Blog Tour – Love of the Game – Edited by Harley Easton

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Book Info
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)

Blurb:

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.

 

 

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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.

 

FAST PITCHER

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.

 

CLOVERLEAF

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.

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Blog Tour – Love Slave: Sizzle

For those in the know, food is more than simple sustenance; it’s the perfect seduction. Love Slave: Sizzle offers a delectable combination of taste, smell, touch, and pleasure, with a collection of tasty stories cooked up to whet your appetite. Engage in a little fork-play with these carnal treats, ranging from sweet romantic entrée to savory erotic indulgence. Come have a taste; these stories are certain to satisfy the most discerning palate.

 

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Buy Links:
Add to your TBR pile:
Story Excerpts:

Blind Taste by  CM Peters

“Tasting food, my darling, is an art.” He approached, moved his chair back, and sat. He splayed his legs, patting the space between. “Come here, Kris. It’s time for a magic show!” he added with a seductive smile.

A long shiver went down Kris’s spine while she sat, the chair large enough for both of them to be comfortable. It was then Max pulled out a piece of black fabric from his pocket. “Tasting food requires all five senses, but for now, I’m taking one out so you can focus on others,” he said softly.

            Swallowing hard, Kris stilled while he blindfolded her. He then kissed the back of her neck after moving her hair to one side. She felt his hand running down her forearm, then heard him pick up a fork. The sounds of pasta being twirled in the bowl seemed twice as loud, the wet sounds almost erotic.

            “Take a deep breath, tell me what it smells like,” Max murmured.

Inhaling slowly, Kris recognized the ingredients. “Parmesan comes through strong,” she replied softly. “Then the smokiness of the pancetta.” She scrunched her nose. “I can barely smell anything else, is that normal?”

A quiet laugh erupted from Max. “Yes, it is. It’s a creamy sauce, dairy based. It will be different in taste. Open wide, now,” he whispered in her ear.

Holding in a moan at the feeling of his hot breath on her skin, Kris opened her mouth, her hands resting on the edge of the table. She closed her lips around the fork while Max pulled it back. She chewed slowly, feeling him put his hands on her shoulders, his lips on her ear. “Stop chewing. Let your tongue do what it needs to do. Your taste buds will open up so flavors can develop.”

Obeying his directions, Kris never thought food tasting could take such a sexy turn. She took in a breath through her nose, the bitter taste of pecorino coming through first, then the saltiness of pancetta. She chewed a little more when Max told her to, now noticing the creaminess of the sauce mixed with the spiciness of the black pepper. Everything combined together proved to be even more delicious than she thought, enough that she huffed. “I’ve cooked this recipe so many times and it’s never tasted like this!”

            Max laughed in her ear. “That’s because you’ve been deprived of one sense and have to rely on the others. I made you stop chewing, so that made you take a breath. Air rushing through your nose had the flavors transform and explode on your palate,” he explained. “Now, here’s another bite,” he said. “Tell me what you feel, not taste.”

            Taking the bite Max was offering, Kris concentrated, twirling the spaghetti in her mouth. The softness of the pasta clashed with the coarse texture of the pancetta; the smoothness of the sauce caressed her tongue. She chewed again, then swallowed, almost out of breath, her senses aflame. “This is incredible, Max! I’ve never…” She let out a gasp. “I’ve never tasted anything like this!”

            His lips nipping her shoulder, the British man smiled. “That’s because you didn’t know how to properly taste, Kris,” he said in a low voice. “Like I said, tasting is an art.”

            Kris swallowed hard, suddenly much less hungry for food. She smiled, her cheeks burning. “Do you taste everything that way?” she asked in a whisper.

            A low growl erupted from Max’s chest, Kris feeling it on her back. She smiled inwardly, tilting her head to the side. “Tell me, Maximillian, what do I taste like?” she inquired, her voice breathy.

Eat Dessert First by Brantwijn Serrah

Over the years I’d seduced many a lover with my cooking, so it wasn’t exactly new territory for me when Pietro leaned closer, watching with bright interest as I dabbed a wooden spoon in the white chocolate and offered it to him. He wrapped his lips around the end of it as though he meant to kiss it, and his eyes rolled back as he uttered a pleasurable sound.

“Careful,” I told him. “Hot sugar. Don’t burn your tongue…”

I said it more from force of habit than anything else, since Pietro certainly knew full well what any half-decent baker knows. I smiled to see his blissful expression, the way his tongue swept out over those pouty lips to capture the last bits of the rich, drizzled candy. White chocolate is a little more overt a tactic than I normally employ, but one takes what one can get.

“Good?” I asked.

“Perfect!” he exclaimed with a nod.

“Try it with the raspberry,” I offered, plucking one from the dish and dipping it in the mixture with a little flourish. I’m always quite proud of my desserts; sweets and sugars are where my talent shines. Give me a recipe for cake or custard, and I will give you a dish made for the most decadent of palettes. I held the glistening berry to Pietro’s lips; a little drop of crème brûlée slipped away from me, but the beautiful boy caught it on one deft index finger before it could fall onto the front of my impeccable chef’s whites.

“Mm,” he murmured as I popped the raspberry into his mouth. He lifted his hand, about to lick up the rebellious drop as well, but I caught his wrist.

With my eyes on his—Lord, they were so sweet and dark, like fresh Arabica coffee—I brought his fingers to my lips and kissed the spilled sugar away.

Teach Me by Elia Nicole

Even his sense of touch seemed more alert. By the time she moved on to pastries, he was in tune with his body, how Lauren’s hand over his became almost a caress, or the soft press of her breasts along his ribs when she leaned to peer over his shoulder. It should have embarrassed him, that more than once he’d had to rest his weight on the edge of the counter to hide his erection. Instead, Lauren only took in his discomfort and grinned. She had licked her lips, subtly perusing his body. Before commenting that he saw the connection now. It came on a whisper, the contact on his lips as soft as candy floss and as quickly dissolved. He went back to his flat that night and took himself in hand, the elusive taste of her on his lips as he groaned her name and spilled over his fingers.

Now, he saw all the nuances he had missed before. How a few seconds made a difference in the color of a browning crust, or the way a flick of salt enhanced a flavor, the steam wafting toward his face carrying aromas that tightened his stomach with hunger, a hunger that was nearly sexual. He also couldn’t miss her. The scent of her, sweet and salty and faintly musky without being hidden under layers of soaps and perfumes. The faint roughness of her fingers on his as she guided him, or the heat of her body along his spine. Every day, they weighed on him, inflamed him. While he was stirring a ganache, his mind caught up in the glossy sheen of the chocolate as it dripped from his whisk, the rich scent that wafted to his nose, layered in vanilla and caramel and dark cocoa, she pressed into him. Her breath was warm on his ear, her hips tucked against his. “That looks absolutely sinful.”

The comment, low and husked against his skin, almost made him drop the whisk. It also sent a spiral of heat straight to his belly. “Christ, Lauren.” He turned to look at her.

She had retreated a few steps, watching him with an enigmatic look, one that seemed tinged with hunger, and not just for his food. “You’re finding your way nicely. Almost there. What do you plan to do with that?” She walked away before he could respond. It was probably a good thing, since his mind was besieged with images of her naked, drizzled in his ganache as he lapped it off her body.

Christ in heaven, but now every time he was around her, it was all he could do not to slice off a digit. He couldn’t think, except about how her lips felt in that split second against his ear, and how she pressed him ever so carefully against the counter. It was wrong and right all at once. He wanted to change places, to spread her out over the weathered wooden surface, bury his face in her throat to taste the salt-tang of her skin, feel the ample weight of her breasts in his hands before he sank into her. He had a cock stand all right, and it wasn’t for steak tartare.

She pronounced him sufficiently trained when she walked into the kitchen to see him wiping a stray droplet of raspberry sauce off the edge of a plate before tucking the towel into the belt of his white jacket. Watching her taste his dessert, the flash of pink as she licked her lips, the low female groan as white and dark chocolate melted over her tongue, he’d nearly had to excuse himself. And when she swiped a finger through the creamy confection and offered it to him, he was absolutely transfixed. His eyes locked with hers, savoring the way they dilated as he sucked at the digit, tasting her beneath his concoction. Lauren didn’t protest at all when he stepped around the counter, pulling her flush to his body, coaxing a thigh between hers even as he mirrored the movement against her lips with his tongue.

They were both panting when they pulled apart. “Now, you understand,” she murmured, the words husky and sending a shiver down his spine.

Apple Syrup by Marie Piper

“Taste.” Bethany pulled the spoon from the jar and held it up to his lips. He obeyed, and his mouth was filled with sweetness. The apples had flavored the syrup delicately but their presence was undeniable.

He swallowed the syrup down and nodded. “I am sorry to have doubted you. From this day forward, I will always believe you when it comes to apple peel sorcery.”

“I will swat you,” she teased and held up her rolling pin. “Right on the bottom if you’re not careful.”

“Don’t think I’d mind that too much,” Daniel winked at her.

Bethany’s smile froze for a second, and Daniel immediately regretted saying it. Where had it come from? The woman was barely out of her mourning dresses, and he was making rude comments to her in her own home where he shouldn’t have been unaccompanied with her in the first place. “That wasn’t a kind thing to say,” he apologized quickly. “I’m-“

“Don’t you dare apologize. You just reminded me that I ain’t dead yet,” she cut him off and set the rolling pin down on the flattened dough. Yellow hairs had fallen forward on her face, and she pushed them back. When she touched her skin, she left a trace of flour. Daniel reached over to her and wiped it away. “In fact, I’ll admit I’ve wondered a few times what it might be like to be in your arms, Daniel.”

Those words floored him. Though he wasn’t bad-looking, strong-built and dark-haired, he’d never seemed to be a young man dreamed of by the young women he’d known. “I’ve wondered the same.”

The way she looked up at him, with her brown eyes twinkling with mischief, set his heart to thumping loud as horse hooves on dirt. “Should we find out?”

For the bravery of her words, she seemed downright terrified he’d refuse her. If she only knew how often she came to his thoughts, she’d know he’d never turn her away. Bethany shifted so her back was to him. Stepping close behind her, he slipped one arm around her waist and the other around her shoulders and pressed himself to her. Soft and strong in all the right places, she fit neatly with her forehead against his cheek when she turned her face. It seemed they were meant to be just so, folded into each other like apples into batter.

“You smell like apples,” she breathed deep.

“So do you.”

When they kissed, the sticky syrup that lingered on Daniel’s lips sweetened it. Crazy thoughts, like licking her from head to toe. Syrup or not she’d likely taste just like heaven. Bethany pressed her mouth back to his. Tongues met tongues. Daniel gave her lower lip a little nip of his teeth, gentle but insistent.

Bethany pushed her back closer to his chest. “Daniel.” The words came in a ragged breath, and he realized she was pulling her skirt up, revealing her bare legs. Underneath her skirt, she wore nothing. Of course. She’d been planning to spend a day in the heat of her kitchen over the fire of a stove. Extra garments would only make her hotter.

The sight of her skin gave him pause. “Not like this,” he protested weakly. Though both his manhood and heart thrilled at what she was offering, the circumstances were too fast.

“Just like this,” Bethany whispered back. “Life’s too damn short to dawdle.”