Page 72 of Striking Range

And after a moment, one in which I take in how precious he’s being, Skylar adds, “And what about Ashley?”

At this question, I realize he’s uncertain, if not a bit confused and maybe slightly insecure. His eyes refocus on me, nervous but curious as he inches closer to me.

“She’s actually the one who told me to confess,” I admit.

This shocks him more than my previous statement, and he gasps out, “I’m sorry, what?!”

“She told me that I can either live in this misery or step out onto the ledge. And to be honest, this ledge is horrible.”

Skylar chokes on a laugh, a small grin playing with those pink lips. “Smart girl.”

His thumb drags over my bottom lip, and I stop breathing. Full stop, no air, could die at any moment if that’s what he asks of me.

“You’re so beautiful, Evie,” he murmurs.

I scoff, eyes darting to literally anywhere but him. “I look like a horse just kicked me in the face a handful of times. You haven’t even seen my stomach yet.”

Skylar cringes. “Yeah, sure. But you’re still beautiful. You’ve always been very handsome.”

He moves his face until he’s back in my field of view, and I can feel the hot tears welling up again.

“Does this mean you’re not mad at me anymore?” I ask.

Skylar hums before he says, “Are you telling me that you freaked out because your dad is a homophobic piece of shit who hits you, and not because you think I’m gross?”

I can’t help the roll of my eyes or the small smile that accompanies it. “Yes.”

“And… And you want me? Like, you really want me? Not just for sex?”

All smiles are gone again. The air around us is somehow both sweltering and frigid all at once. Something life-altering is happening between us, and we can feel it.

“Yeah,” I admit softly. “I want you. I… I think I like you. Like, really, really like you.”

“Then yeah, I’m not mad anymore. You’ve been forgiven.”

Skylar tucks his face into the crook of my neck, and I try to breathe around the feeling of his warm breath, his skin, his lips brushing me. I can feel myself hardening in my jeans.

“Good.” My voice cracks, like a goddamn teenager.

Skylar giggles. “Let’s figure all of this out tomorrow.”

“Oh. Okay.” I feel the lack of his warmth in a devastating way once he pulls away, his eyes searching mine as his hands fall away.

“For tonight,” he adds, clearing his throat. “Do you want me to touch you?”

Warning bells go off in my mind. They tell me to stop, to think, to remember what this will do to me and the life I’ve spent so many years securing if I say yes.

But I do. I do want him to touch me.

And fuck the Carmichaels and their backward views and their abusive household. I don’t need them; I can build my own family.

If I say it enough times, maybe I’ll believe this. And if not, then just for tonight. Tonight, I will just be Everett, and that’ll have to be enough.

“Yes,” I say, determined, desperate even.

Skylar smiles. He wants to; he wants to touch me.

I feel his palm as he lays me flat, his hands returning to himself to rip off his shirt before he climbs onto my lap. I take in his smooth skin, his lean muscles, and the hardening pink nipples on his pecs. Fuck.