WICKED WEEKENDS
Today’s Wicked Weekends is all about an
anthology edited by Harley Eason for Sexy Little Pages entitled ‘For the Love of the Game’
Title: Love of the Game
Edited by:
Harley Easton
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.
Release Date: October 18, 2016
Word Count: 45,000
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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