Fall Hard (Dating Season Book 3) Read online

  I inhale and feel like an inflated balloon that’s going to float away, like the blueberry girl in Willy Wonka. “Seriously, you can’t tell her.”

  “I promise you that Granny Mae never needs to know you broke your DARE promise.”

  “That was, in fact, the next thing I planned to bring up. I’ve let so many people down.”

  A laugh tinkles from the drawing of me. “You can’t even get high right.”

  “Would it offend you if I ripped up your drawing? It’s quite rude.”

  “It’s not really talking to you.” Amusement lights his eyes. I’m not kidding, they’re literally glowing.

  “I didn’t think you hallucinated on marijuana. Why is this happening?”

  “Well, most people don’t mistakenly eat half the bag. You’re lucky you’re still standing.” He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. “I’m going to get some normal candy and we’re going to watch stupid movies and you’re probably going to nap at some point.”

  Sounds like heaven. He leads me to the couch and I snuggle up in the corner and strap in for the ride.

  Seven

  I am still high. Like cruising thirty thousand feet above the ground on a Doge and climbing through puffy marshmallow clouds, looking for the moon. I’d like my ticket refunded. Of course, if I were Lucy, I’d hop on a star and enjoy the wild ride.

  I think I slept based on the fact my eyes are closed, so why am I still loopy? Did I drool on Ryan? I lift my head from his chest and his shirt is dry, thank God. Or maybe that’s bad, because I’m a drooler and if there’s no drool am I dreaming this whole thing? If I remember correctly, Ryan said I’d be better when I woke, but I’m trapped in a funhouse where every sound and color is magnified and distorted in a disturbing way.

  “What happened?” I watch the blinds change from white to rainbow. “Am I asleep or awake?”

  Ryan’s deep chuckle vibrates the entire room like an earthquake. “You’re awake.”

  That’s not what I wanted to hear, because... “Why are my legs bacon then?” I screech. “Oh God, I can’t walk on bacon legs.” My heart rams against my chest as I try to move the floppy strips attached to my hips. Never have I regretted a decision as much as trying all the flavors. It’s karma for my fight with Charlotte. My first weed experience and I’ve lost my legs. Not to mention, they’re not even cooked crisp how I like. “Granny Mae will be so disappointed in me. She won’t approve of this. She’ll disown me, Ryan. I can’t lose my legs and Granny.”

  “Chloe”—Ryan stands—“your legs are not bacon.”

  My eyes trail up his body, which is now at least two feet taller. “You’re a giant. What is going on? This has to be a dream.” A nightmare is what it is.

  “No, it’s not a dream. You just had too much at once.”

  “What’s going to happen to me?”

  Guess I should’ve asked that question before I consumed half the bag of edibles.

  “Nothing bad.” He nuzzles his beard against what used to be my leg. “See? I wouldn’t touch bacon. I hate it.”

  Fat tears well in my eyes. If they’re even still eyes. They could be eggs for all I know. “That’s so rude. You hate bacon? We can’t pick and choose what we get for legs. And honestly, I would have preferred sturdier sausage legs”—I point down—“but I got bacon.”

  He vibrates the house again with another chuckle. “Sorry, you’re making me laugh. I promise your legs are not bacon. If they were, which they are not, I’d like them. A lot. They’d be my favorite bacon legs.”

  “That’s sweet, but how do I know I can trust you?” That’s something else I should’ve asked before I gobbled up the gummies. Live and learn.

  “Well, the beard doesn’t lie, but I’ll take your pants off and show you.” He reaches toward my waist and in a disturbing display, peels the bacon back to reveal my legs.

  “Oh, thank heavens.” I let out a sigh of relief. “Now if I could just feel them.” As if I can will the numbness away, I stare and watch as they disappear into the couch—completely vanish. “My legs are gone. What the hell?” The tears gush out this time, like a faucet. “I would’ve made do with bacon. Shoes would have been hard, but at least I had something. Now I’m a torso.”

  He thumbs away my tears. “No, they aren’t gone.” He crouches beside me and they reappear just in time for his tongue to glide from knee to upper thigh. “Do you feel that?”

  “Yes. It feels…amazing.” He licks the other leg. I’m pleasantly fuzzy, and the spot where his beard tickles my skin is tingly times a thousand. “You said I’d be okay after I slept. How long was I out?”

  “About twenty minutes.” Other parts of me become fairly tingly when his gray eyes lock with mine. Every nerve ending electrifies as he traces a finger along my panties. “You know, sex is a whole different experience when you feel like this.”

  A small part of my brain doesn’t want to jinx our potential relationship with sex, but it’s too weak to prevail against the power of the beard. “I didn’t know that.”

  “Want to try something a little different?”

  Leery of “different,” I ask, “Like what?”

  “Art sex.”

  That sounds harmless, but just in case it involves balls, or being flogged with a paintbrush, “What’s that?”

  “Take your clothes off. I’ll be right back.”

  “Wait. Does it involve pain?”

  “No. Only pleasure. Promise.”

  He rises, and somehow, I undress with rubber arms while he’s gone. I’m not sure how I feel about being high. It’s strange. I’m turned on and oddly ravenous. If my legs were still bacon, I’d eat them, and that horrifies me.

  Ryan returns with a large square box and sets it on the coffee table. “Damn.” His gaze lands on my naked body and he lets out a low whistle. “I can’t wait to touch you.”

  I sigh. “I can’t have sex with you.”

  If disappointment had a face, it would be Ryan’s. “Why?”

  “I’m a cannibal. I was going to eat my bacon legs. What if you turn into pizza or something and I accidentally eat you?”

  A grin spreads across his face and I swear, his teeth twinkle like brilliant stars. “Listen, none of that will happen. But we can wait. No pressure.”

  “No, I really want art sex.” How can I turn down art sex?

  “You sure?”

  “Yes. What’s in the box?”

  “I’ve had this for a while. Just been waiting for the right time to use it.” He yanks off the lid and removes an enormous canvas followed by two bottles of Prussian Blue paint.

  “Your favorite color.”

  “Yeah,” he says. “We’re going to create a masterpiece to hang on the wall.”

  “I don’t understand what that has to do with sex.”

  “It’s simple.” He spreads a sheet on the floor and lays the canvas on top. “We’re going to have sex on this. Our bodies will be the brushes.”

  Sadly, I still overthink things while high. “Seriously? What if people ask what it is?”

  “No one will ever know. It’ll be our inside joke.”

  That implies long-term, and my heart somersaults in my chest. Hopefully, it’s from the inside joke reference and I’m not going into cardiac arrest. Pretty sure I am when he discards his clothes and reveals the magnificent body full of etches and perfect lines. Lean muscles ripple as he pours paint onto the canvas, splattering it across the surface.

  “I’m hard already.” He sheathes himself with a condom and sprawls in the middle. “Come here.”

  I float over to him and straddle his lap. “How do we do this?”

  “Like this.” He dips his hand in paint and smears the cool liquid across my collarbones and on my neck. “Your pulse is racing.” He marks the spot with the pad of his thumb and kisses me, long and languid. My heart beats faster and faster as his hands caress every inch of me.

  “Picasso said sex and art are the same thing. I believe that now,” he murmurs.r />
  I moan and swivel my hips against his hard length. “Me too.”

  He nips my earlobe, sending shivers down my spine when he says, “Sometimes sex isn’t about just fucking. It’s about creating something that lasts.”

  I drag my hand across his chest, swathing the hard pec covering his thudding heart in shades of blue. “I like things that last.” Except, gummy bear highs. If I had my druthers, I would forgo the walls moving like they’re breathing. He makes me ignore that, though.

  Sensations catapult through every cell when he palms my breasts, coating them with paint, and brushes his thumbs across my nipples. The sensual touch of his fingers is like a lingering kiss that lasts an eternity. Time stops as we explore each other, finding erogenous zones and marking the territory. Ribs, hips, the sensitive skin behind my knee. The spot behind his ear. The nape of his neck.

  I no longer see blue. Reds and yellows—a kaleidoscope of colors—swirl around me in a tornado of lust.

  Fire ignites when his tongue slides around my nipple before sucking it into his mouth. My greedy hands fist into his hair, tugging him closer. “God, that feels incredible.”

  His cock throbs against my ass. If I don’t get him inside of me, I might lose my mind. It feels like I already have.

  Dazed eyes meet mine when he releases my nipple. “You’re beautiful,” he says.

  His words sear my soul. “So are you.”

  The kiss that follows steals the air from my lungs as he eases me back onto the canvas.

  “I want you inside me,” I murmur against his lips.

  I’ve had some wild sex recently, but I can’t really say it meant much more than getting off. That’s probably the reason those romance books sucked me into their story and wouldn’t let go. I want more than fucking. I want every part of me invaded until I’m completely consumed.

  Braced on one arm, he peers down at me as he smears paint down my stomach, circling my belly button. He slaps my pussy and flips me over, ass in the air. I moan when the tip of his cock teases my entrance.

  “Fuck. You’re dripping wet. You want this?”

  I claw at the canvas, trying to gain leverage as he pushes into me, stretching and filling me.

  When the head eases in, he groans and drops his forehead to my back. “Your pussy is heaven. Tight, hot, wet.”

  “Ryan,” I cry out when he pushes deep inside.

  A hiss escapes him, swirling with the color on the canvas. My thighs tremble as he slides in and out, over and over. Tortured by the sensations careening through my system, I push back as he grips my hips, fingers digging in, thrusting with fervor. Our bodies slap together as I lose myself in the feel of thickness inside me.

  Forgetting for the moment about my argument with Charlotte.

  Forgetting about Austin.

  Forgetting my own name.

  He pulls out, panting.

  I look over my shoulder and plead, “Don’t stop.”

  Like a game of twister, he adjusts us so I’m on top.

  “Fuck, the feel of you,” he rasps out as I ease down on his cock.

  Our hips rock back and forth, giving and taking, as I slide a hand down to circle my aching clit. My new favorite color is Prussian Blue, specifically on his hands as they capture my bouncing tits. He squeezes my nipples and drives up faster into me, creating delicious friction. My gaze glues itself to the muscles contracting in his stomach. My orgasm builds in layers until I’m higher than my edible high. Out of the stratosphere.

  “Grind your wet pussy on me,” he rasps. “I can’t get deep enough.”

  “I’m going to come,” I whisper.

  “Do it,” he almost begs, pumping faster and faster, creating an impending orgasmic explosion. “Come for me.” Our bodies fuse as he pumps and a shudder racks his frame. He groans, throwing his head back.

  God, the beard.

  The fucking beard as he comes.

  I can’t even.

  My orgasm spirals into another and I run my hand along the sexy hair on his jaw as my back arches off the canvas.

  “Holy fuck,” he grunts out.

  It is holy as we slide in the paint, leaving our lovemaking on the canvas. As my body floats back to earth, he captures my lips in a kiss so sweet, I’m lost. When the tremors subside, his forehead drops to mine. Our eyelashes dance against each other.

  “That was unbelievable,” I say.

  “Tell me about it,” he says.

  I discovered the biggest draw of all to weeding—it feels extra good.

  Eight

  It can’t be good that I’m still high? What is good, however, is waking up next to Ryan. Well, it’s not really next to him so much as suffocating underneath his octopus body. I’m trapped.

  Rays of morning sunlight assault me when I lift the heavy arm slung over my head and take a deep breath. The sliver of space I occupy confirms Ryan is a bed hog, but how nice he wanted the sleepover, unlike Dune.

  It takes me a few minutes to extricate myself from beneath his deadweight without waking him. When I do, I roll over to ogle his beautiful face and listen as he snores. Mainly, because I have no choice. Not to snore-shame, but all of Colorado can probably hear the bone-jarring rumble followed by a tongue-flapping gasp. The strip on his nose is useless. I’ve spent most of the night awake, hovering between thinking the roar coming from Ryan was dinosaurs attacking the city and drifting in and out of sleep.

  I nudge him out of fear he’ll swallow his tongue.

  “Unf,” he mumbles. “Morning.”

  “Morning.”

  One eyelid opens. “That was the best sleep I’ve had in forever. How do you feel?”

  “Fuzzy.” Literally. But I don’t seem to envision myself as a teddy bear as I feared, so that’s good. Must mean the effects are finally wearing off to a manageable level.

  “Still? You must be supersensitive. It happens sometimes. Orange juice high.”

  “Orange juice high?”

  “You know what, we can save that particular breakfast-body story for later, Bacon.

  When I laugh, he pulls me closer. “Last night was really amazing. You sliding through that paint...man.”

  I glance over at the canvas propped against the wall of his bedroom. If I didn’t know what it was, I’d never guess the splatters and smears are my breasts and nipples.

  “It was phenomenal.” I kiss his nose. The internet experts stressed an important part of a sleepover is to not overstay your welcome lest you make your potential partner feel crowded so I segue to, “I guess I should head home.” Besides, I’m ravenous. After we cleaned up the mess last night and showered, Ryan made sandwiches, but I accidentally fell asleep before he finished.

  “Why?” He ghosts his foot along my leg. “Stay the day.”

  “My clothes are kind of ruined.” After art sex, I mistook them for a towel and used them to wipe the paint off me.

  “My ex left some stuff in the closet. You’re about the same size. Pick something out.”

  “Oh, okay.” If only my brain wasn’t filled with fog so I could explore why he still has an ex’s clothes two years later, but alas, I’m too chill to care.

  Ryan’s phone rings from atop the nightstand and he rolls over to check it. “Sorry, it’s a client. I have to take this.”

  “No worries.”

  To give him privacy, I kick back the covers and shuffle to the closet. Hanging in the closet’s corner is a hodgepodge of women’s clothing. Five minutes later, I’m dressed in a pink and gray flannel and joggers. Is it weird I’m wearing his ex-girlfriend’s clothes? It’s so darn weird, but beggars can’t be choosers.

  Ryan gives a head nod as I pad out of the room and close the door behind me.

  On my way to the kitchen to scrounge for food, the doorbell rings.

  “It’s me,” a female voice calls out. “Hello?”

  I tiptoe over and peer through the peephole. A woman with a dark bob and arms full of grocery bags is on the other side.

  I swing
the door open.

  “Oh.” Her hazel eyes widen. “Where’s Ryan? I’m Ruth, his mother.”

  This revelation causes a comfortably numb panic. Will I ever meet family in a normal way? Why do these men not realize this is a big deal? Once upon a time, people alerted you to important matters like this. Perhaps this is the new norm, and no one informed me. It’s a clown world, after all.

  “Hi. He’s on a business call.” I step aside. “I’m Chloe.”

  She enters with a pinched frown. “I come over on Sundays to clean and do laundry and bring him food.”

  Wow. That’s…not my business, but I can’t stop myself from saying, “Really?”

  “Is that a problem?”

  “No. No. It’s nice.” I smile to ease the tension surrounding us and throw my mom under the bus, “Really nice. My mom always made me do my laundry once I became a teenager.” Sorry, Mom.

  “Girls are different.” She crosses the living room and calls out over her shoulder, “Are you his girlfriend? He didn’t mention a girlfriend.”

  “Well, we’re new. No labels yet.”

  I follow her to the kitchen where she sets the bags on the counter. “It’s been a long time since he’s had a girlfriend, so I’m not opposed to it.”

  This is not good. My first impression is shot. How long before she realizes I’m high? “I can go get Ryan for you.”

  “No. I don’t want to disturb him. He’s very important to his job, so I respect that. Sit.”

  While she unpacks groceries, I take a seat at the dinette table when I really want to crawl under it and hide. If I say as little as possible, maybe I can fake my way through this until Ryan arrives to save me. In a blur, she removes an assortment of deli meats, bread, pasta, and a variety of ingredients from her endless bags. Through it all she chatters like an energizer bunny, hopping around the kitchen. Silently, I send up a desperate prayer to the heavens.

  Dear Lord, it’s Chloe. It’s been a while, okay forever, and I know I’m a heathen, but please, do not let me think she’s a rabbit. She needs to like me, so if you could do me that solid I’ll be a better person, and…well, I probably shouldn’t commit to more, because we both know I am not known for making the best decisions. While I’m here, if you could help me with that too, I’d appreciate it. Thank you. Peace, love, and you rock. Amen.