Total pages in book: 71
Estimated words: 68697 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 343(@200wpm)___ 275(@250wpm)___ 229(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 68697 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 343(@200wpm)___ 275(@250wpm)___ 229(@300wpm)
A few minutes later, my phone pings with a DM. An image. It takes a few seconds to load, and when it does, I groan so loudly, it’s obscene.
Gunnar has sent a new close-up photo of those tight red briefs. He’s in his . . . is that his car? My temperature spikes. He’s parked, and he’s in the driver’s seat of a sports car. Jeans on, unzipped, bulge tenting the front of those red briefs, and he’s pushed the waistband down to give me a mouth-watering peek at the head of his cock under the waistband.
That’s all. Just an enticing, tantalizing view of the tip of his dick.
Gunnar is the biggest, sexiest, dirtiest flirt around.
I entered this game with an innuendo, albeit a quite overt one. Do I want to indulge in a risqué online tryst? Trysts are exactly the sort of distraction that can steal my focus from what matters. But I crave more of this game.
From the safety of my office, with the door locked, I take out my cock, run my hand down my hard shaft, and give it a tug. I pick up once more the fantasy image of Gunnar in my office, and now he’s kneeling underneath my desk, staring at me with heat in his eyes, licking those lush lips as he asks what I want.
I tell him to open his mouth, take me deep, let me fuck his throat hard.
And he drops his jaw. He does exactly as I say, without hesitation.
One more stroke, then I squeeze the base of my cock and zip up my trousers. I’m not going to jack off at work. That’s out of bounds. But I know exactly what I want. And what he wants.
I’ll give him an order.
I type out a text but schedule it to send in an hour. Delayed gratification is part of the thrill of this game.
6
IF SOMEONE SAW ME
Gunnar
No way can I walk like this.
Through the tinted windows of my car, I spot my teammates headed into our pre-game practice by way of the players’ entrance. Yeah, I’m going to need another minute or so here in the privacy of my ride. I am not about to step out of my wheels with this raging hard-on.
I think of unsexy things to deflate my dick. Like math. Percentages and stuff. Let’s see. My batting average against left-handed pitchers this year has been . . .
Yup. That’s effective. Halfway down already.
So, how many runs have I batted in after the fifth inning? There was that one against the San Diego Devils, another against the Los Angeles Bandits . . .
There. Don’t let anyone tell you math isn’t useful in adult life.
Now that I’ve settled my dick the fuck down, I lock up my baby with the key fob, then head through the lot, meeting up with some of my buds who’ve just arrived too.
“We’re gonna kill it today,” I tell Declan as he slams the door on the Beemer his hubs got him.
“You know it.” The shortstop offers me a fist and we bump. “And I have a plan.”
“You’ve been up studying videos and shit like you’ve done before?”
“No, my fairy godmother visited last night and told me how to hit off Hildebrand.”
“Full of piss and vinegar as always.” As we head through the concourse, we discuss a plan of attack for the new Chicago Sharks pitcher. By the time we reach the newly remodeled locker room, which is a fucking joy to come to every day, Rafe and his dirty texts are out of my head, and they stay that way through my pre-game workout.
Back in the locker room, though, after I put on my uniform, I pick up my phone to check for messages from family. Nothing from my mom, sister, or brother, but when I see the message blinking on top, I’m suddenly holding temptation itself in my hand.
It’s from Rafe.
A hot wave of lust tears through me just reading the man’s name. He has some effect on me.
I scan the locker room. My teammates are shooting the breeze in front of their spacious stalls, getting ready for batting practice. I could open this right now. Maybe Rafe sent me a vid of a solo.
Ah fuck, that does not help my anti-erection regime.
What does Rafe look like with his big hand wrapped around his thick cock? Bet he looks like a sex god—a commanding alpha businessman who could tell me what to do, how to do it, when to do it.
“Gunnar, we were wondering if class was starting soon?” The sarcastic remark from Holden, our second baseman, breaks into my dirty daydreams, and I jerk my gaze away from the unopened message.
“In how to hit monster home runs?” I ask. “No problem. I’ll be ready to teach all of you how to crush a baseball.”