Page 18 of Striking Range

“That’s it, puppy. Keep going; you’re doing so good,” I tell him, feeling him shiver from his place on my lap.

“God, you’re good at that,” he groans.

This makes me chuckle as I reply, “Thank you.”

Slowly, his hips come to a stop, his hazy eyes focusing and landing on mine, hands cupping my face softly. Long fingers brush my ears.

“You do this a lot?” he murmurs.

I cock my head, staring up at him. “What do you mean?”

I’m going crazy underneath the heat of him; under the weight of my own lust and how this direction of conversation is steering me far too close to clear-headedness.

“Praising people,” he clarifies.

I can’t read him. And not from the lack of lighting—Skylar is just that good at hiding sometimes.

“I guess so,” I say, because yeah, I have done it quite a few times with the girls I’ve fucked before.

Skylar watches me for a moment before he abruptly pulls his hands away and crawls off of me. “We should sleep; you have to go home tomorrow, and you’ll be hungover.”

The sudden switch in the atmosphere is giving me whiplash. I stare at the back of his head where he’s turned away from me, wanting to reach out and touch him.

“Oh, okay,” I whisper. “Good night.”

“Good night.”

I lay down, staring up at the ceiling as I try to calm my racing heart and my aching dick. What the fuck just happened?

Everything around me is shifting too quickly, throwing me off balance. But one thing is for certain: we just crossed far too many boundaries.

How will we face each other tomorrow? Will he hate me once we’re sober? How will I explain my physical reactions? My words?

I won’t be sleeping tonight, that’s for sure.

But as Skylar’s breathing evens out and the moon rises higher and higher, the question that seems to take priority over all others is the hardest one to stomach: will I ever get the chance to touch him again?

And if I don’t, who will?

Chapter Five

Skylar Parish

The sun is leaking through the gap between the flaps of my curtains and searing me straight in the eyes, pulling me from sleep. My head hurts slightly, and my mouth feels dry; my body is as heavy as lead.

All that to say, I’m mildly hungover.

Stretching out my aching muscles, I release a dissatisfied sigh. I would have liked to sleep in, but my body is trained to wake up in time for practice or school—even on days that I have neither.

Like today, when all I have to do is go to work this evening. Maybe I’ll go to the gym; exercise normally helps get rid of the post-drinking funk.

A soft sigh comes from my left, warm air brushing over my bicep and creating goosebumps in its wake. I turn my head to find Everett still asleep, his blond hair messy and his chapped lips parted.

His lashes flutter briefly as he breathes deeply. This asshole can sleep in, even on days when he shouldn’t. Like today, when he should be driving back to our old neighborhood to have breakfast with his family.

I roll onto my side and face him, watching. He’s lying on his stomach, arms shoved under his pillow, face turned in my direction. I have the urge to run my fingertips over the bridge of his nose, the arch of his brows, the bow of his lip.

And this… it’s odd. Any other day I’d feel the urge to flick him on the forehead and climb right out of bed or flick him on the forehead and lie over his back, stealing his warmth.