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Kyrie Kent hates baseball. She hates players even more. When her best friend drags her to a Ravens game, she spends the innings reading a book… Until she gets a glimpse of the closer—a pitcher who draws her like magnet. Fighting her attraction to Easton Holliday is easy. All she has to do is keep her distance, avoid the ballpark, and keep her head down. At least, all that would have worked, but Easton doesn’t intend to let Kyrie walk so easily. When another player vies for Kyrie’s attention, Easton will swing for the fences. But will Kyrie strike him out or let him steal home?
Full disclosure: This is an erotic romance full of hot guys in tight baseball pants, even more guys in tight baseball pants who know how to swing a big stick, and explicit sex.
I squirmed, the tension already building between my thighs. After the game, I’d wanted to console him. But the moment he’d looked at me in the hallway—his frustration turning to something hotter—all semblance of thought had flown from my mind. And when he’d kissed me? Everything had stopped except his body pressed to mine, his tongue owning me.
But I needed to shut this down. I closed my eyes and took in a deep breath. Too much, too soon. I sat up. “Look, Easton, I didn’t come over here to—”
He leaned over, claiming my mouth with an insistent kiss and pushing me back into the cushions. I put my hands on his chest and tried to shove him away, but he grabbed my wrists and pinned them next to my ears.
His kiss lit me on fire and I couldn’t help but return it, caressing his tongue with mine as he slanted over me, tasting me. When he squeezed my wrists harder, I moaned into his mouth. He worked his knee between my thighs, the thin georgette material of my dress pushing up as he went. God, if he went much farther he’d know how wet I was.
I turned my head, breaking the kiss and taking a breath, but he wasn’t deterred. He fastened his lips to my neck, sucking and licking until goose bumps covered my arms and legs and I arched my back to him. When my pebbled nipples rubbed against his hard chest, I gasped.
He released my wrists and ran his hands down my shoulders, pushing my cardigan and the top of my dress down until my breasts were revealed. The cool air hit them, but soon after his mouth was hot and wet on one while he palmed the other. I dug my fingers into his hair and let my head fall back against the couch.
Celia Aaron is the self-publishing pseudonym of a published romance and erotica author. She loves to write stories with hot heroes and heroines that are twisty and often dark. Thanks for reading.
Sloane Howell lives in the Midwest United States and writes dirty stories. When not reading or writing he enjoys hanging out with his family, watching sports, playing with the dogs, traveling, and engaging his readers on social media. You can almost always catch him on Twitter posting something goofy.
Visit his web page www.sloanehowell.com to sign up for his mailing list to get updates on new releases, promos, and giveaways. Thanks for reading.