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  CURVY FOR HIM: THE QUARTERBACK AND THE QUILTER

  ANNABELLE WINTERS

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  BY ANNABELLE WINTERS

  THE CURVES FOR SHEIKHS SERIES (USA)

  Curves for the Sheikh

  Flames for the Sheikh

  Hostage for the Sheikh

  Single for the Sheikh

  Stockings for the Sheikh

  Untouched for the Sheikh

  Surrogate for the Sheikh

  Stars for the Sheikh

  Shelter for the Sheikh

  Shared for the Sheikh

  Assassin for the Sheikh

  Privilege for the Sheikh

  Ransomed for the Sheikh

  Uncorked for the Sheikh

  Haunted for the Sheikh

  Grateful for the Sheikh

  Mistletoe for the Sheikh

  Fake for the Sheikh

  THE CURVES FOR SHIFTERS SERIES (USA)

  Curves for the Dragon

  Born for the Bear

  Witch for the Wolf

  Tamed for the Lion

  Taken for the Tiger

  THE CURVES FOR SHEIKHS SERIES (UK)

  Curves for the Sheikh (UK)

  Flames for the Sheikh (UK)

  Hostage for the Sheikh (UK)

  Single for the Sheikh (UK)

  Stockings for the Sheikh (UK)

  Untouched for the Sheikh (UK)

  Surrogate for the Sheikh (UK)

  Stars for the Sheikh (UK)

  Shelter for the Sheikh (UK)

  Shared for the Sheikh (UK)

  Assassin for the Sheikh (UK)

  Privilege for the Sheikh (UK)

  Ransomed for the Sheikh (UK)

  Uncorked for the Sheikh (UK)

  Haunted for the Sheikh (UK)

  Grateful for the Sheikh (UK)

  Mistletoe for the Sheikh (UK)

  Fake for the Sheikh (UK)

  THE CURVES FOR SHIFTERS SERIES (UK)

  Curves for the Dragon

  Born for the Bear

  Witch for the Wolf

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  COPYRIGHT NOTICE

  Copyright © 2019 by Annabelle Winters

  All Rights Reserved by Author

  www.annabellewinters.com

  If you'd like to copy, reproduce, sell, or distribute any part of this text, please obtain the explicit, written permission of the author first. Note that you should feel free to tell your spouse, lovers, friends, and coworkers how happy this book made you.

  Cover Design by S. Lee

  CURVY FOR HIM: THE QUARTERBACK AND THE QUILTER

  ANNABELLE WINTERS

  1

  GRANT “GUN” GUNNER

  “A quilt. A quilt?! Are you fucking kidding me?”

  I toss my helmet across the empty locker room, watching it bounce off a metal locker and roll under a bench, its visor still clutching a patch of turf from the last of the six times I got sacked in tonight’s game. Sacked on a key play of a potential game-winning drive, on fucking primetime TV, in front of a home crowd. We were out of timeouts, and the game-clock ticked to zero as I spat blood onto the field. The fans stuck around long enough to boo us back to the locker room. I don’t blame them. They’ve watched me eat the dirt again and again, watched us snatch defeat from the jaws of victory again and again like we’re cursed.

  Maybe I am cursed, I think as I flex my aching arms and look down at my bare, hard body, sweat oozing out of every pore, bruises old and new forming a patchwork on my skin, mixing in with the tattoos that I’ve been collecting since I was in high school.

  I grin and shake my head as I look at the most recent tattoo: A big fucking ring. A Championship Ring. I committed to it years ago, committed to delivering a Championship to my team, to my fans, to myself. Last season we got to the playoffs and then got blown out by the Cleveland Kings. By fucking Cleveland! And this year things are looking even worse: We might not even make it to the playoffs.

  “The owner and his wife come from a tradition of Pennsylvania quilters,” says my head coach, blinking as he takes a breath and shifts on his feet. Clearly he didn’t want to be the one to deliver the message. Everyone knows that the messenger is the first one who gets executed. “And we are a Pennsylvania team. The owners think a quilt will be a nice, unique way to record your career and accomplishments. They want it framed in the new stadium’s Trophy Room.”

  “So we’re at the point where we’re recording my accomplishments, looking back at my career?” I say through gritted teeth, my blue eyes burning a hole through Coach’s head. He’s a tough, no-nonsense guy, just like me, but he can’t look me in the eye right now and I know what that means. It means that the team owners are bending to what the pissed-off fans are clamoring for: New blood at the quarterback position. Some hot-shot college draft-pick with young legs and a fresh arm. I’m not an idiot. I know I can’t play forever, even though when I was in my twenties it sure as hell felt like I’d never get old. But although my body is bruised and battered from being hit by three-hundred pound defensive linemen, that fire is still burning bright as ever. I can still whip that ball down the field with the best of them, nail a receiver fifty yards down the sideline if I get enough time to make the throw. Nah. I’m not going anywhere. Sure as hell not going anywhere without a ring. This is between me and the fans. The owners can go fuck themselves.

  “The owners can go fuck themselves,” I say out loud just in case Coach can’t read my expression, can’t see the rage in my eyes, can’t feel it in my coiled body. I stand up and twist my six-foot-four frame to each side, grimacing as I hear a loud crack as my joints re-align after the brutal hits I took all game. “They aren’t even football fans. Just billionaires who thought owning a football team is a good investment.”

  Coach clears his throat and blinks, and I narrow my eyes at him. What, is he thinking about his own fucking career? Is he slowly distancing himself from me? Am I alone out here? A thirty-seven year old dinosaur in a young man’s game? A has-been? Abandoned and forgotten, with turf in my face, the taste of blood and defeat on my lips? Is this how my story ends?

  I take a slow breath and look down at the tattoo of that ring. It doesn’t even look like a Championship Ring, I think as it stares back up at me like the ink wants to say something. Great. My tattoos are now talking to me. Maybe I’ve taken too many hits to the head. Maybe it is time for me to fade away into the sunset.

  I snort and shake my head as that competitive fire rises up once more. I like the feeling of being alone, the sense that it’s me against the world, the lone hero facing the enemy in the mud and the rain. I’m still shaking my head when I hear someone else walk into the locker room, and for some reason I look up even though it’s probably just some assistant coach or waterboy.

  “Who the fuck are you?” I growl, squinting as the steam from the showers swirls in the humid air, obscuring my vision. I can’t see her face, but it’s clearly a woman—no mistaking that hourglass shape. My cock moves inside my track pants and my breath catches at how perfect her curves look through the steam in the air. I’m a big guy, and although some of the monsters on the team love fucking these tiny, waif-like chicks that they can spin on their cocks like dolls, that’s never been my type. I’m a quarterback with big hands, and I like a woman with wide hips and a nice big ass that I can hold onto as I ram myself past the fucking goal line, unleash m
y touchdown celebration as I spank that ass and unload my balls deep inside her tight, wet—

  I almost laugh as I shake my head and stare down at the floor. I’m usually horny like a beast in heat after a game, when the adrenaline is slowly winding through my system and my body is pumping testosterone to rebuild the muscles that were worked to the extreme after three hours on a football field. But I don’t usually get rock hard like this just in the presence of some random woman. I have a few chicks on rotation—low drama women that know the score, know that they’ll never be the only one, that they’ll never see me on my knees holding up a ring, that they’ll never hear me say “I love you.” They’re probably all staring at their phones right now, waiting for me to decide which one I’ll fuck tonight, which one gets the one-word text that simply says, “ok.”

  But I’m not thinking about those women right now. And that’s not what my cock is reacting to either. I frown as I look up at this curvy creature who’s standing in the doorway in a blue dress that hugs her wide hips, shows off her healthy round belly, covers her cleavage but can’t hide those boobs that I know would fit just right in my big paws. I’m already imagining her nipples standing up at attention as I hold her down and rip her bra off. I bet she has dark red nipples the size of fucking dinner plates. I bet she has a sweet, pink cunt that tastes like honey and smells like a red rose. I bet her asshole is clean and tight, perfectly puckered, just waiting for me to—

  Again I have to stop myself from losing my mind in fantasies that seem to be coming out of nowhere, a need that’s fucking insane even though I’ve been a horndog my entire life. Maybe I’m turned around by the whispers that it’s time for me to retire, to step out of the ring, exit the arena. Maybe that last hit rattled something loose in my big head and I’m turning into one of those aging studs who can’t master their need and spiral out of control until they end up with four kids from three different baby-mamas and a shit-ton of drama.

  Baby-mama drama destroys more football careers than torn ACLs and concussions put together, I remind myself as I close my eyes and take long, slow breaths as my cock throbs and my balls tighten. And that kind of drama starts when a man loses control over his cock. That’s why I’ve never even gotten close to fucking a woman bareback in years, why I always carry my own condoms, why I even take the used condoms with me when I leave the room. A running-back that got sued for millions in child-support swore that the woman took his used condom out of the trash and used his semen to get herself knocked up. No idea if that’s true, but I never took a chance after hearing that story. Call me sexist, but at least I’ve escaped this far with no screaming brats calling me Daddy.

  But the arousal is still screaming through my body like a locomotive with its whistle blaring, and finally I can’t help but look directly at this woman who’s standing there with an alluring mixture of hesitation and self-confidence, clasping her hands in front of her hips like a schoolgirl even as she stands straight and steady. She has a sweet, pretty round face with brown eyes that almost melt me even though I’m a cold-hearted snake when it comes to women. There’s an innocence in her eyes that I don’t think I’ve ever seen before. It’s not the innocence of youth—she’s not particularly young, actually. No, it’s an innocence of character, I decide. A way of looking at the world that’s written on her face, in her eyes, on that shaky smile she’s giving me as she makes brief eye contact and then looks down at the floor like she’s embarrassed.

  Or maybe she’s terrified, I think as I watch her finally take a step back from me and then glance over at Coach like she’s wondering what to do next. Now I remember that I just snapped at her, just barked out something like “Who the fuck are you?” without thinking.

  “Um, I was told to meet Grant Gunner here?” she says in a lilting voice, clearing her throat and shifting on her feet. She blinks and glances at Coach. “Is that you?” she asks softly, furrowing her brow as she blinks again like she’s almost hoping it’s him.

  I cock my head as I try to figure out if she’s serious. Is she really standing in the home locker room of the Philadelphia Firestorm and asking which one of us is Grant Gunner?!

  Even Coach seems taken aback at the ridiculous question, and he just snorts and shakes his head in disbelief. “Who let you in here, Miss? The post-game press conference is over, and the players are no longer required to be available to the media. Please leave. Gun isn’t available for an interview right now.”

  The woman furrows her brow like she’s confused. Then her eyes widen and she nods. “OK. I understand. The Wilburs told me to come here, and so I did. They said this was the only home game this month, and the team was going to be travelling for the next three weeks. I can’t wait that long to get started. I need to at least know what colors will work for Grant Gunner so I can get started. If I don’t get started now, I won’t be done in time. I have to be done in time, since I don’t miss deadlines. But I don’t like to rush. You can’t rush something like this. I have to get started this week, and I can’t get started until I know what colors I’ll be using. I need to know which colors work for Grant Gunner.”

  My mouth hangs open as I listen to this curvy creature in blue ramble on in pure stream of consciousness, and I’m almost amused at how she’s referring to me by my first and last name. My friends call me Gun. My business associates call me Mr. Gunner. Nobody but my mom has ever seriously called me “Grant Gunner” to my face, and she’s been dead for a decade.

  “The Wilburs sent you here?” says Coach, grimacing and rubbing his grizzled chin. Then his eyes flick wide open and he lets out an exasperated breath. “Oh, hell, you’re the quilter?! You’re the fucking quilter.” He groans and rubs his eyes, taking a step towards her like he’s about to usher her out of the room. “OK, look. I understand the Wilburs asked you to come here. But this isn’t a good time, all right, Miss? You’re just gonna have to reschedule.”

  “Oh, all right. No problem,” she says hurriedly. “I’ll wait outside until you’re ready.”

  Coach takes a breath and rubs his eyes again. He’s not a particularly patient man, and I just prop my elbows up on the backrest of the bench and grin as I wait for him to lose his cool.

  “Firstly, I’m not Grant Gunner,” he says, shaking his head again like he can’t believe he has to actually explain that to another human in America. “And secondly, what I’m trying to say is that today isn’t a good time. Do you understand, Miss?”

  “Oh, yes! Of course! I completely understand,” she says earnestly, leaning to her left and looking at me with those big brown eyes. “I’ll leave you guys alone immediately. But if you could just answer my question, it’ll be enough to get me started, Grant Gunner.”

  My smile is breaking so wide the cut on my lip opens up again, but even though I can taste fresh blood on my tongue, my head is buzzing with a light, bouncy energy that feels like it’s coming from this innocent woman who’s surprising me with how fucking insistent she’s being, how she’s pushing back on Coach even when three-hundred pound linemen cower like children in front of the grizzled old grouch!

  My eyes narrow as I meet her gaze, and a delightful chill goes through my body when I see something in those big brown eyes. Something that whispers to me that she’s maybe not that fucking innocent. She knew which one of us was Grant Gunner. She just pretended like she didn’t. And that means just one thing: She’s attracted to me.

  That shouldn’t be surprising to me—a lot of women I meet are attracted to me: Besides being famous and a multi-millionaire, I am in great fucking shape, not an ounce of unnecessary fat on my chiseled body, every muscle perfectly contoured like I was sculpted by the ghost of Michelangelo. But for some reason my heart sings at the thought that this curvy quilter is attracted to me. It throws me for a moment—just like it threw me when I realized that this woman might not be all she seems, that maybe she’s different from the other women who constantly throw themselves at me, that maybe s
he’s got some game behind those big innocent eyes.

  Not to mention those big boobs, those wide hips, those thick thighs, I think as I absentmindedly wipe the blood off my lower lip and hold my gaze steady until she flutters her eyelids and looks down at the floor. My cock moves again, like it’s desperately trying to tell me something, like it’s pulling at the reins, yearning to be let out of its cage. I almost look down at my hard-on in amusement—or perhaps astonishment. I really am at full fucking mast for a woman who’s conservatively dressed, buttoned up and tied down, not revealing anything even though she can’t hide those curves from my cock.

  Coach is finally losing his cool, and I can see that he’s about to call in a female security guard to physically remove this oddly obstinate quilter from the premises. I take a breath and shake my head, and then I lazily raise a finger and put an end to this little dance.

  “I got it, Coach,” I say quietly, the words oozing out of me in a slow drawl even as that strange energy courses through my body. This woman has my fucking attention. She’s not what she seems, even though she is what she seems—if that makes any sense. I’m curious to dig deeper. Curious to know more. Curious to see how much game she really has. To hell with those women who are blowing up my phone right now wondering if they’re getting the nod from me tonight. I can’t even remember their faces right now, let alone their names.

  Coach turns to me and I can see he’s saying something. But I don’t give a fuck. My eyes are back on this woman, and I nod at her and wave Coach out of the room. He mutters something else and finally leaves, and suddenly it’s me and her, face to face, the quilter and the quarterback.

  I’m still leaning back on the bench, no shirt on, my elbows propped up on the backrest, shamelessly man-spreading simply because I’m so fucking hard, my balls so tight and heavy that I can’t put my legs together without squeezing the fuck out of my boys. My loose track pants are hiding the extent of my arousal, but I can see that she’s noticed and it’s making her face go flush.