4 Flame Gay Erotic Hockey Romance
Blurb:
Collegiate superstar goalie Boone Crockett seems to have the world at his feet. He’s rich, handsome, attends an elite college and is a hot prospect for the pros. Pity all that is a front for a deeply closeted and troubled young man.
All Boone’s life plans are shattered when flamboyant ex-figure skater Preston Gordon, an orange-haired twink, shows up to audition for the team’s mascot position wearing sequins, scarves and toe picks. His moves on the ice send Boone into his own pirouette of frustrated and reluctant desire.
As senior year progresses Boone slides deeper and deeper into a dangerous depression, Preston’s sensual strength the only thing he has to hold on to. If Boone can’t keep from plunging through the thin ice he’s skating on, it could take a twink to make the big save.
Reader Advisory: This story has graphic sexual language and scenes—no closed bedroom doors (or other rooms) here!
A Romantica® gay erotic romance from Ellora’s Cave
Excerpts
PG-13 (Mature Language):
I heard him as he hit the ice. Even with that stupid dog head muffling his voice, I heard every word and my body reacted with violent wantonness.
“Let’s go, Rotties!” Preston shouted with glee club enthusiasm.
I whipped around to see him chugging around the rink, a shovel in one hand, a trash can in the other, dressed as a dog. How demeaning. I mean, really. Cleaning up after the team? Didn’t the little twink have an ounce of pride? I ripped my mask off and lumbered toward the Zamboni door. A big brown dog with a Rock Point green-and-white hockey sweater stopped right in front of me. A couple of the guys chortled. Maybe they enjoyed the look of shock mixed with terror on my face.
“I’m scarf free today!”
I drew back as he did a tight spin right in front of me, my mask under my left arm and my stick in my right.
“You’re not queer free, though, are you, Preston?” someone yelled from behind me.
The attack came quickly. One minute I was trying to make words, the next Bradley Skinner, one of our D-men, crosschecked our mascot. Preston, who was completely unprepared for such a violent hit in the ribs, went down on his ass hard then rolled into a moaning ball. I reacted on instinct. My stick found Skinner’s side. The goon spun, his face a contorted mass of pain mixed with rage. He slashed at me. It bounced off my leg pads. I skated over to protect Preston, who was lying on the ice, trying to suck in enough air.
“Why don’t you back the fuck off, Skinner? Leave the kid alone.”
I got my stick up a bit higher this time. Skinner’s head kicked back. The underside of his chin began to bleed where I had clocked him. The scrum was broken up by our team captain.
“Save it for Allegheny State!” Mike Piana barked, shoving his dark self between Skinner and me. Mike was the only black player on our team. He was sharp, fast, driven, and one of the best people I had ever had the pleasure of knowing. Skinner lunged at me. Mike gave the huge idiot a two-handed push that sent his ass soundly into the boards. “I said save it for Allegheny! Go scrub your nuts, Skinner. You smell like my jock.”
“You make sure that fucking little pansy stays out of the locker room,” Skinner spat before he trudged off with his hackles plenty ruffled.
I waved goodbye to the enforcer with my middle finger, then bent down beside Preston. He was in the process of removing his dog head. I gave him a hand after dropping my helmet to the ice.
“You okay?” I asked when I had Roddy the Rottweiler’s head in my hands. Preston nodded, his mouth drawn in pain. Mike skated off to fetch Preston’s shovel and trash can.
“Oh yes, I’m just ducky.” God, the tiny twink was mad. I didn’t blame him. “Thank you for coming to my defense but it wasn’t really needed.”
I studied him as he got to his feet, then I followed, my hand open and ready to catch him in case he teetered. He didn’t, but he seemed to be having some issues drawing in a deep breath.
“Um, yeah, it really was. Skinner would have kicked your scrawny ass,” I said as Mike returned, smiling, with a plastic shovel and a blue trash can. Preston gave me a glower as he took his puck cleaning tools from Mike. “Nothing personal, but he’s got the most fighting majors on the team. He would have knocked you into New York State.”
R (Explicit Language, Gay Sexual Situations):
“Turn around.”
“I’m not stripping down in the corridor!” Preston announced, then swayed off. I stood there, dog head in hand, gaping at his elegantly tiffy departure. Fuck. Me. I stalked along in his wake, slamming the slowly closing door to the men’s room open. I whipped our mascot’s head into a corner. It bounced off a tall silver trashcan then rolled into a stall. Preston skewered me with a filthy look. “I know you’re hovering on the edge of a breakdown because you’re afraid of coming out, but—”
“What the fuck?” I snarled, then spun around to force the door shut. When I rounded on the thin twink, he had dropped down to pick up the dog head. He didn’t bend over like a dude. No. He dropped down into a prim crouch like a chick in a skirt who didn’t want to flash her panties. “You keep that to yourself!”
“No one is here.” He frowned as he rubbed at a wet spot between the mascot’s ears. “I wouldn’t have said it if someone were. I’m not as ignorant as some people,” he tacked on, then straightened up. “Give me a minute to change into my undergarments, and then you can zip me up.”
He placed the furry brown head on the top of the trash then entered a stall. I stared at the closed door for at least a full minute, my hands clenched into fists, my heart rate spiked. Fuck, but he pushed my buttons. What if someone had overheard that snippy comment?
“You promised you’d be cool. Discreet.”
“Yes, I did.” I heard him sigh. It was an exhalation heavy with guilt. “I’m sorry. I lashed out and used the one thing I knew would hurt the worst.”
My eyes were burning slightly from the thick smell of urinal blocks. “Don’t do it again.”
The door to the stall opened. Preston stepped around it in a pair of bright-orange compression leggings over black socks. All that anger? It drained away to be replaced with lust. He was thin but cut, his abdomen showing a nice rippled look that was enhanced by the lack of hair anywhere. He could easily wear youth size. His thighs were toned, well-muscled. All skaters have muscular legs, but his weren’t nearly as thick as a hockey player’s.
“I promise I will never use that against you again,” he vowed. My gaze lingered on the on the bulge of his crotch then swept upward. He looked sincere. He was beautiful, with those pink lips and dewy emerald eyes. I think Preston felt the undercurrent changing as well. He stepped back, his gaze sweeping over me. “Those damn bulky pads,” he whispered, then one side of his mouth, that lush cotton-candy colored mouth, tweaked upward. “They hide that tasty body of yours.”
I was inside that stall before he could rescind the invitation his eyes, lips and body were sending. I jacked him against the partition. The door creaked slowly shut. He gasped in shock at the cold metal meeting his bare back. Or maybe it was the aggressive way I was manhandling him. His hands dove into my hair. Preston pulled my mouth over his. I clapped my sweaty hands to his cheeks, enjoying the baby-smooth flesh under my fingertips. There was really no way for me to feel anything else, not geared up as I was. But that was good. It was okay. If I’d been able to rub my cock against his, I would have burst right inside my cup. As it was I could barely handle the soft touch of his tongue against the seam of my lips.
He wanted more. So did I. I wanted to fuck him right there and then. He led and I followed. Like some entranced rat being led along by a twinkly flautist, I fell under his spell. His rounded nails bit into my scalp. I felt his sides, rubbed his ribs, squeezed his hips. His mouth opened, tongue darting out to dare mine to play. Our panting breaths sounded twice as loud in the acoustically tiled bathroom. I leaned my pelvis in to him. He liked that. It got me a nip on the bottom lip that made my balls contract.
Something hit the other side of the wall. What it was I’ll never be sure. One of the Allegheny State players? Fate? A warning shot from God? Who knows. It was a loud enough thump that my mind, drenched in desire as it was, recognized what a phenomenally asinine thing I was participating in. I stumbled away from Preston. My hand couldn’t find or work the latch.
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Author Bio:
V.L. Locey loves worn jeans, belly laughs, reading and writing lusty tales, Greek mythology, the New York Rangers, comic books, and coffee. (Not necessarily in that order.) She shares her life with her husband, her daughter, one dog, two cats, a flock of assorted goofy domestic fowl, and two steers: one named after a famous N.H.L. goalie while the other carries the moniker of a 60s pop legend.
When not writing spicy romances, she enjoys spending her day with her menagerie in the rolling hills of Pennsylvania with a cup of fresh java in hand. She can also be found online on Facebook, Twitter, Pinterest, and GoodReads.
I love to meet new friends and fans! You can find me at-
Twitter- https://twitter.com/vllocey
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