Fall Hard (Dating Season Book 3), Page 3

  “I’ll call you,” he rasps.

  Such an enigma.

  Chaste enough for public, bold enough to kiss me at all.

  Church tongue.

  And it was absolutely perfect.

  Four

  Fall is really turning out to be my season. No wonder it’s forever been my favorite. If this works out with Ryan, I’ll have someone to hibernate with this winter. Not only that, I’ll have a date for Charlotte’s wedding. Please don’t screw this up for me, universe. It would be beyond cruel to dangle perfection and then yank it away.

  So far, everything is going extremely well. Since our date, he’s been attentive by calling and texting. I feel wanted. Not just for my body, for my mind. For my art. He sends me pictures of his new designs, and I send back selfies in my Yes or No shirts accordingly. There’s got to be a catch. Austin thinks there’s one, but he does not know what it could be. Charlotte thinks I’m inadvertently trying to sabotage myself and stand in the way of happiness by searching for something that doesn’t exist. Maybe she’s right.

  Now that I’m totally confident in my own art, sort of, I decide to be Ryan’s muse. He’s invited me over to his place, and fingers crossed there is nothing weird or painful behind his apartment door.

  I knock, and when he swings it open, wearing ball shorts and a Beards Make Everything Better T-shirt, I blurt, “I have come to commission you. But I can only pay you in sexual favors.”

  He blinks.

  Ugh, instant regret. They can send a man to the moon, but they can’t come up with a way to stuff words back in your mouth.

  “I mean, if you want…those,” I say. Gulp. “It was not a joke, but I think the crickets are telling me to pretend that it was.”

  A slow smile lifts his lips. “I definitely want those.”

  “You do?”

  He nods. “I do.”

  “Then draw me like one of your…stoner girls?”

  “Thought you’d never ask.”

  He pulls me into his apartment. A quick scan reveals nothing odd. Colorful art hangs on the neutral walls. It’s cozy and masculine with no whips, crops, or bondage items in sight. But that doesn’t mean they aren’t hidden.

  “Lie on the couch,” he says. “On your side.”

  “Oh, okay.” I toe off my boots and hustle in my Bob Ross socks over the hardwoods to the mocha sectional. “Like this?”

  His gaze sweeps over my leggings and tunic top as I casually trail my hand along the cushion, searching for any hidden pain apparatuses.

  “Just like that,” he says. “Perfect.”

  It might be forward of me, but, “Should I remove anything?”

  “No,” he says. “I want to capture you just like this. Disheveled and flushed.”

  Disheveled? We can work on word choice later, I guess. He wets his bottom lip and then rakes his teeth across in a tantalizing tease.

  “Have you ever posed before?”

  “For an artist?”

  “Yeah.”

  “No. Never.”

  “Good. I’m glad I’m your first.”

  Why am I such an awful person? He’s happy to take my posing virginity. Looks downright thrilled. Shamed by my actions, I make a mental note to delete my post on FriendsOfFriends.

  He crosses to a large desk in the room’s corner and grabs a sketch pad and pencil.

  “Relax,” he says, taking a seat in the recliner, “but stay still. This is the first time I’ve drawn for personal pleasure in a very long time.”

  I pull a throw pillow under my head. “Why?”

  “Artist’s block. Lack of inspiration. Lack of a muse, I guess.”

  My heart slams against my chest. The thought of being his muse is heady. I wonder if I should add it to my Instagram bio. Gray eyes study me from over the top of his pad, and a lock of hair flops onto his forehead as he works, drawing and smudging.

  “This is all very Titanic,” I say.

  A smirk lifts the corner of his mouth. “Let’s hope you don’t let go.”

  “I never let go.” I kind of mean that more than I should.

  His eyes narrow above the pad, and he stops drawing. “I’d just like to go on record that she could’ve, and should’ve, shared the door.” The dry delivery of his statement causes a giggle to erupt from me. “I’m serious, Chloe. She let him freeze to death while she lounged. Then pried herself free from his cold, dead hand.”

  I put on a serious face. “No, I know. I agree.”

  “Good.”

  He resumes drawing, and it’s a tremendous turn-on watching him work. As he sketches, I feel sexy. And I didn’t even have to take my clothes off like Kate Winslet. Though, I’m fairly certain my boobs hold up to Rose’s.

  But it’s not as easy to pose as one would think. Boring is the first word that comes to mind. It’s quiet, and the need to chitchat to fill the void is strong. But I resist, so he can focus.

  It’s been eighty-four years when he says, “Done. You ready to see it?”

  I sit up. “Yes.”

  He rises from his seat and crosses to me.

  “What do you think?”

  The finished product differs greatly from how I see myself. It really looks nothing like me, to be honest. Maybe my mirrors don’t work. But art is subjective, and maybe this is how Ryan sees me? With much larger breasts and shorter hair. Also, taller. And thinner. With freckles on my nose. I’ll take it. Alternate me is cute. He’s very talented, regardless.

  “My God, I would totally have shared the raft with you.”

  He drops the sketch pad on the coffee table. “You could share the bed with me instead?”

  Silent gasp. “Is it a twin? Raft-sized.”

  “You’re so fucking cute.”

  He tugs me from the couch and into a searing kiss. In a sensual invasion of my mouth, his tongue glides past my lips and seduces mine. I moan, clinging to his broad shoulders.

  If there is such a thing as artsy sex, that’s what we have. Lots of touching and sensuality. Probably it is how French girls do it, but I haven’t watched enough of those movies to be certain.

  “Fuck,” he says, breaking the kiss.

  Panting, he lifts my shirt up and off, and leers at my red satin and lace bra with unbridled desire. “Damn. Red is my new favorite color.”

  “Beard is mine.”

  “You like the beard?”

  “Love.”

  He whips his T-shirt off and there’s barely time to ogle the chiseled expanse of hard abs because my eyes zip to his when he says, “Be right back. I’m going to butter it.”

  “Butter what?”

  “My beard.”

  “You butter your beard?” I call out to the rippling muscles of his back as he strides away. “That’s very...decadent.”

  “It’s a balm.” He opens a door and steps inside.

  Moments later, he emerges and stalks toward me. “Makes it soft. So you don’t get chafing.”

  “That’s very thoughtful of you.”

  He discards his shorts and my leggings, sits, and tugs me to straddle his lap. The fine hairs on his thighs are sensory overload.

  “This bra and panty set you’re wearing, fuck my life. It’s the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen. You know what the best part is?”

  The best part is his hooded gaze, like he’s drunk on me, but I shake my head, unable to speak.

  “This tiny satin bow between your breasts.” He kisses it. “I’m not going to fuck you like I want to.”

  “Why?” I ask.

  His finger trails across my jaw. “I want to memorize every detail. Long lashes fanning your flushed cheeks. The swipe of your tongue on your lips.” He palms my breasts and squeezes my nipples through the material. “Tits bouncing while you grind against my cock.”

  His hardness presses against my center, teasing me, and I rock my hips, grinding myself on his thickness. Whisper-soft, he traces his finger across the swell of my breasts, dipping his finger inside to explore the valley. Lust cour
ses through me, ready for “everything but” sex.

  “Where do you want me to start?”

  “Since you like the bow so much, that area seems a good place to start.”

  He eases the delicate material down and sucks a stiff nipple into his mouth, grazing it with his teeth.

  “Ah, God.” My eyes fall shut, my body succumbing to his touch.

  He releases my nipple and works his way up my neck, sucking and licking.

  I grind harder and reach out to touch his beard. “It’s like silk,” I say as my greedy fingers glide through the buttered magic with wonder. “Your beard is perfect.”

  He moans and without warning, changes our position so I’m flat on my back with him over me. “Touch yourself,” his husky voice says.

  My wildest fantasies could never prepare me for what he does next—

  Makes love to me with his beard.

  As I slip my hand in my panties, his dark head eases down, and he rubs the soft hair on his face against my feet.

  “Ryan,” I murmur, circling my clit in a feverish frenzy, “don’t stop.”

  “I’ve never liked my name so much until you said it.”

  Sparks erupt along my skin as he moves up, caressing every inch of my leg with his beard. Ankle, knee, thigh. He’s fire, bearding me until there’s nothing left but charred remains.

  Foreplay this good can only lead to feelings, and I don’t even care. He pushes the material of my panties aside and rubs his chin against my pussy. The sound he lets out is halfway between a groan and a grunt.

  “You’re so wet,” he husks out. “I want you to fuck my face.”

  Fuck his beard is what I do. My orgasm builds as his tongue slips along my fingers, darting out to compete for my clit. The way he eats me is incredible. All I can do is brace my feet on the couch and beg for mercy as he devours me.

  “Ryan,” I pant over and over as he slides his tongue in me.

  Not to be overdramatic about his beard, but it sends me soaring, right off a cliff, and I come, long and loud. So hard. In a ninja move, he straddles me and strokes himself in a masterpiece of debauchery. My orgasm rolls into another, arching my back at the wicked sight of him thrusting into his hand.

  His hips jerk faster, and I lick the tip as it emerges from his fist.

  “God, Chloe. I’m going to come.” He bites his lip, and it’s too much.

  “Come on my tits,” I say.

  He strokes faster, base to tip, and then lets out a groan as he releases on me. Unashamed, I reach up and rub it all over me like lotion.

  “That’s so damn hot,” he says.

  If foreplay is this good, I may never want to sex.

  Well, let’s not get crazy.

  He leaves me to grab a towel from the bathroom and when he returns, cleans his cum from my chest.

  “You may have to leave the bra with me,” he says.

  Not to be too extra, but this is a good bra, and has to be washed on delicate, and I don’t know that he’ll appreciate the importance of proper washing. This may seem judgmental, but men rarely understand that bras shrink and wires poke out if they aren’t cared for properly. Just ask Austin about the time he accidentally put my bra in with his clothes and it came out a twisted mess.

  “Oh, that’s okay.”

  “I can jerk off with it. Unless that’s crossing a line.”

  I consider. “See this tattoo on my arm?”

  He leans in to look at my bicep. “Where?”

  “Here.” I point to it.

  He squints. “That’s a tattoo?”

  “Yes. Long story, but this is a reminder to not cross a line. And I’ve decided this doesn’t meet the criteria for that.” I unfasten and hand it over before I slip my shirt on.

  To avoid the awkward of what we do next, I make the bold move of saying I should go. He doesn’t try to convince me to stay, and that’s okay. This is healthy. Even if I kind of wanted him to ask me to stay. It’s okay if he didn’t ask me to hang out. I’m not disappointed or anything.

  Much.

  Five

  “What do you think about wearing a T-shirt instead of a bridesmaid dress? Maybe Ryan could make something?”

  I laugh at Charlotte’s question, but judging by the frown on her face, she’s serious.

  “This is not a laughing matter, Chloe. I’ve got one wedding. I’m running out of time, and you need to help me figure this out before I’m forced to say my vows in a place I vehemently oppose.”

  “Well, hm. Let’s think about this.”

  “I’ve already thought about it. And yes, I love this scarlet dress for you,” she points at the laptop screen, “but why should we bother if it’s not taking place where I want it to? Does it really matter what anyone is wearing? Maybe I’ll wear a T-shirt too.”

  “I think you might regret that when you’re looking at your photos. Plus, you’ve already picked out your dress. Can you secretly tell the Hilton not to take their money? Spread some rumors about where it comes from? We know it comes from a software company they sold in the nineties, but people get real nervous when you say the words ‘blood diamond.’”

  It’s tough to give advice on something I know nothing about, so I’m at a loss here. Charlotte has moved from putting Mr. Charlotte-to-be on the couch to straight-up passive-aggressive fighting with her fiancé’s parents over the wedding issue. She’s been posting subliminal mountain pics on her Instagram for weeks. Things she needs, like flowers and dresses, are not being ordered in hopes she can get what she wants.

  This complicated problem is beyond coming up with extra money and securing her dream venue without their monetary help. Even if she could find a way to do so, his parents have their own idea of a dream wedding for their son. And it doesn’t take place on the snow-covered mountain where Charlotte envisioned her big day.

  “You’re not going to like my advice,” Austin says, dropping strands of fresh cut pasta into a tall pot on the stove. “But I think you need to adjust your dream.”

  Despite the tension mingling with garlic in the air, I’ve missed this. Lucy’s out of town working on a campaign with SuperFit, so Austin is making dinner for us girls. It’s just like the old days; we drink wine and banter while he does all the work. Until we started looking at dresses, Charlotte seemed to enjoy herself. Now, not so much.

  “I can’t believe you just said that,” Charlotte balks. “If this were you, I’d…I’d help you come up with a way to get what you want. I’d kidnap the parents or something until they changed their mind. I wouldn’t tell you to change your dream. Why should I change my dream? A dream is not a dream if you change it. You’re basically telling me to give up my dream.”

  She has a point. Dreams are hard to let go of, as I know firsthand. “Okay, listen. I don’t think anyone needs to be kidnapped.” I place a hand on Charlotte’s in an attempt to calm her. “If I thought it would help, you know I’d be down with kidnapping. Ride or die. Maybe you need to have a heart to heart with his mom and explain to her your feelings?”

  “Pfft. She won’t budge about this,” Charlotte pouts. “And my walking-a-thin-line fiancé won’t either. He thinks it’s not a big deal and that we, meaning me, need to compromise. How can I compromise on this? It’s not chicken or fish, roses or lilies. It’s the key thing I wanted and I can’t have it because her hands swell at higher elevations? Really?”

  “I know,” I commiserate. “But—”

  “No buts,” she cuts me off. “It’s not fair. She had her day. This is mine. And now, I’m rethinking everything. If she’s deciding where we get married, what else is she going to decide?”

  “You need to just deal with it and accept that’s how it is when you marry a family,” Austin, not reading the room, says to Charlotte’s glare.

  “She’s not marrying his parents,” I say.

  Austin glances over his shoulder. “You do marry a family.”

  “He’s right about that,” Charlotte says. “And take this as a warning, Chloe.
Interview the parents about their wedding vision before you commit to Ryan. You sit down and discuss all the details before you accept a ring. Have a plan and a back-up plan. We should require that they sign a contract to agree that the bride gets what she wants.” She leans in. “You think you have a great relationship and next thing you know, mother-in-law-zilla stomps all over it. You need to make sure she truly likes you. Otherwise, it’s a competition you’ll never win.”

  “Charlotte, she loves you,” I say. “She just…loves the Hilton too.”

  “Well, don’t say I didn’t warn you,” she says with a raised brow. “Wish someone had warned me.”

  “I don’t think Chloe has to worry about any of that,” Austin says.

  “Why?” I take a sip of wine.

  “Well, you just met him,” he says. “And I don’t know…”

  His open-ended sentence has me in suspense, “You don’t know what?”

  “Whether it will last.” He pulls out a cutting board and multitasks chopping basil and offending me. “Do you even want something that lasts?”

  Austin is not faring well with the women tonight. “I can’t believe you just said that,” I borrow from Charlotte’s previous indignation. “Why would I be going through this if I didn’t want something that lasts? Isn’t that the whole point of a relationship? No one wants to break up.”

  “I’m not trying to upset you.”

  “Ryan is perfect for me. Even you couldn’t find anything wrong with him.”

  He slices through the onion with gusto. “Actually, I have found something wrong with him.”

  “Do tell,” Charlotte says.

  He points his knife at me. “Why hasn’t he picked you up? You’re always meeting him somewhere.”