Page 17 of Striking Range

Not these kinds of questions, anyway. Not the kind that digs that deep, that reveals that part of me that’s wrong and dirty.

“Where’s my present?” His tone is soft, coated in a faux sweetness. Or maybe a real one; I can’t really tell anymore.

But what I do know is that it feels like he is asking me for something other than a birthday present.

I leave the bed and grab my bag from where it lies next to the door, trying my best not to wobble as my vision blurs just slightly. I pull out the small box, bringing it back to him as he sits up, taking it from me hesitantly.

Skylar opens the keychain—the number 4, his jersey number, with a paw print that represents his nickname. Both are gold-plated.

“For your keys,” I tell him, leaning toward where his sits. He stares down at it where it sits in his palm.

For a long moment, Skylar is quiet. And after considering the gift, he turns those expressive eyes onto me. “Thank you.”

We’re staring at each other again, assessing. I watch him watch me, and I realize he’s feeling around for a boundary. Some part of me heats up, and I can feel myself starting to hope that he’s testing the waters for more.

For a path that leads back to my mouth, my hands, my words against his skin.

“Evie,” he calls out quietly, setting the keychain on the mattress. “Tell me something.”

I nod. “Okay. What?”

He leans forward just slightly and asks, “Did you like it?”

I think I’ll die right here. I might just suddenly combust. You see, I know what he’s asking; I just wish I didn’t.

“Like what?” I deflect.

Skylar rolls his eyes at the question, a blush filling his soft cheeks. Being the one to provoke such a sweet reaction in him makes me feel like more of a man, and I have no idea why.

“Did you like… kissing me?” he elaborates. I can’t seem to speak anymore, so instead I nod, ignoring the pounding in my chest, the heat in my stomach, and the screaming in my head. “Do you want to do it again?”

I truly am a masochist. This time, I don’t need words to answer him. I don’t have any to give, anyway.

Softly, I press my mouth to his, feeling the caress of his fingers against my jaw. It’s a sudden motion—I’m acting on impulse, ignoring logic.

I’m kissing him again.

If he opens his mouth, I’ll be able to taste him, and like an addict, I want to. I fucking want it so badly, and I hope to god he doesn’t give it to me. That he doesn’t fuck me up any further by showing me this road I could travel when I know how off-limits it is.

But because Skylar is horrible and mean and cruel, he does. His tongue slips into my mouth like he’s done it a million times, easily finding his way onto my lap where he straddles my thighs.

I gasp into him, my arms finding a home around his waist like they’ve craved to do for so long now. I can feel the length of him pressed against the length of me in a painful, hot tease.

The taste of him is overwhelming every sense I have, and my entire world has narrowed down to this singular moment, this singular man.

“Everett,” Skylar breathes out, “praise me.”

I swear to god I’m coming undone. I think I truly will die here tonight, right here in his bed.

“What do you want to hear?” I ask him, leaving open-mouthed kisses along his jaw, his neck. My hand grips his hips; they’re narrow, but not in the way a woman’s are, not in the way I’m used to. It’s intoxicating. “How beautiful you are? Because you are; you are so beautiful, Skylar.”

He groans, loud and needy, head tilting back to offer me more of him. “Tell me more.”

I nip at him. “So beautiful, and so soft. You sound so sexy telling me what to do; you always have. You’re so demanding, so bratty.”

Skylar’s hips begin to rock into mine, and I wonder if he even notices he’s doing it. His breathing becomes ragged and harsh.

Bursts of pleasure are erupting inside of me—lighting me up from the inside out as he works himself over my lap, our clothes acting as a much-needed barrier. I’ll take whatever I can get to keep me from freaking out at the intensity, the reality of what we’re doing.