Page 63 of Sideline Play

“Remington…”

“Scarlet…”

Lifting my thumb up just a bit, I peek inside and see the small satin box I hold hasn’t morphed into something else or vanished.

“Is this…” I squeak, clearly my throat. “Is this what I think it is?”

“The package you signed for? Yes.”

“No, I mean is this…”

Stepping up to me, his hand covering my own, he softly replies, “Why don’t you open it and see, baby girl?”

Shaking my head, I shove it back at him.

“I can’t. If I open that and what I think is inside isn’t, I’ll be devastated. And if it is what I think, I won’t want to give it back to you so you can ask me later. So take it, please,” I urge, trying to force it into his hand, pocket, anything just so long as I no longer have access to it. “Remi, please…”

“Open it, Scar.”

“I can’t.”

Finally taking it from me, I feel the elephant that plonked down on my chest lift only for him to collapse right back on my lungs as Remington kneels before me.

“Marry me.”

“Are you sure? Because you can’t really walk this back and I’m, like,a lot.I’m high maintenance, insecure, lack social skills. I’ve got baggage—hell my whole family does and we have, like, zero boundaries and you know we’re a package deal—and I’m?—”

“Perfect,” he interrupts, setting the box down to take my hands in his. “You are perfect. Every facture, every flaw, everyjagged edge you wrap in beautiful, delicate sunshine, is perfect. I love that you’re so unapologetically yourself even when others try to force you to be less, to be small. You are everything to me, Scarlet, and I want to spend every minute of every day for the rest of my life loving you like you deserve, showing you just how much you own me and how happy and grateful I am to be yours, to be loved by you. So marry me and let me be the one to give you every piece of the future I see when I look at you.”

Pulling my hands free to wipe the tears from my face, I nod, “Okay,” the word barely audible. Sniffling, I repeat louder, “Okay, yes, I’ll marry you,” bending over to cup Remington’s face and kiss him, murmuring against his lips, “I love you,” before sinking to my knees with him.

“I love you too, baby girl. So fuckin’ much. You’re my entire life,” he returns, letting go of my hip to pat around the floor between us for the box as he continues to kiss me.

Once located, he reluctantly parts from my lips to pull the ring free and slide it onto my finger. I don’t stop to look at it though. Instead, I keep kissing his jaw, neck, and chest as I work his open shirt down his arms, only noting how right his ring feels on my hand, how at home I feel with him.

Beyond that, it’s a frenzy of emotion, of need, of longing to be with him. To be filled by him, claimed and marked.

With his shirt triumphantly wrenched free and tossed aside, I rest back on my heels, palms on his chest, his heartbeat a racing match to my own and say, “Love me. Fuck me. I don’t care. Just make me yours, Remington.”

Scooping me up and laying me out on our bed, he reverently trails his fingers between my breasts, drawing goosebumps in his wake as he responds, “Baby, no matter how I take you—rough and fast, slow and sweet, hand around your throat and ass red from my palm—I’m always loving you. My touch will nevergrace your skin with anything less than absolute love, respect, and adoration for you.”

Working his hands around to my back, he grasps the tails of my sweater’s bow and deliberately begins to untie me, bringing the ends out and undoing their crisscross over my ribs. Leaving them parted at my sides, his rough palms are gentle as they caress up my sternum, opening the fluttering fabric to reveal my bra. With the space between his thumbs and forefingers molded to the underwire, he purrs, “Stunning,” giving my breasts a light squeeze before covering them and continuing up to my shoulders to peel my top off the rest of the way.

Sweater dropped and forgotten on the floor, Remington lightly brushes his fingers up my sides. The barely there touch has my breath catching and my nipples hardening and peaking against the sheer lace cups. When he finally does come to the darkening, rosy points, circling and pinching them, my shoulders lift from the bed on a short, needy exhale.

“So pretty,” he hums.

Though we’ve just begun, I’m already on edge, the fine hairs along my body standing at attention, blood sizzling as it races through my veins, pussy wet and clenching in desperate search of his touch. Already pleading, “Please,” the relief I found from my orgasm in the parking lot of the festival is long gone.

Running his hands over the tulle that covers my thighs, Remi spreads my legs and lowers himself between them, pushing the layers of my skirt up around my hips as he hushes, “Shh baby girl, I’ve got you.” Then with my eager cunt and soaked panties exposed, he hooks his hands under my knees and yanks me to the edge of the bed, smiling up at me as he says, “I’ve been dying to taste this pussy, fucking my hand over the very idea of sucking on your clit and licking your tight little holes.” Massaging my inner thighs with his thumbs working to keep me relaxed andopen for him, he instructs, “Now be a good girl and take off your pretty panties so I can make your cunt feel all better.”

Working my panties down my thighs and over my knees, I let them go to fall down my legs and puddle at my ankles.

“Such a good girl for me,” Remington lovingly praises, though his voice is rough. Freeing one foot from my panties, he drapes my leg over his shoulder. Then removing them completely, he picks up the scrap of lace and tucks it into the pocket of his jeans before bringing my other leg over his arm so I’m spread open for him. Then with one knee lowered to the ground as if he’s about to catch a fastball, he orders, “Now scream for me,” burying his face between my legs, hands folded over my abdomen to keep me in place.

At his first lick of my pussy, my hips instinctively try to shoot up and squirm, his name a hoarse cry on my lips as I grab hold of his short hair. And when his tongue flicks against my clit, I collapse with a whimpered moan of his name, his mouth a thousand times better than my toy.

TWENTY-EIGHT

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