Curves For Her Baseballer

By Leslie Hunter

Genre: Full-Figured Romance / Curvy Girl Romance Novelette 

As a baseball coach, Megan's got no shortage of sexy—and sweaty—eye candy to enjoy on the field. They aren't into curvy women, but too bad for them: Megan’s a catch and a half. 

But after a devastating losing streak, Megan’s job is on the line—they can’t afford to lose another game. Then the team owner brings in Alberto, a Cuban powerhouse with a love for all things Texan… and maybe full-figured women. Could he be the one Megan's looking for, both on the field and in bed? 

This 13,000+ word short romance contains detailed explicit descriptions of sex between a curvy baseball coach and her bronzed and muscled player. 

It's intended for the enjoyment of those who love interracial stories involving baseball players with a splash of romance. 

Author Note: This is a standalone romance novelette with no cliffhanger.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Leslie Hunter
• Release date: Oct 8, 2015
• ISBN: 9781519981943

Book preview

CURVES FOR HER BASEBALLER

by Leslie Hunter

CURVES FOR HER BASEBALLER

Leslie Hunter

WriterLeslieHunter.com

All Rights Reserved ©2016 Leslie Hunter. First Printing: 2016.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

Author’s Note: All characters in this story are 19 years of age and older.

If you notice any errors, I’d appreciate a heads up please.

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CURVES FOR HER BASEBALLER

The Texas evening sky was orange with hints of purple. Our baseball players were tired, sweaty, and my team was behind by three runs in the bottom of the ninth. I dug my thick fingers into the chain link fence behind home plate and pulled back in frustration.

It stretched back more than it did for other girls. Strength and a big girl body pulled the fence back with a metallic groan. One day it’ll break, but it helped with the frustration.

I should let go. Any more, and I’d tear the fence off the post. God knows Old Man Johnson won’t give his losing team more money.

His tinny crackle went through my head. I know women like to spend money but I ain’t pissin’ away my hard-earned cash on yer sorry lot. Maybe if you won for a change.

I let the chain link fence go and it bounced back in the place. The vibrating rattle traveled down to the dugout. A few sitting baseball players gave me a sideways glance before they resumed their attention at our skinny pitcher at bat. He was two strikeouts from giving us yet another loss.

I pushed into the fence and my soft big girl arms spread out. The opposing pitcher tipped the brim of his baseball hat towards our pitcher. I couldn’t have put a worse guy at bat if I wanted. Jerry was many things. An excellent pitcher and a loud-mouthed racist.

He wasn’t a hitter – most pitchers aren’t. They do one thing and do it well. Everything else is secondary. With Jerry, acting like a decent human being was included in that.

The ball flew and the collection of thin and lanky limbs that was Jerry swung out. The short squat umpire jerked two fingers out then yelled long, Stree-rike.

I took in a deep lungful of the humid summer air and slowly let it out.

Off on the mound, the opposing pitcher tossed the ball back and forth between his hands. I got the feeling he was savoring what was sure to be the last few minutes of another winning game – for them. For us, it’s another loss and one step closer to unemployment.

In the opposing team’s dugout, the other team picked up their equipment and walked to the exit. I’m sure they thought about their post-game celebration. I thought it unprofessional and unwise. Any decent sports fan has a story of an underdog win.

My lips pressed together. It’s not over until it’s over.

Stee-rike.

It’s over.

Jerry threw the wooden baseball bat down. It bounced several times sending out the deep brown clouds of Texas dirt. He kicked the ground hard with his foot and a cloud of dust floated over to the other dugout. By the time it got there, they’d already be on their way to the bar and celebration beer.

He walked away from home plate and stepped down into the dugout. He didn’t make eye contact. Some of the other players gave him a little nod,