Page 28 of Sideline Play

Reaching out and tugging my lip free of my teeth, then tilting my chin up so I’m looking at the luminescent amber flecks in his eyes, he teases, “Eyes up here, baby girl. That’s an entirely different sort of lesson from what I’m teachin’ you.”

“I like learning new things,” I absently retort, snapping myself out of my lustful haze. “Did I just say that out loud?”

Running his finger over my lips and pulling on the bottom one, Remi’s voice is thicker, rougher.

“Yes, and for the record, I would like to teach you.”

Then releasing me and pointing to the sieve in my hands, he asks again, “Did you finish?”

Unable to recall but finding it empty, I nod, “Yep, all set.”

“Good. Then come here.”

Hopping down from the marble countertop, I stand between him and the mixing bowls, the difference in our size more obvious than usual. I see it when our shoes are lined up next to each other or I’m separating my clothes from his while folding the laundry after he’s washed it. Feel it when my fingers slip into his palm and disappear or when I line our hands up and his fingers can fold over mine. But standing in front of him, back to chest, barefoot, and his arms reaching over mine to control the pour of flour into the soft egg whites, I notice just how much he engulfs me.

The size difference teases me, making me feel extra delicate and feminine. It’s a feeling I love, having always been surrounded by smelly, sweaty, dirt and grass covered men. I feel even more safe tucked against someone so strong and formidable, knowing he can withstand a physical threat and is more than capable of helping shoulder the emotional burdens I carry. Comfortable, yet incredibly aroused as all sense and understanding of anatomy and physiology leaves my head whenconfronted with the long, thick press of his cock against my back and the knee jerk reaction of excited trepidation over wondering if he’ll fit and how much he would need to prep me so he could.

“Are you listening, Scar?”

“Uh-huh… down the middle, sweep the sides, slow and gentle,” I breathe.

“Good girl,” he croons, making a shiver race down my spine as he lets me go. Reaching for the all pink sprinkles, he asks, “How much do you want?”

“What do you usually do?”

“Two tablespoons.”

Not able to visualize that amount, I shrug. “Sounds good to me.” Though when he adds them to the bowl and I fold it in, my lips turn down.

“Hey,” he admonishes. “Put that pout away. We can add more; just tell me when.”

Slowly folding with each scoop he adds, I keep nodding my head for more until the sprinkles dominate half the batter.

“Perfect,” I declare upon seeing the abundant flecks of pink.

Laughing as he pulls the cupcake tin across the counter, he says, “It’s gonna be more sprinkle than cake.”

“Is that a bad thing?” I ask, suddenly worried I ruined it.

“If it makes you happy, not at all.”

Hoisting myself back up on the counter as he measures out the same amount of batter per liner, I tell him, “I’m very happy.”

Swiping his pinky through the streaks of what’s leftover batter, he dots my nose and says, “Good. That’s all I want,” taking the tin over to the oven and sliding my pink creations inside.

“In this oven, they bake for exactly seventeen minutes,” he informs me, putting his hands on my knees.

Watching every inch of my face, he starts to part my legs, stepping into the space as I lift my thighs up to widen my hipsand invite him in. Scooting closer to the edge of the counter and into the bracket of his arms, my hands come up to his chest, hovering over his bare skin.

Somehow touching him and mapping every plane of his body when he’s on my table is easy. Even when it makes my heart race and my fingers itch to explore the hidden places, I can work without hesitation. Every touch and press sure and confident. Remove us from that setting, however, and I stall.

Curling and flexing my fingers, I start and stop several times, my teeth sinking into my lip as my stomach knots.

“Tell me what you want, Scar,” he guides. “Words… a touch… I just need a sign, baby girl. Give me something and I’ll take over, but ya gotta help me. Can you do that?”

Nodding my head once before rapidly shaking it, I drop my hands. Without a sound or change of face, Remington steps back and softly reminds me, “Take your time, Scar. I’m not going anywhere.”

“Why?”

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