Filthy Coach: An Older Man Younger Woman Romance

by Amy Brent

  FILTHY COACH

  Amy Brent

  Contents

  Copyright

  A Note From The Author

  Join My Naughty Readers Club

  FILTHY COACH

  Filthy Billionaire Romance Series

  Hot Lesbian Encounters Series

  Double The Fun Menages

  Filthy Older Man Younger Woman Romance

  Filthy Sports Secret Baby Romance

  Exclusive Very FILTHY Excerpt from Amy’s Best Selling Book - Filthy Boss!

  More Steamy Romances by Amy Brent

  Copyright

  Copyright © 2016

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  This is a work of fiction. While, as in all fiction, the literary perceptions and insights are based on life experiences and conclusions drawn from research, all names, characters, places and specific instances are products of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously. No actual reference to any real person, living or dead, is intended or inferred.

  A Note From The Author

  Hey,

  I am Amy Brent. I love reading and writing steamy romances that are full of heat, heart and humour!

  I have included a few bonus stories right after the main book - because I know you will want to read more steamy stuff like this as you enjoy a superbly ecstatic, mind blowing, toe-curling experience in FILTHY COACH.

  Don’t forget to check out my FILTHY SPORTS SECRET BABY ROMANCE in the TOC.

  And also the EXCLUSIVE VERY FILTHY EXCERPT from my best selling book - FILTHY BOSS!

  You can find these in the TOC.

  I hope you have as much fun reading this book as I had writing it!

  So go on, Spoil Yourself Crazy!

  Join My Naughty Readers Club

  Sign up for Amy Brent’s VIP Email list to get notified of new releases, excerpts, sales and giveaways!

  Also get the three part series - The Billionaire’s Property for FREE!

  Click here to join Amy’s Naughty Readers Club!

  FILTHY COACH

  What do you do when the sexiest bastard to walk on to football field happens to need your personal services?

  Sam Carson is a washed-up ex-quarterback who’s more famous for his drunken brawls and internet sex tapes than throwing touchdowns. So why did my father, the owner of the Atlanta Trojans, hire Sam to be the new head coach? And what part does he expect me to play in this dangerous game?

  ALLIE WINSTON: I’m a tough chick playing in a tough man’s game. I’m a sports image consultant. It’s my job to make undisciplined football players and unfriendly coaches heroes in the public eye. But when I’m assigned to make Sam Carson look good, I know that I have my work cut out for me. Especially when he catches me in the shower diddling myself and moaning his name. I can’t deny my feelings for Sam, but I can’t deny that I’m also part of a game that’s using Sam as a pawn. I can only hope that he never discovers my treachery, because I can’t imagine my life without Sam in my bed.

  SAM CARSON: I’ll be the first to admit it. I’m a baaaad boy. I drink hard, play hard, and screw hard. And when I drive my Lambo into the back of a truck, my career as one of the hottest quarterbacks in pro football comes to an end. For the last few years I’ve been a coach. When I get an offer to be the head coach of the Atlanta Trojans, I know something is fishy. Then I meet Allie Winston, the smoking hot daughter of the team owner. I want her and I know she wants me, but I get the feeling that there’s more than just sexual attraction at play. Allie seems to be playing a dangerous game, and I won’t stop until I find out exactly what – and who - is going down.

  Sam Carson

  People often ask me, Sam, what’s the best part about being famous? They assume it’s having tons of money in the bank or a fleet of exotic cars in the driveway of your fifty-room mansion, or the adoration of millions of fans that makes a star’s toes tingle.

  Bullshit.

  My favorite part about being famous, if you can even call me that anymore, is the groupies: those wonderfully-slutty ladies of questionable judgment who will suck your cock beneath the table in a packed nightclub or fuck you silly in a stall in a football stadium restroom during halftime.

  Groupies come in all ages and colors, all shapes and sizes, all willing to take it however you wanna give it to them. In the mouth, the pussy, the ass; whatever.

  It’s all the same to them and all the same to me.

  There’s one thing you must understand about groupies. It actually has nothing to do with you; at least not the real you. It’s all about the famous you; the you the public thinks they know; the you they see on TV or in magazines.

  And they’re not fucking or sucking the famous you for sexual satisfaction, but for bragging rights; so they can they can brag to their groupie friends, “Hey, I fucked him! Let me tell you all about it!”

  Think about it, how many women can honestly say they fucked an American Football League quarterback in the equipment closet during halftime of a national championship playoff game?

  Just one that I know of.

  And I only know that because I was the one doing the fucking.

  I don’t remember her name, but she’ll take those bragging rights to her grave. Most people won’t believe her when she tells the story, but that’s okay because she knows in her heart that it’s true.

  When you’re famous, regardless of the reason why, groupies are a part of the game.

  Mick Jagger has a line of hot twenty-year-old’s five miles long ready to fuck him, even though he is older than the Crypt Keeper and looks like he’s decomposing before our eyes.

  Singers, actors, athletes, billionaires all have their groupies.

  Even psycho killers have women ready, willing, and able to have sex with them.

  Charles Manson still gets love letters from women who want to bear his lovechild, even though he’s been locked in prison for serial murder for forty-four years.

  Both of the Menendez brothers got married after they went to prison for shot gunning their parents to death.

  Fucking OJ Simpson got more pussy after he killed his wife and her friend than ever before.

  Groupies can’t control themselves.

  That’s part of the allure and part of the danger.

  They’re like bloodhounds.

  They can sniff you out wherever you go, always on the lookout for a famous name to tug, suck or fuck, so they can post it on Facebook or brag to their equally-slutty girlfriends about who they had in some hole of their body.

  Hell, you didn’t really have to that big of a star to have groupies attracted to you like bees to honey. Or flys to shit.

  Just look at me.

  I’m a good-looking guy, but I’m not super rich – at least not anymore – and I’m more famous for who I used to be than who I am now.

  Side note: I have noticed an increase in age and a degradation of hotness of the groupies who approach me now.

  Maybe that’s it.

  The quality of the groupie declines in direct proportion to the decline in the level of fame.

  When you’re Sammy Carson, the starting quarterback of a nationally-ranked college football team, or Sam Carson, the franchise quarterback of an AFL team that plays on TV every other Sunday night, the quality of groupie is incredibly high.

  But when you’re Sam Ca
rson, the former quarterback whose throwing arm got mangled in a car wreck, virtually ending your playing career overnight, and you have to go into coaching just to keep a foot in the game, the groupies slip from 10’s or 12’s down to 7’s or 8’s.

  I’m not complaining.

  Even 7’s and 8’s rank a hell of a lot hotter than most normal guys could ever hope to get.

  They wallow in pussy belonging to 4’s and 5’s, and they’re happy to get it.

  In professional sports, groupies are everywhere.

  And they play at every level of the game of football.

  When I was the starting quarterback of the Nassau College Buccaneers, the cheerleaders used to line up outside the locker room, waiting to see which one I’d pick to spend the night with.

  Some nights, I’d take two or three of them home with me, which pissed off the rest of the team because they got my leftovers.

  Sorry, fellas. Maybe you can get a majorette to blow you on the bus ride home. If not, you can work your way through the bevy of female alumni who would love to get a young buck in the sack.

  I’m the star. I get first pick. Fuck you very much!

  When I was drafted into the pros as the backup quarterback for the New York Thunder, women came out of the woodwork like cockroaches to be with me.

  When I became the team’s franchise quarterback, I was with a different woman every night, on and off the road. I’d have to take a day off every now and then just to give my poor cock a rest.

  Even now, as the forty-two-year-old head coach for the Atlanta Trojans, the groupies still come on to me.

  “Say, didn’t you use to be Sam Carson, the quarterback of the New York Thunder?” they ask all wide-eyed and giggly.

  “Why yes, I did,” I politely reply. “Would you like my cock in your mouth or in your twat?”

  That’s pretty much how the conversation went when I pulled off Interstate 16 coming out of Atlanta to take a piss and refuel my Land Rover on the way to my boss’ beach house in Hilton Head, South Carolina.

  The girl behind the counter, a smoky-voiced gal around thirty-five or so, with red-dye hair and big tits, spotted me right away.

  “Hey, ain’t you Sam Carson?”

  I smiled and bobbed my head. “I am.”

  “I’m Janine,” she said in a thick southern accent. She rolled her tongue around her plump lips. “I just love the Atlanta Trojans. I bet you’ll look so handsome down there on the sidelines with your little headset on.”

  “Let’s hope so,” I said with a sigh, nodding toward the gas pumps. “I also had thirty-five in gas.”

  I set the two six packs of Coors on the counter and held out my credit card so she could ring me up. She didn’t reach for the card. Instead, her eyes went dreamy and she pursed her lips.

  Bingo.

  Groupie alert.

  I stuck the credit card back in my wallet and gave her a smile. “So, do you want me to sign your tits or something?”

  That was all it took. She came around the counter without another word. She brushed past me to lock the front door, then led me into the back room.

  I bent her over a stack of beer cases and gave it to her from behind.

  Hers was not the tightest twat I’d ever stuck it in, but it did the trick.

  Ten minutes later, I was back on the road with a full tank of gas and two six packs of Coors; all on the house.

  See.

  What’d I tell you.

  Groupies.

  They are fucking awesome.

  Allie Winston

  It took nearly five hours of driving in heavy interstate traffic to get from my loft in downtown Atlanta to my dad’s beach house on Hilton Head Island, just off the coast of South Carolina.

  It was slow going, but I enjoyed the peace and quiet of the long drive. I looked forward to the solitude of a long weekend at the beach. It was Friday afternoon and I wasn’t due back in the office until Tuesday.

  I planned to spend the entire weekend alone with several bottles of my dad’s best Chardonnay and the latest John Grisham novel.

  I wasn’t even taking a computer with me.

  It would be the first time I’d been off the grid in years.

  Okay, I wouldn’t be totally off the grid. I had my iPhone, but you can’t expect a girl to go cold turkey all at once.

  I promised myself that I would not surf the web or answer any calls that weren’t from my dad or Darcy, my assistant back in Atlanta.

  Darcy would text 911 if anything caught fire at the office and would only text if it was a raging inferno that she couldn’t put out.

  And dad, who owned the Atlanta Trojans professional football team, was in Los Angeles at a team owner’s meeting, so I didn’t expect to hear from him until later next week.

  Honestly, if I didn’t see, speak, or hear from another human over the next three days, that would be just fine with me.

  Once I got out of the horror that is Atlanta traffic and hit Interstate 16 east, I set the Audi’s cruise control to sixty-five, plugged in the latest Bruno Mars CD, and sang along at the top of my lungs. I felt great, like I was leaving the world and all its troubles behind, at least for a few days.

  I drove with my shoes off and the windows down. I loved the feeling of the wind caressing my cheeks and whipping through my long blond hair.

  It was springtime in Georgia. The air was warm and moist, but the breeze was cool and refreshing the closer to the ocean I came. I glanced out the side windows and gave a happy sigh.

  The world had turned green again after a dull winter that left me greatly in need of a break.

  I call it a break rather than a vacation because if I don’t get away once in a while to decompress, I’m liable to break things over people’s heads.

  I handle stress pretty well, but every now and then it gets to me. I work as a public relations and image consultant for one of the top sports marketing firms in the country, based in Atlanta.

  I work mostly with professional athletes playing in the southeast, including those who play for my dad’s team, the Atlanta Trojans.

  It’s a stressful job, but I love it and can’t imagine doing anything else.

  I get to work with my father without having to work directly for him. He’s my client, not my boss. I wouldn’t have it any other way. I love him dearly, but I could never work for him.

  Daddy can be a bit of a bully, which he says you have to be if you’re going to make it big in the cutthroat world of professional sports.

  Daddy doesn’t stress me out, at least not since I’ve become an adult who has proven that I can take care of myself.

  My stress typically comes from my personal life; mostly from the long line of random assholes who worm their way into my bed and into my heart, then turn out to be total douchebags who are either (a) afraid of commitment, (b) already involved with someone, but forgot to tell me about it, (c) convicted felons on the run from the police, (d) gay, but experimenting with women, or (e) all of the above.

  You think I’m joking.

  Trust me, I’m not.

  The latest douchebag to tromp through my life was Brett, the hot-as-hell younger brother of a (now former) friend who couldn’t wait to meet me, fuck me, steal my debit card, and clean out my checking account.

  The joke was ultimately on him. My bank automatically sweeps everything over a set amount into my money market account, so good old Brett just got away with a hundred dollars and my everlasting contempt.

  I wouldn’t have minded the robbery so much if the sex had been better.

  I guess I should add another option: (f) sucks in bed.

  Newborn babies could hold erections longer than Brett.

  Turns out, too much cocaine will do that to you.

  There’s even a name for it.

  Coke dick.

  Who knew?

  I pushed thoughts of Brett’s worthless ass out of my mind as I turned onto Interstate 278. I was less than thirty minutes from the house overlooking a private sa
ndy beach on the ocean side of Hilton Head Island.

  I couldn’t wait to uncork a bottle of wine and dig my toes into the sand.

  A weekend alone was exactly what I needed to get my head back in the game.

  Allie

  I crossed the William Hilton Parkway, the bridge that connects Hilton Head Island to the South Carolina mainland, just as the sun was setting in the west behind me.

  I followed the highway across the island to the Atlantic side. Daddy’s beach house was within walking distance of the Port Royal Barony Golf Course. If there was one thing daddy loved more than football, probably more than me, it was golf. That’s why he bought this place; so he could literally walk out the door and be at the clubhouse of one of the most beautiful golf courses on the planet without breaking a sweat.

  The house itself was rather modest by daddy’s means. He was worth a few hundred million dollars and lived in a 27,000 square foot mansion in Bucks County, just outside of Atlanta.

  The beach house was around 2,700 square feet. It was a hundred-year-old cottage daddy had restored and tripled in size by adding a second floor and full basement.

  There were four bedrooms, three baths, a small gourmet kitchen and living room combination, a walk-in wine cooler, and a deck along the back that was separated from the shoreline by thirty yards of pristine white sand.

  Since daddy owned a football team and often lent out the house to his executives and players, he had a construction company dig out a full basement beneath the house to install a large home theater and workout room that had every piece of equipment you could imagine. I wasn’t a gym rat (why would you want to lift heavy things?), but I was a runner and sometimes used the treadmill and elliptical when it was too wet or cold to run along the beach.