Page 92 of Sideline Play

That’s how many times my husband thrusts up into me as I rub myself along his pelvis before my pussy is clamping down with the rush of my orgasm. Gripping my butt to the point of his fingers dimpling my muscle, he keeps me locked on him as the first rope of his cum lashes against my walls, panting into my neck as he ruts into me, chasing the rippling contractions of my orgasm and using them to stimulate his own and draw both out to the point of exhaustion.

Lifting us from the floor before we become too drunk on the endorphins, Remington stands and carries me to our bed, slowly pulling out of me before laying me down with my feet propped up on the headboard.

With pillows stacked under my hips, he murmurs, “Stay just like that for me, okay?”

“Mhmm…”

Pushing in the dribble of our cum that tries to weep out from my pussy, he kisses my knee and hums, “Perfect,” before laying down beside me.

Covering the space just above my mound, where I hope our sweet baby is already burrowed safe inside, with his long fingers stretching to my hip, Remington’s lips press against my shoulder as he whispers, “I love you, Scarlet.”

“I love you too,” I softly return, my fingers coming to lace over his where they stay joined together as we pass the morning looking up baby names and pictures of nurseries until my fingers start to grip his as I sit up, smiling. “I’m gonna need one of those tests here in a minute.”

EPILOGUE

SCARLET

It’sOpening Day and I’m late. I don’t even have the excuse of having driven from Chattanooga to cling to this time. What’s worse is I’m already at The Nest. I’ve been here since the bullpen had to come in for warmups at 1:30 p.m., an occurrence that had Roman pretending to collapse from shock. So I have no excuse for my butt being so tardy. However, I’ll die on the hill that this time, it’s not my fault. God’s honest truth, hand on the Bible, in the name of Chick-fil-A and Blanche Devereaux I pray, I would have been on time. But then I got a short, sharp cramp in my side that had me pressing my fingers into it and hissing through the sudden pain while tapping Nash’s shoulder and my husband, who never misses a thing, knew exactly what it meant: I’m not just fertile, I’m ovulating. And Opening Day or not, Remington is going to make sure I’m filled with his cum so maybe this cycle, a pregnancy will take.

“Fuck Scar,” he pants beside my ear, one hand around my neck, the other at my hip jerking me back to meet each thrust as he plows into me from behind—leg guards already on and pants undone just enough to free himself from his compression shorts and cup—against one of the mirrors in the training room.“You’re gonna look so pretty stretched with our baby. Your flat little tummy, round and heavy. After this game I’m takin’ you to bed and not lettin’ you out until tomorrow night. I get twenty-four hours every cycle of your sweet body being primed and ready for me, and I’m not wasting any more of them than I have to.”

The moan I let out is loud, too loud for where we are, the sound echoing in the empty space, but I can’t help myself. With each frenzied thrust, Remington is hitting my g-spot and making it difficult to think of anything but my coming orgasm and the impending feeling of his hot cum coating my walls and cervix.

When I took the test in December and got a negative result, Remington made love to me in our bed and then fucked me in our shower, promising me it was gonna happen. The following morning, I was up at the crack of dawn, taking another just to be sure, and again the following morning only to get my period that afternoon. Since then, we’ve been actively trying to make a baby, with my fertile window and ovulation day each cycle seeing our already high sex drive skyrocket and our impulse control vanish as we do things like fuck against the mirror in the gym when we should be in the clubhouse listening to my dad’s first speech of the season.

“Do you like that, baby girl? Do you want me to take you home and pump you full of my cum? Does it excite you knowing I can’t keep my hands off you or my dick out of you? That I’m here fuckin’ your hot little cunt instead of in the clubhouse where our team is waitin’ for me?”

“God, yes!”

“Shh, someone might hear you and come in, Scarlet. How would that look if they saw you bent over, begging for my cock and calling me Daddy while begging for my cum?”

Behind me he groans, low and guttural, as I feel another surge of arousal leak from me and soak his cock at his words, the already wet sounds our bodies are making rising in volume.

“You’d like that wouldn’t you, my depraved little wife?”

Dropping a hand from the mirror, I begin to vibrate my clit, moaning, “Yes, Daddy. I want them to see how good your cock makes me feel and watch as you fill me with cum.”

Head falling back, his hand leaves my throat and grasps my other hip, driving me onto him with fast, brutal thrusts as he roars my name a moment before coming inside me. The hot, sticky feel of his seed triggers my own release as I moan low in my throat, a pressure valve releasing inside of me as my pussy contracts over and over again, trying to suck up as much of his cum as I can.

Reluctantly pulling out of me, Remington squats down and kisses the backs of my trembling thighs as he pulls my panties and leggings back up. Standing up, he straightens my pink jersey with his new last name across the back before tucking himself back in and righting his own clothes. After quickly wiping my fingers under my eyes to fix my smudged makeup and then redoing my ponytail and bow, he takes my hand and leads me out of the training room, dragging me along as we run down the hall for the clubhouse where members of the team are already filing out.

“Shit,” he swears, “We’re so fuckin’ late.”

“Worth it,” I smile, rising up on my newest pair of pink sneakers to kiss him.

Threading his fingers through my hair and ruining my freshly redone ponytail, he drags our kiss out before murmuring, “You trying to get me in trouble, Scar?”

Cheeks blushing for a whole new reason this season as I squeeze my thighs against his release slowly wetting my panties, I say, “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

“Mrs. Jones?” Barney calls over the radio I still have at my hip though the game’s ended.

As far as Opening Day games go, this was one for the books. From the seventh inning on when the center fielder for Tampa came up and hit a two-run homer tying up the game, it had me in chokehold. At the bottom of the eleventh inning, we were still tied and already had two outs, with no one on base when “Let It Rock” started playing, breathing life back into the sold out stadium because Remington was up to bat and there was no mistaking the look of determination he wore to finally end the game.

Tapping his bat in the dirt and looking right at me, I knew exactly what was motivating him when he stepped into the box. Two balls, one strike, and four fouls, he worked to wear their already fatiguing pitcher down further until he slipped up and sent the perfect pitch Remi’s way. It was an exquisite swing that had the bat kissing the ball with a splitting crack that saw it rising across the stadium, arcing higher and higher until it landed amongst our screaming fans in the second tier stands. A home run to close the game at 4–3.

“Hey Barney, what’s up?” I radio back.

“Can you switch to channel 2?”

---