Title: Love of the GameEdited by: Harley Easton
Publisher: Sexy Little Pages (https://www.sexylittlepages. com/)
Genre: Erotic Romance (primarily M/F but there are a sprinkling of M/M and F/F stories)
Love of the Game will knock you out with a one, two, punch of super sexy. From rugby players who can’t leave their passion on the pitch to Paralympians with everything to prove, these athletes are certainly playing for keeps. Warm yourself up with stories of:
- Football: Where both college stars and former NFL hopefuls are ready to go long
- MMA Fights: Where participants get rough and tumble inside the ring and out
- Baseball: Where the boys of summer can score by making it big or completely striking out
- Swimming: Where diving into bed with teammates or rivals is taboo, but oh so tempting
And so much more. Whatever sport you’re a fan of, Love of the Game is certain to make you sweat.
A MAJOR LEAGUE WIFE
by Gregory L. Norris
Mel tipped her sunglasses up. Jason was hunched down, tensed, halfway between the second base bag and third. Her husband’s home white uniform complimented the shortstop’s lean mass of muscles with similar affection: double-breasted button-down accented by the classic black and red team colors of the Canton Cardinals Triple-A minor league affiliate of the Top Socks club, cap and shades, and those clean, tight pants. Even the red uniform stirrups rising up from well-worn cleats on big feet added to his magnificence. Jason Collins was a classic boy of summer, and all man.
A thunderclap shook the stadium, shocking Mel out of her thoughts, which were growing dirtier over Jason and all that she planned to do to him once they were back at their summer rental following the game. He’d have showered by that point, and stripped out of his uniform, which would be stained from hard-won sweat, infield dirt, and grass. Maybe she would get him to put on a clean one and don his shades. He hadn’t shaved that morning—an old tradition among baseball players meant to intimidate the visiting team. A day’s worth of stubble had transformed him into a bad boy, a pirate. The day’s building heat unleashed scintillating pinpricks over her bare arms, and deeper. Oh yes, in his baseball uniform. And out of it. A smile tempted her lips.
By Annabeth Leong
Margie didn’t know which way to go now that everyone was staring at her, so she headed in the direction of the nearest friendly face. He leaned in to speak only for her hearing.
“Stick around after the game,” Pete said. “I want to see if I can score off you.”
Baseball language always sounded so dirty, and Margie’s cheeks heated even though she knew what he meant. She cleared her throat and tried to make her expression innocent and blank.
“I’d love to.”
Phillips had stayed late too, eschewing the team’s after party in order to participate in Margie’s tête-à-tête with Pete Muñoz. She knew she needed a catcher, but part of her wished it could have been just the two of them.
She braced herself for more nonsense from Phillips as she stepped onto the field, but her pitch earlier that evening seemed to have made him a convert.
“I’ve got two bills down that you strike Muñoz out. He’s lucky this isn’t official, or you’d be messing up his precious over-.300 batting average,” he said.
“Nah, man. Margie’s good, but she’s about to give it up to me. I think she’s going to let me take her deep.” Muñoz spat in the dirt at his feet, then squinted out at the empty park.
Margie squared her shoulders. She recognized Muñoz’s trash talk for what it was — challenging, not sexist. He was chirping at her the way he would have with any hot pitcher. Telling her that she wouldn’t be able to keep him from hitting long and hard, far out into the outfield or maybe even over the fences. When he hefted his bat, however, he glanced at her with meaning in his eyes. Margie’s mouth went dry. It wasn’t just the language that seemed sexual. Muñoz obviously planned to take her deep off the field even if he didn’t manage the feat on the diamond.
by Megan McFerren
Taking her in, Cassidy couldn’t keep down her own smile. It always went like this, pressure building until cracks formed, followed by a sudden burst and then repairs to make her stronger the next time around. And always, always it came with the same offer: I can teach you some things, if you want to know them. They were the first words Ruth ever said to her, when Cassidy asked if she’d ever considered coaching rodeo. They were the words that Cassidy had whispered to herself again and again late at night, fingers slick between her legs.
She wanted to know everything Ruth could teach her about riding.
“Of course I do,” Cassidy answered, unhooking her other boot from the stirrup.
Slinging both legs to the same side, she slipped to the earth with a grunt. Her face pulled taut into a grimace, thighs screaming like a kettle left boiling too long, and she doubled over to rub them, fingers spreading over snug denim to work the cramps out. Ruth stepped forward to take Palisander’s reins, but Cassidy could feel her teacher’s eyes on her, on the way her hands pressed from the inside of her knees to the crevice of her groin, long strokes to pull shortened muscles long again. Cassidy was grateful for the singe of sun across her cheeks that concealed the blush welling from within, heating from the strain in her legs and up through her center into a tight, warm coil low in her belly.
“Wash him down and get him back for dinner,” Ruth said, holding out the reins to Cassidy. She couldn’t be certain if the roughness in Ruth’s voice was imagined or real, whether it came from annoyance for dallying or from something else entirely. It wasn’t like Cassidy to display herself so shamelessly, and she let herself believe her own lie that it was only a stretch, only tired thighs after hours of riding. She licked the dust from her lips and took the strap of leather from Ruth. Her heart sank a little as she turned towards the barn, shoulders weighted low by the high numbers she’d raced and by the dismissal.
“Cass,” Ruth called out as she made her way across the arena. Cassidy glanced back across her shoulder to her teacher. “Meet me in the equipment room when you’re done.”
OUT OF BREATH
By Jordan Monroe
I’d noticed him on the first day of practice. He’d come in a little late, his long, lean body wrapped in low-hanging black sweatpants and a tight grey tee shirt. After waving hello to our coach, he dropped his Speedo backpack on the bleachers. I’d put my goggles over my eyes, grateful for their reflective lenses. Everyone else was jumping in the water to begin the 1000-meter warmup, but I stood on the side of the pool transfixed. It took every amount of mental energy for me to not drop my jaw.
Travis’s hair was thick and wavy, the style of every guy in a surfer movie, with that sun-bleached hue. I watched him peel off his shirt almost in slow-motion, revealing tanned skin and a well-muscled torso; I swallowed the drool that was pooling in my cheeks. He kicked off his Adidas flip flops, hooked his fingers around the elastic waistband of his pants, and pulled them down his sculpted legs. When he stood up straight to exchange his pants for his cap and goggles, I shamelessly raked my eyes over his lower body: his black briefs and orange mesh drag suit revealed his solid thighs and clung to his hips, his butt taut, and the delicious angled lines of his lower abs pointing to the bulge between his legs.
“Let’s get in, Wile!” I jumped when the coach’s voice shook me out of my lustful reverie. Hopping in the cool water and easing into freestyle was enough to push Travis’s image from my mind, at least temporarily.
As I was down underwater, I looked up to see Travis come in to the wall in the next lane. He moved his body with graceful, exacting strokes, like an aquatic machine. As he flipped over to turn, he coiled his long body into a tight ball, then unfurled magnificently. This time, I did drop my jaw as he kicked off the wall in deliberate body rolls: his hands clasped above his head, arms smashed together in the tightest of streamlines, his chest lowering while the rest of his body followed. Like an animal, my eyes went straight to his hips thrusting in ways that suggested not only forward momentum but exquisite pleasure. It wasn’t until he came up to continue swimming that I remembered my need to breathe and resume practice.