Oops, I've Fallen

He steps forward, caging me and forcing me to retreat. My only move is backward, but the escape route dries up quickly as my back slams into the door and his arms come up to meet the surface at the sides of my face.

“Trust me, Carly, you wanted me to end that kiss.”

He’s breathing heavily, and his eyes are so, so vivid. I want to tell him to take his explanation and shove it up his own ass, but with the way he’s looking at me, I don’t even manage to cover the breathiness of my curiosity. “Why is that?”

“Because when it comes to kissing and fucking, I don’t follow the rules,” he says, moving his mouth to my ear so it just ghosts the shell. “I don’t go easy, Carly. And when I put my mouth on your pussy, I’m not going to do it with your back in the grass in some random yard where I can’t take my fucking time.”

He pushes his body into mine against the door, and I feel the seriously unmissable presence of his hard cock against my abdomen.

My eyes widen slightly, my nostrils flare, and a heaviness takes up residence between my legs.

Okay, holy shit. Turns out his explanation of the punch line is pretty damn good.

I open my mouth to, I don’t know, tell him to pillage me like he’s a Viking and I’m a ship in a dark, tumultuous sea, but along with inhaling his super-powerful pheromones, I’ve also gotten a whiff of something else.

Something that, no matter how turned on I am or how much I want him to take his time with my already raring to go kitten, I can’t ignore. Not here. Not in my mother’s house.

“Okay, so listen…you’re forgiven. And I really want to explore picking up what you’re putting down…really want to explore it, actually. But, um, do you smell that?”

His intensity dissipates a little, and I have to admit, as much fun as I have joking around with him, I’m sad to see it go. But I’m fairly confident now, after that admission, I’ll get it back again. And when I do…holy shit, I’m going to mine for it shamelessly.

He pulls back slightly, the pressure of his hardness against my belly disappearing entirely, and looks up and to the right while he takes in a deep breath of air.

When he smells what I’m smelling, obviously, his eyebrows draw together.

“Is that…?”

“I don’t know,” I whisper. “But it sure as hell seems pretty skunky to me.”

Revving up my nose like a bloodhound, I start sniffing the air around us rabidly, bringing a smile to Ryan’s full lips. It looks good there, just as good as the hard line it held only a moment ago as he spoke about tasting my pussy.

Opposites—somehow at home together in the same being.

A shiver runs down my spine as I think about how the same applies to the mingling of people like him and me—to the pairing of the rule-follower and the rebel.

“What do you think?” Ryan asks, breaking me from my inner ramblings and bringing me back to the problem at hand. “Is it weed?”

As a Colorado resident, I feel completely confident in my ability to reply. “Without a doubt. What I don’t know is where it’s coming from.”

“Let’s find out.”

I nod, turning to open the door again and peek my head out in the hallway. The smell amplifies immediately, and I turn back to stare meaningfully at Ryan. He steps around me, leading the way into the hallway fully and spinning around in a brief circle with his head to the ceiling. There’s an air vent directly above him, and his eyebrows pinch together as he looks at it.

“I think it’s coming from inside the house,” he announces doomfully, and my head drops back on my shoulders.

“Nooo,” I whine. “Are you kidding me?”

He shakes his head, his face an unbelievably uncanny portrayal of the way I feel. “I wish I were, but no. We’re in a goddamn horror movie right now, and the call is coming from inside the motherfucking house. Carly, this is our version of When a Stranger Calls.”

I groan and let my head loll back. “Only it’s my mom. Smoking weed.”

“Exactly.”

“Goddammit, Ryan!” I whisper-yell and lock my wide, shocked gaze with his. “Why is living with old people like living with teenagers? Whyyy?”

“Come on,” he says, grabbing my hand and pulling me down the hall toward my mom’s bedroom. I pull back on the force with some of my own, scrambling my feet against the carpet.

“Wait…no. What are you doing?”

“The same thing I’d do if it were a teenager smoking weed in the house. Busting them.”

Oh my God. This seems like a really bad idea.

It doesn’t matter, though, because before I even start to protest, Ryan has us moving again, down the hall and to the closed door, where he turns the knob without hesitation. I pray for it to be locked harder than I’ve ever prayed for anything in my life, but when I hear the click of the bolt leaving its metal chamber, I know this is going to be one of those unanswered prayers Garth Brooks likes to sing about.