Page 82 of Striking Range

“Sky,” he groans.

“Sorry,” I pant out. “I had to test if I was ready.”

The test worked—the friction felt good.

“And are you?” Everett asks, and as our eyes connect once again, I give him a soft nod.

His big hands grip my hips as he begins to pull out of me until all that is left inside is his swollen head. Then, he slams back in with unnecessary force. The only thing keeping me from being shoved up the length of the bed with each snap of his hips is his hands on me, keeping me locked into place.

He’s fucking into me hard and fast, and on every thrust he angles upward, already eerily familiar with the placement of my prostate.

“Everett, oh, that feels so good.” I’m crying again, but this time from pure pleasure.

The throb has taken a backseat to the feeling of his head poking that sweet spot inside of me. The rhythm is brutal, the force of it borderline painful. I can feel him in every inch of my body.

I can feel his heat. I can feel every pulse.

He’s touching as much of me as he can, his wandering hands tracing my skin as if it’s a precious commodity.

“Be a good boy and come on it, puppy,” Everett commands, his voice low and rough.

He sounds so formidable, so in control. He’s abusing the fuck out of my prostate now, and I can’t seem to breathe around the sensation.

“Evie,” I whimper, reaching out for him, and he lets me drag him down to lie on top of me. The angle changes, and I feel every single inch of him touch my prostate with each drag, both in and out. “Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck.”

I’m chanting—I’m praying.

“That’s it,” he murmurs against my neck, thrusts becoming erratic as he fights off his own release. He’s kissing my neck, my chest, my face. “You’re doing so well. You sound so good, and you feel even better. Fuck, I’m close. Come for me. Come for me so I can fill you up.”

The thought of feeling his come so deep inside of me is enough to push me over the edge again. I cling to the hair on the back of his head and bring him to me, digging my teeth into the meat of his trap, a few inches from his neck.

Everett groans, loud and desperate, and over the feeling of my own orgasm rocketing through me, I feel the force of his hot release coating my insides—so fucking deep inside.

“Oh, fuck, puppy. Oh fuck. So good, you feel so fucking good,” he rambles.

I’m shaking beneath him, barely holding it together as I memorize the feel of his come inside of me. My teeth are still buried in his flesh as I hear his cries.

As soon as I can no longer feel him pulsing, I unlatch from his trap and let go of his hair, allowing him to lean up. Tears are streaming down his face as he watches me, big honey eyes so full of affection that I could drown in it.

Affection and… There is something else buried there. Deep in the recesses of Everett’s heart, his soul, the very core of him, I can see something else in there. And I can’t tell if it’s a necessarily pleasant thing.

“Did I bite too hard?” I mutter.

I drew some blood, but I didn’t tear a chunk out or anything.

He shakes his head. “No, not at all. I just… it was a lot. Emotionally.”

I understand him. I really, really do.

We’re both covered in sweat, come, and tears—staring at each other as we try to untangle the mess of emotion and sensation that we’ve just created.

But I’m wrung out, completely exhausted, and have no energy to try and understand anything.

Everett seems to realize this, leaning down to kiss my cheek softly. “Let me clean you up, then we can go to bed.”

Normally my pride would prevent me from allowing anyone to take care of me in such a way—I’m a grown man after all. And tonight, I’ve already allowed myself to be far too vulnerable, far too pathetic.

But in case I forgot to mention, I’m fucking exhausted, and the part of me that’s still reeling from the emotional bomb of it all kind of wants Everett to be this affectionate with me for a while longer.