"Can we please forget this whole thing just happened?" I whisper, squeezing my eyes closed like that'll erase the red stain spreading across his pants…or me on my knees in the shortest dress known to womankind. Or anything that's happened in the last two minutes. Or the fact that he's hard as a rock.
It doesn't work.
"Hell no," he growls.
I snap my eyes open, blinking up at him. "W-what?"
"There's no way I'm forgetting this shit," he chuckles. "You know, out of all the ways fans have tried to meet me, I gotta say this is the most unusual."
"I was not trying to meet you." I narrow my eyes on him. "I don't even like football."
His smirk grows. I'm pretty sure his cock does too…not that I'm looking or anything. But it's eye level. Hard to miss.
"Then why the fuck are you at a team party?"
"For…reasons," I mutter, only to realize how suspicious that sounds. But suspicious is better than desperate, right? Right. A man who makes millions by throwing a ball does not need to know that I desperately need the modeling gig I came here after in order to make rent this month.
"Right," he says, drawing the word out like he thinks I'm full of shit. His gaze drifts from me to the wine stain spread across his pants in a Rorschach blot of shame. "Do you usually tackle players and ruin their pants for…reasons?"
"I didn't tackle you," I growl, crossing my arms. His gaze flicks back to me, or, more specifically, to my chest. I peek down and realize he can basically see all of my boobs from this angle. I quickly slap a hand over my cleavage, trying to hide them. "Stop looking at my boobs, Austin Hawkes."
"You know who I am."
"Not because I'm a fan," I mutter, rolling my eyes at his smug tone. "Your face is on every billboard in the city."
He cringes at the reminder.
"It's interesting."
"What is?"
"I thought they had to blow your head up to fit the billboards, but after having met you…" I shrug. "Who knew the billboards were actually true-to-size?"
He throws his head back, a deep laugh rolling from his lips. My clit doesn't twitch, I swear. "So, it's like that, huh?"
"Like what?"
"You ruin my pants, and then insult me? Harsh, princess."
"It's not an insult if it's true, and it's not my fault you were standing in the middle of the hallway," I grumble, though it is kinda my fault. Actually, the spider in the bathroom is at fault. But I doubt the spider is going to apologize, so I'm cool with blaming Austin.
I flick a glance back at his pants, heat crawling up my cheeks when I notice his dick is still standing at attention. Jesus Christ. It's as big as the rest of him. "Um…" I wave in its general direction, and then whimper when it twitches in response. "Can you please put that thing away?"
"Believe me, I'm trying," he says, his tone dry. "But he has a mind of his own."
"Think about something gross," I demand. "Like sweaty locker rooms, old people sex, premature ejaculation."
A rough bark of laughter escapes his lips, followed by a groan. "Maybe don't talk about jizz if you want him to go down."
"I wasn't!"
He tips his head down, one brow arched. "Premature ejaculation is jizz."
"Oh my god." I press my hands to my overheated cheeks. "You are such a guy."
"Yes, clearly." His gaze drifts to his cock. "I think we established that already, princess."
"Stop calling me that."
