Curves in the Club

I almost didn't go out.

Saturday night, my best friend's birthday, and I was standing in front of my closet convincing myself that nobody wanted to see me in a club dress anyway. The same spiral I always fell into. Maybe I'd just tell her I was sick. She'd understand.

Then my phone buzzed.

Tanya: If you bail on my birthday I'm literally coming to your apartment and dragging you out. I don't care if you're in your period underwear.

Tanya: Wear the red dress. The one with the low back. I'm not asking.

I looked at the red dress. Looked at myself in the mirror. Looked at the dress again.

Fuck it.

I'm Gemma Foster, thirty-one, size twenty-two, and for one night I was going to pretend I was the kind of woman who belonged in a VIP booth at the hottest club in the city.

The club was called Velvet. All mood lighting and bass drops and people who looked like they stepped out of fashion magazines. Tanya had connections—something about her cousin knowing the promoter—and we sailed past the line into a world I didn't belong in.

At least, that's what the voice in my head kept saying.

The dress was tight in all the right ways, and somehow Tanya had convinced me to wear heels that made my legs look longer and my confidence look real. I caught a few glances as we made our way to the booth. Some appreciative. Some less so. I tried to focus on the former.

"Shots!"

Tanya announced, sliding a tray across the table.

"Nobody sits down until they've had at least three."

Three shots later, the bass was thumping through my body and the voice in my head had mostly shut up. I was dancing—actually dancing, not the self-conscious shuffle I usually defaulted to—when I felt someone's eyes on me.

He was at the bar. Tall, dark-haired, with the kind of sharp jaw that belonged in cologne commercials. He wasn't looking at the bartender or his phone. He was looking directly at me.

I looked away. Looked back. He was still watching. And when our eyes met, he smiled and raised his drink in a subtle salute.

My stomach did something complicated.

"Who is that?"

Tanya appeared at my elbow, following my gaze.

"No idea."

"He's coming over."

"What? No. He's probably just—"

"Walking directly toward you. Right now. Looking like he wants to eat you alive."

She wasn't wrong. He cut through the crowd with purpose, never taking his eyes off me. Up close, he was even more striking—olive skin, green eyes, the kind of confident presence that made people move out of his way without being asked.

"Hi,"

he said, and somehow I heard him perfectly despite the music.

"I'm Julian."

"Gemma."

"Gemma."

He said it like he was tasting it.

"Dance with me?"

Tanya gave me a look that said if you don't say yes I will end you. I said yes.

Dancing with Julian was nothing like dancing alone. He pulled me close, his hands firm on my waist, and matched my rhythm like we'd done this a hundred times. His body against mine was warm and solid and very, very interested.

"You're beautiful,"

he said against my ear, loud enough to hear over the bass.

"You don't have to say that."

He pulled back to look at me. Those green eyes held something between amusement and challenge.

"I don't say anything I don't mean. I've been watching you since you walked in. The way you move. The way that dress fits you."

His hands tightened on my hips.

"You have no idea what you do to me."

I could feel exactly what I did to him, pressed against me like this. The evidence was... substantial.

"Who are you?"

"Just a man who knows what he likes."

His lips brushed my ear.

"And I like curves. Real ones. The kind you can grab onto."

His hands demonstrated, sliding from my waist to my ass and squeezing in a way that made me gasp. Nobody groped me in public. Nobody touched me with this kind of shameless want.

It was intoxicating.

"I should get back to my friends."

"Should you?"

"It's my best friend's birthday."

"Then let's make it memorable."

He leaned down, his lips hovering just above mine.

"Come home with me, Gemma. Let me worship you the way you deserve."

I should have said no. Should have laughed it off, gone back to the booth, chalked it up to a fun story about that hot guy who hit on me at the club.

But the way he was looking at me—like I was the only woman in the room, like my body was something to celebrate rather than apologize for—I didn't want to say no. For once in my life, I wanted to say yes.

"Let me tell Tanya."

His smile was worth every insecurity I was ignoring.

Tanya's response was a shriek and a push toward the door. "Go! Best birthday present ever! Text me when you get there so I know you're not murdered!"

Julian's apartment was in one of those high-rises that overlooked the whole city. Penthouse. Of course it was. The elevator ride up was spent against the wall, his mouth on mine, his hands everywhere at once.

"I've been thinking about this all night,"

he growled against my throat.

"Getting you out of this dress. Seeing what's underneath."

"You might be disappointed."

He pulled back, his expression suddenly serious. "Gemma. I know exactly what I want. I'm not confused. I'm not settling. I'm not going to get you naked and suddenly change my mind." His hands framed my face. "I want you. Exactly as you are. Clear?"

The elevator doors opened. He took my hand and led me into an apartment that was all floor-to-ceiling windows and minimalist furniture. The city sprawled below us like a carpet of lights.

"Drink?"

"Maybe later."

He smiled. Crossed to me in three strides. Kissed me until I forgot where we were or why I'd ever been nervous about this.

His hands found the zipper at my back. Drew it down slowly. Let the dress pool at my feet until I stood before him in just my underwear—the good set, thank god, black lace that I'd almost talked myself out of wearing because who was going to see it anyway?

Julian was going to see it. Julian was seeing it right now, his eyes traveling over my body like I was a work of art.

"Fucking gorgeous,"

he breathed.

He dropped to his knees.

The sight of this beautiful man kneeling before me, pressing kisses to my soft belly, my thick thighs, the rolls I'd spent my whole life hating—something cracked open in my chest. He wasn't performing. He was worshipping. There's a difference, and I felt it in every touch.

"I want to taste every inch of you,"

he said against my hip.

"Will you let me?"

"Yes."

He stood, lifted me like I weighed nothing—how was that even possible—and carried me to his bedroom.

The bed was enormous. He laid me across it and stood back to strip off his own clothes while I watched with hungry eyes. His body was lean and defined, the kind that came from discipline rather than vanity. And the way he looked at me, naked except for black lace, was better than any compliment anyone had ever given me.

"Tell me what you like,"

he said, crawling over me.

"Tell me everything."

"I don't... I'm not used to—"

"Then we'll figure it out together."

He kissed me deep.

"Tell me if you want more. Tell me if you want less. I want to make you feel things you've never felt."

He started with my neck. Kissed and bit until I was gasping. Moved to my breasts, full and heavy in his hands, and took his time with each one. His mouth was hot and demanding, sucking my nipples until they were hard and aching.

"God, Julian..."

"Just getting started."

He kissed down my body. My stomach, my hips, the inside of my thighs. When he finally removed my underwear and spread me open, I felt exposed in a way I'd never experienced. Not just physically—emotionally. Vulnerable.

Then his mouth was on me, and I stopped thinking entirely.

He ate me like he was starving. Like this was what he'd been craving all night and he was finally getting his fix. His tongue explored every fold, found my clit and circled it until I was writhing, then dipped inside me while his nose pressed against that sensitive bundle of nerves.

"Oh god—oh fuck—Julian—"

He didn't stop. Didn't slow down. Built me higher and higher until I was gripping his hair and crying out, orgasm crashing through me in waves that left me shaking.

He looked up at me, his chin glistening, a satisfied smile on his face.

"One."

"One?"

"I said I wanted to make you feel things you've never felt. That requires multiples."

He reached for the nightstand. Condom. Rolled it on while I watched, still trembling from the first orgasm. Then he was positioning himself above me, the head of him nudging my entrance.

"Look at me, Gemma."

I did. His green eyes held mine as he pushed inside me, slow and relentless, filling me completely.

"This,"

he said when he was fully seated,

"is exactly where I want to be. With exactly who I want. Understood?"

I nodded, beyond words.

Then he started to move.

Julian fucked like he danced—with rhythm, with intention, with complete attention to his partner. He watched my face, adjusted his angle when I gasped, found that spot inside me that made my eyes roll back.

"You feel incredible,"

he groaned.

"So tight. So wet. I could do this all night."

"Don't stop—please don't stop—"

He didn't stop. He drove into me harder, deeper, his hands gripping my hips with a possessiveness that thrilled me. No hesitation. No careful avoidance of my soft parts. He grabbed handfuls of me and used his grip to pull me onto him, again and again.

"I love your body,"

he panted.

"Every curve. Every inch. God, you're perfect."

Something about his words, combined with what he was doing to me, pushed me over the edge again. I came with a scream, and he fucked me through it, never slowing, until the waves subsided and I lay gasping beneath him.

"Two. Turn over."

He helped me onto my hands and knees, positioned himself behind me, and slid back in with a groan of pure satisfaction. This angle was deeper, more intense. I could feel every inch of him as he set a punishing pace.

"Julian—I can't—again—"

"Yes, you can."

His hand reached around, fingers finding my clit.

"Give me one more, Gemma. Then I'll let you rest."

The combination of him inside me and his fingers on me was too much. The third orgasm hit like a freight train, and somewhere in the middle of it, I felt him follow—his rhythm faltering, his groan of release mixing with my cries.

We collapsed together, tangled and sweating, his arms wrapped around my soft body like it was exactly where he wanted to be.

⏳ Three months later

Julian turned out to be a real estate developer. The penthouse was one of his projects. He'd been at the club that night scouting locations for a new venture, saw me walk in, and decided the only thing he was interested in acquiring was my phone number.

We're official now. Instagram official. Family-dinner official. Moving-in-together-next-month official.

My therapist says it's remarkable how much my body image has improved since I started dating him. I tell her it's not just Julian—though he helps. It's realizing that all those years I spent hiding, all those nights I talked myself out of red dresses and club outings, I was believing a lie.

The lie that women like me don't get looked at the way Julian looks at me. Don't get wanted the way he wants me. Don't deserve the kind of passion that leaves you sore and satisfied and unable to stop smiling.

The truth is simpler. The right person will see you. Will want you. Will worship every inch of the body you've been taught to apologize for.

All you have to do is wear the red dress and walk through the door.

Everything else takes care of itself.