Page 39 of Pitcher

A choking sound and an audible gasp can’t mask the sound of my laughter. Does my girl know me or what?

“I think you’re on to something, McCallister.” Except no one will suffer my wrath but you, I want to say. “Maybe porn will put me in a more forgiving mood.”

The rest of my comments die off as I feel Dr. Phelps drying my shoulder and promptly cleaning it.

“Try to relax, Theo,” he attempts to soothe me.

Not a fucking chance. My body is locked up tight, preparing for the hell that is soon to take place.

“I’m relaxed,” I lie.

Anniston makes a noise in her chest like maybe she swallowed wrong or thinks Dr. Phelps is a moron. I know she wouldn’t be masking a disbelieving scoff. Now would not be the appropriate time to be a smart-ass.

“Try and relax your shoulders,” he tries again. “Lean into Anniston.”

Now that’s something Icando.

Without any further instruction, I bury my face into Anniston’s soft tits and almost groan. Almost. I don’t want to make it weird, but seriously, her tits are so fucking warm. With a little alcohol, I think I could get away with her letting me motorboat them. But alas, no beer. Or tequila. Tequila really gets her going…

Lost in the daydreams of her pink nipples, I feel Dr. Phelps at my back. Immediately, I’m tense again. It’s a fucking big-ass needle. I do not need to explain why I can’t relax here.

“You know what I’m looking forward to learning from watching porn tonight?” Anniston’s breath feathers against my ear, and chills break out along my arms.

“What?” I whisper back, acutely aware I’m going to be stabbed at any minute.

“I want to…” The warmth of her tongue is what I notice first. Slow and languid, it drifts across my neck, stopping just at my jaw. Instinctively, my hands clench her hips as I try securing her in place. No one needs her darting off when things are just getting interesting.

I swallow. “Don’t stop.”

For the love of God, don’t fucking stop.

With my plea, Anniston’s glorious tongue is on the move again. Tempting. Torturous. Until it reaches my lips, and Dr. Phelps jams the fucking needle in my shoulder, and I suck in a harsh breath.

Fuck.

My chest is tight, and all the oxygen feels like it’s caught in my throat, but when I finally manage out a groan, Anniston’s lips descend on mine and the pain doesn’t seem as excruciating anymore.

She’s kissing me.

Anniston McCallister is kissing me.

Sure, we’ve kissed before, but not like this.

Not opened mouthed with my hands inching up her ribs, my thumb daring to slide beneath the underwire of her bra.

Keep going on my shoulder, Doc. Whatever you do, don’t let this moment end.

I have a feeling it won’t happen again.

“Almost done, Theo. You’re doing great.”

I barely register his praise. All I can think is: Anniston McCallister is the best fucking kiss I’ve ever had. Her tongue moves in tandem with mine. Fighting. Clashing. But yielding when she recognizes I run the oral game. She wins the distraction, but I own this goddamned kiss.

Every move is small and dainty, and my God, do I want to rough her up. I want to demand she show me how she licked that Popsicle in my vintage ’67 Mustang.

But I don’t.

“All done,” Coach announces with a little more happiness than I feel is warranted for breaking up mine and Anniston’s cuddle time.

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