"Can I play with your balls?"
Grace has been watching the tennis pro for a while, watching the way his hard body moves around the court. Lying about her age, she sets up a lesson, but what starts out as a bit of fun soon turns serious when he discovers her true feelings. Now Grace is going to get a real lesson, a private match that will be everything she dreamed of and more - singles and doubles...
Warning: Taken At The Tennis Club features strong adult themes and explicit descriptions of sexual acts, including an MFM menage, multiple penetration, oral sex, backdoor, bareback action and more. It is strictly for adults only from best-selling erotic author J D Cirque.
Signup to the newsletter (http://eepurl.com/5iVH9) for all the latest releases and special offers, including instant access to three FREE ebooks deemed TOO HOT for Amazon.
EXCERPT
I try to put what he’s telling me into practice, try and push past the raging hormonal flood in my body. He’s genuinely excited when I improve and I can see why he’s so popular. Everything about him is engaging.
“Squeeze the grip of the handle a little tighter. I’ll show you.”
My throat closes when he comes directly behind me. His breath is on my neck, the hard, corrugated board of his abs against my back as he mirrors himself against me. He takes my hand, closing his own over it until we’re as one.
When he speaks, his voice travels through my body, lips brushing against my ear as he repeats the steps. He moves my hand and I let him work me, make myself pliant at his touch.
“Shift your weight onto your back foot, like this.”
He moves my body back and the fires inside me intensify tenfold as the rounded arc of my ___ presses into his crotch.
There is no mistaking it. I can feel his _____ and ____ against my backside, the outline of his barred shaft.
Is he aroused? I wonder, or perhaps that is simply the size of him.
The pressure between our bodies does not dissipate. He holds me in position as we shift back and then forwards, my racket lifting skyward, the swing, the follow-through, the beautiful agony of clothes separating us.
I just hope my soaking panties don’t stain his shorts.