Page 132 of Striking Range

I want to feel like this forever. I want him inside of me, giving me whatever he has, for the rest of our lives. I will take from him until there is nothing left and keep it buried within me.

“Your dick is soft, baby,” Everett eventually whispers, his hand dropping from my shoulder to land on my hip. “You still feeling good?”

I can’t respond. There is too much happening beneath my skin; my eyes are leaking, and my teeth ache from where they’re dug into his trap.

I continue to shake, to strain, to feel it. I’m unsure if it’s pleasure or pain at this point.

“Skylar,” Everett says sternly, the hand on my hip stopping my movement, holding me still. “Talk to me.”

As I pull my teeth from his skin, I intend to tell him that I’m fine. That I just love him so much, and I’m desperate to live this moment forever. But instead, I sob.

I sob hard and loud, crumbling against his body as his fingers leave me. My hands grip and pull at his sides, my spit and tears leaking down his chest.

“It’s okay,” he placates, rubbing my back with one hand and holding the nape of my neck with the other. “You’ve been through a lot since yesterday. You’ve been more vulnerable than you have been in years. It’s okay to cry now.”

… I think he’s right. I think some part of me is cracking open under the safety of his touch, finally releasing all of the pent-up emotion I’ve been shoving down.

Everything has turned out perfectly—almost as if we’re living in a film and not real life. But I’m still exhausted and emotionally overstimulated. I need this outlet.

And Everett gives it to me. In the same way I rode his fingers, I cry and cry without pause. He does not demean me or belittle me; instead, he assures me that I’m safe and that he loves me. He promises me a long future.

As I eventually drift off to sleep, still covered in our come and shedding the occasional tear, Everett presses his lips to my ear and whispers, “It’s you and me forever, pup. You and me.”

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Skylar Parish

It’s Christmas morning. Everett and I woke to a series of calls from my mother, and as we finally answered the tenth one, she demanded we come to breakfast.

It was only 8 a.m.

And now we’re sitting around the dining room table, watching as Dad takes a large mouthful of potatoes and nearly swallows them whole.

“I’m so happy you two are here,” Mom beams, a large smile shaping her lips as she watches us eat.

“Thank you for inviting me,” Everett replies politely. “The peppermint hot chocolate is amazing.”

Mom flushes. I roll my eyes.

Everett is the world’s biggest brown-noser when it comes to my family, and I think I finally understand why: this is the kind of family he has always craved.

“I can’t believe you two graduated,” Mom adds. “I promise we won’t celebrate until you get your license, Sky, but I’m just so proud of you boys. Truly.”

Her eyes are misty as she says it, and I’m very tempted to turn and take in Everett’s expression—to see how that praise is affecting him. But I don’t want to embarrass him.

It was already a lot for him on graduation day. He had no one in his corner to show up for him. Luckily, my parents brought two bouquets, gifting him one. How they knew he would need it, I don’t know. But the whole night, as we celebrated just a little over dinner, Everett was beaming.

“Thanks, Mom,” I say.

The spread of food on the table is large, from eggs and bacon to peanut brittle and French toast. It’s a very standard, traditional Parish Christmas ritual.

After this, we’ll head into the living room and open presents from Santa.

“What time do you need to head home, Everett?” Dad asks around a strip of bacon. “We have some gifts for you, if you don’t mind sticking around for a bit.”

I freeze, my fork clenched between my fingers as I stare down at my half-empty plate. We never really discussed what we’d tell my family. Am I allowed to say his adoptive parents suck? That he lives with me now?

That he’s my boyfriend?