The Challenger: A Sports Romance Saga (The Hustlers Trilogy Book 2) by Rowan Rossler

Author:Rowan Rossler [Rossler, Rowan]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Free Form Productions
Published: 2023-03-07T00:00:00+00:00

Somewhere around four in the morning, we call it quits. Poor Flynn is the very definition of ridden hard and put to bed wet, and my ass muscles are screaming from the endless thrusting. God, she's fucking insatiable. I am in awe of how we read each other, the give and take. Guys aren’t miracle workers; mastering the universe of how a woman works and what she wants is impossible without guidance. Even Galileo and Copernicus—the ancients who studied the sky—they’d be like, stars and galaxies? No problem, we can tell you everything. Clit or pussy for the orgasm? Fuck if we know.

But Flynn is a true blessing. All I gotta do is slip her some tongue and away she goes. Hot little moans telling me how fast I’m getting her to ground zero, letting me work my skills. Not one of those pushy tour guides telling me to be here or there and taking all the fun out of it.

Let me rejoice in this magical moment—all my limbs electrified and body buzzing from sweet surrender.

The low industrial hum of the hotel’s air conditioning kept me tossing and turning all week and it is surreally quiet out here with a dome of stars above us and the yard muffled in inky darkness. I cuddle into her softness, and she pulls the covers up and over our shoulders. She lays one hand on my head and keeps me secure like a babe against her breasts while her other weaves through my hair, massaging my scalp until I’m man down and moaning at how good it feels.

“You are my cielo. My sky,” I whisper into her ear. “You make me feel limitless.”

It’s slight, but I feel it, how her body stiffens. And I’m thinking no, how could I be so stupid? Did I just Romeo and Juliet the situation with the sappy poetry of love-starved Shakespeare Chavez? The cardinal rule is that guys shouldn’t talk for at least half an hour after sex because our brains are sloppy, sagging messes, like our dicks, and being in a pussy trance only leads to loose lips and babble, shit we regret. I might as well wrap this up with a red bow and ask her if she wants kids.

“I’m coming to Europe on one condition,” she says.

I stop breathing and pray for absolution from my verbal diarrhea. “What’s that?”

“None of this waiting around for you to win, okay?”

Aiy, Jesús! Thank you. My relieved smile spreads against her neck and she reads it the wrong way—puts just enough pressure on my head to say, careful cowboy.

“I’m serious. It’s not happening any other way.”

I have some witty remark about her not calling the shots, that we’re on my time, all the usuals. But who am I fooling? Once in a blue moon, all the planets align perfectly, and you can't go wrong to save your soul. After tonight, there is no way I’m surviving, let alone hitting a single ball, without enjoying the daily wonders of Flynn’s body.

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