Page 18 of Sideline Play

His breaths, just as ragged as mine. His lips pressing whisper like kisses along my neck, and his fingers caressing my side. Murmured sweet and filthy words filling my ears until I’m hovering between wakefulness and sleep, his cum slowly dripping out of me.

Once I begin to feel a chill, however, I’m pulled out of the last of my fantasy. Getting up from the bed, I wash my toy in my bathroom’s sink and twist my hair up to remain dry while I quickly wash my body clean in the shower.

Dry and with fresh pajamas on, I crawl back into bed, tucking myself in, a soft smile on my face. True to the day’s form, however, my mind still refuses to completely quiet down, yet another thought about tomorrow’s surgery popping up.

Taking my phone from its dock, I’m halfway through my message to Remington when “Enchanted” begins to play.

“Hello?” I ask as if the song and image of Remington from behind as he squats at home plate isn’t enough to clue me in on who’s calling.

“Baby girl, it’s late. You should be sleeping.”

“Says the man with surgery in a few hours. The very one who is calling me at said late hour.”

“Only because I saw your text bubble pop up.”

Turning on my side, I can’t help the broad smile that stretches across my face at his slow words.

“Remi, were you watching for a message from me?” I tease.

“And so what if I was, Scar?” he answers without reservation.

Scrunching up my face as I fight back a squeal, I kick my feet in the bed, and as calmly as humanly possible, reply, “Well now that you’ve got me, what do you want to talk about?”

“I don’t have you yet, but I plan to,” he boldly declares, making my brain short circuit, the synapses only firing backto life as he chuckles and begins pulling me into talking about how the rest of our respective days went, the soft, comfortable cadence of his voice slowly lulling me to sleep.

EIGHT

REMINGTON

Comingout of anesthesia is like waking up from being blackout drunk. I can recall being wheeled into the operating room, the transfers of tubes and machines, even the anesthesiologist introducing herself and explaining what she would be giving me. After that, nothing. It’s a blank void in my head. I can’t even recall beginning to count back as she had instructed. One second I was staring up at a mirrored ceiling and the next, I’m back in the private room where I started. My eyelids are heavy, my body aches as if I’ve been on an all-night bender, and my mind is warped and disoriented as I try to place where each sound and smell is coming from.

There’s one small anchor holding me in place though. A hand tucked inside of mine, fingers squeezing and releasing, stroking the lines of my palm. Soft, small, delicate. Through the antiseptic and sterile smell of the hospital, roses and vanilla waft up to greet me. With a deep, throaty inhale, I suck in the smell of Scarlet’s perfume, the sugary sweet scent of caffeinated strawberry açaí standing in for her iced coffee following close behind.

A quiet gasp falls from her lips as she murmurs, “Holy hell Kessler, yes please…” before a page is rapidly turned.

Cracking an eye open, my other screwing up tight against the faint light, I croak, “Who’s Kessler?”

“Jesus Christ!” she startles, springing from the chair pulled up beside my bed. “You about gave me a heart attack! How long have you been awake?”

Rubbing a hand at my dry throat, I swallow several times before answering, “Not long.”

“Here,” she offers, leaning over me to retrieve a cup from the table at my side. Pushing a button on the bed to raise me up more, she instructs, “Drink, slowly.”

Following her firm directive, I unnecessarily grasp her wrist, my fingers wrapping around her fluttering pulse as my lips close over the straw. The moment the water touches my tongue, twelve plus hours without anything to eat or drink hits me like a freight train. On instinct I begin to guzzle the straw only for her to yank it back and raise an eyebrow at me.

“I said,slowly.You’ll make yourself sick.”

Deeming an appropriate amount of time has passed, she offers me the cup again only this time not trusting me to follow her rules as she takes it back just as quickly. Setting it back on the table and conveniently moving it out of my reach, she scoops her hair over her shoulder, the golden strands cascading over the ruffled strap of her dress before smoothing out the pink floral pattern behind her thighs and sitting back down.

The already short hem of her dress rises further as she adjusts herself in the chair, her tan legs elegantly draping off to the side in a long line as she crosses her ankles.

“You look beautiful, Scar.”

Tucking a section of hair behind her ear and bringing her hand over her mouth to hide her smile, she whispers, “Thank you,” her bashful eyes darting every which way but to my face.

“So, who’s Kessler?” I ask, curling my hand back around hers.

“No one.”

---