Page 11 of Sideline Play

Aside from wanting to steal, covet, and be given every single inch of her heart and body so I take up as much space inside her as she does me? Not much.

“Haven’t you been listening, Scar? I get to be a pseudo dog owner for the next ten weeks. It’ll be great practice at having one of my own if I can’t get back in the game.”

Letting out another full hearted laugh, she chides, “You’re ridiculous. First off, we’re getting you back out behind the plate in time for Spring Training. Come hell or high water, it’s happening, and I won’t rest until it does.

“Second, if you think you can handle Winnie’s neurosis, you are more than welcome to put in an application to get a time-share with her. All the joys of doggie companionship with none of the lifetime commitment.”

“Trust me, lifetime commitments aren’t a deterrent for me, baby girl.”

SIX

SCARLET

“Oh my God!I can’t believe I told him it shouldn’t be asking too much to be a good girl and agood girl,” I wail, hitting my forehead on the steering wheel.

I would give an entire week’s supply of not only coffee but caffeine of any kind to be able to take those words back. One minute everything was fine. I was rambling on with more detail than he probably cared to get about my friendless, loveless existence, minding my own business while working my fingers into his muscles. His well defined, smooth, corded, lickable muscles.

Then the next, I’m saying I want to be someone’s good girl and am one word vomited sentence away from saying I want to behisgood girl. His good girl who gets told to crawl to him, take out his cock, and suck on it until I gag, and every other mortifying fantasy I’ve been getting off to lately.

“Stupid, stupid, stupid,” I repeat, punctuating each reprimand with another hit against the leather.

And okay, maybe things weren’t entirely fine. Because while I’ve given Roman a number of recovery massages as well as several other players on the team, it has never been like this.

Touching Remington and mapping the ridges and valleys of his muscles. Listening to the subtle changes in his breathing and the groans and grunts that slipped free. The ever present drawl of his words growing longer, thicker, and more pronounced. Watching his body tense and flex before slowly relaxing. Smelling the clinging traces of eucalyptus and rosemary from his soap before they combined with the lavender and peppermint balm as it melted into his skin.

With every touch and sound, I was transported to a special kind of hell. One where my body grew warm and flushed. My skin prickled and zinged, drawing my nipples taut and alert. My weight shifted from foot to foot as I clenched my thighs against the swelling throb of my clit and rapidly dampening panties. The urge to rub against him like a cat in heat until I came driving me mad.

Even now, I can’t help but squirm as I recall it. That torturous need to touch and push the boundaries of what’s acceptable as I had talked about with him coming to life with an agonizing frenzy.

Hands down, massaging Remington Tate was the most sexually charged, frustrating, and arousing situation I’d ever been in. And like an absolute moron, I agreed to go live with him. To trap myself in his home, where I’ll be surrounded by an infinite number of tiny details that create the sum of the man and of course himself, twenty-four seven, without escape. Because apparently, I’m a masochist.

Groaning again, I quell the visceral need to slip my hand between my thighs and rub my pussy through the fabric of my leggings right here in the damn parking lot where anyone could see me and instead punch the start button of my SUV with my knuckle. The soft hum of the engine and awakening lights of the dash pull me out of my mortified misery enough to finish throwing my stuff into the seldom used passenger seat.Dropping my phone into the center cup holder, I tap away at the screen to pull up a playlist of a dozen songs I currently listen to on repeat but pause when I go to hit play.

My mind is a merry go round of obsessive thought, the ride only just beginning.

He called me baby girl. As effortless and unapologetic as breathing, he repeated it to me in the light of day. Traces of all potential, however improbable, excuses I concocted for its occurrence last night obliterated. He consciously called me baby girl. And while every touch and smile have worked to slowly steal and claim pieces of my heart this season, it’s that endearment that makes me weak for the idea of him, of us, and all the possibilities of what we could be. My daydreams and late night fantasies, all seemingly within reach because of that simple, breath stealing endearment.

But to be an us, I would have to be open with him, honest, transparent, and share something I no longer talk about if I can help it. We can’t have a relationship otherwise. Because for as much as I’ve come to want and crave sex—have learned my body and developed a more than healthy appetite for it—I’m terrified that I’ve been broken beyond repair and am crippled by the idea of transferring that burden to yet another person.

With that merry go round picking up speed, I know I need to get off before I spiral. I need a distraction, time to empty my mind and box the effects from my past back up. I need to shop, get a manicure, or maybe both.

The Home Team

Today 11:32 AM

Scarlet

Decided to hit the mall in Green Hills. I’ll bring dinner home ??

Daddy

Use your AmEx

Scarlet

Dad

Daddy

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