caused such
a melt down. I ran over to her and dropped down on my knees.

“What
happened, hon?” I put an arm around her shoulder.

She
looked up and sniffled loudly, trembling in her nautical blue bikini. Despite
the sun warming the deck, she seemed chilled to the bone.

“It’s
all wrong. The business man, whoever he is, says the shoot isn’t right, and
I’m
the problem.”

Tears
ran down her face again, and I pulled her into a hug.

“Who
said that?”

“The
CEO! That Fletcher guy!” She wailed, clutching my blouse. “I was Top Model! Who
does he think he is saying
I’m
the problem? He’s the one running this shitty campaign in the
first place.”

I
furrowed my brow. Gavin Fletcher was CEO of the yacht manufacturer? And he was
taking over himself?

Martin
stormed onto the deck from below, wielding his camera like a weapon.

“We’d
set the theme of the campaign months ago, and now you want to up and change
everything? Do you think I love wasting my time?”

My
heart skipped a beat when I saw Gavin emerge behind him, looking mouth-watering
in a white, cable-knit sweater and navy slacks. His hair was tousled from the
wind, and for a moment, all I could think about was what it would feel like to
run my hands through it.

“I
don’t want to waste anyone’s time, Martin, least of all my own. But this just
simply isn’t working. We need to change it up.”

“What’s
not working about it? We have a lovely girl in a bikini, holding the railing,
looking out toward a beautiful future. That’s what
Live Beautifully
is all about, for fuck’s sake! The life of luxury that everyone
dreams about.”

“Yes,
but you and I seem to have very different ideas about beauty, Martin, and
luxury, for that matter. That’s what’s not working. This campaign needs a
makeover.”

“Well,
what the fuck do you propose then,
Sir?
You’re the boss after all.”

Martin
stuck a cigarette between his lips so hard I thought he was going to bite it in
half, and lit up, glaring at the CEO. Now that I knew who he was, my stomach
was in knots, waiting to see if he’d fire him. Hell, if he’d fire us all.

“I
am, Martin,” Gavin said, his voice low. The photographers’s eyebrows raised at
his steely tone. “Don’t ever forget that.”

There
was a moment of silence, unspoken tension building to a crescendo between the
two men. Finally, Martin nodded, sucking hard on his cigarette. Gavin smiled
then, and I could tell the battle of wills was over. The mysterious Scot had
won.

“To
answer your question, I’d like to try a different model. Someone who I think
would better represent the feel of this campaign.”

He
turned to me, still comforting the frail blonde. “I want her.”

“But
that’s what I’ve been saying! She’s perfect.” Martin gestured at the girl in my
arms, ash flying off the end of his cigarette.

“Not
your model, Martin. Aolani. We’ll shoot with her today.” He walked over to me
and reached his hand down to help me up. “That is, of course, if you’re up for
the task?”

A
rushing noise filled my ears as I stared up at him, my brain whirring to
process what he’d just said. Automatically, I put my hand in his, watching in
stunned silence as his large hand wrapped around mine, feeling the electricity
pulse between us once more as he pulled me to my feet.

“So
how about it?” He said, his voice low and lilting. “Will you be my beauty?”

He wanted me. He wanted
me
, Aolani Kahale to be a
model
?

I’d
never done anything like that in my life, much less ever considered being on
that side of a camera. Fear stabbed through me at the thought of posing in
front of Martin, in front of people I worked with, in front of
him
,
but when his hazel eyes met mine, the corners crinkling in a way that made my
insides melt, I heard myself forming the words, “Alright.”

“What?!”
Sophie shrieked below me.

Gavin
ignored her, his gaze still trained on mine. I realized he was still holding my
hand, and pulled gently away. I didn’t want to make this more awkward than they
already were. He clapped his hands in front of him, grinning in a way that made
my insides melt.

“Excellent!
That’s settled, then. I wasn’t sure of your size, but I had a few things
brought down today just in case you’d agree. If you’d please go below deck?”

He
pressed his hand into the small of my back, guiding me. The pressure was warm
and reassuring, but as he marched me toward the stairs, his words caught up to
me. What kind of things had he brought?

And
what exactly had I just agreed to?

***

I
stared down at the white bikini in horror. My cleavage was out in full form,
while the bikini bottoms hugged my hips, tinier than anything I’d ever dare buy
for myself. What the hell was Gavin Fletcher thinking putting me in something
like this? And he wanted me to go
outside
in it, much less get my picture taken?