"Don't know what else to call you."
"Serena Abrams." Ugh. Why did I add my last name?
Rookie move, Serena.
"Serena Abrams," he murmurs, rolling my name on his tongue like he's testing it out before he grins down at me. "I like it."
"Good to know." I roll my eyes. "Want to write a Yelp review? Give it five stars?"
He chuckles again. "You don't like me much, do you?"
"I don't even know you."
"And yet you know my name, and you're at our party."
"I already explained that."
"Right. You're here for reasons." His green eyes glint with humor. "And you hate football."
"Exactly!"
He stares down at me, his head tilted like he's trying to decide if I'm a lost cause or just a regular pain in his ass. Then he holds out his hand. "Come on, I'll help you up."
I hesitate, mostly because my pride is already in shambles, and accepting help from the quarterback who couldprobably bench-press me without breaking a sweat probably won't restore an ounce of my dignity. But the floor is cold, my knees are going numb, and I want to get this over with before the whole party sees my ass. Judging by the breeze, far more of it is currently on display than I'm strictly comfortable with.
I reluctantly slap my hand into his.
Big mistake.
The second I try to stand, my heel slips on rogue droplets of spilled wine. I watch my hand flail out in some kind of slow-motion horror, landing directly on his thigh, way higher than necessary. Like, "hey, I just met you, but I want to touch your dick again", high.
I freeze, my palm pressed to his dick, my face now mere inches from the same cock.
This is what hell is like, isn't it?
He just smirks, not moving. "Getting acquainted there, princess?"
"Shut up. Just shut up." I glare at him, but my face is hot enough to catch fire, and judging by the Grinch-smile on his face, he's loving every second of my humiliation.
Note to self: Never attend another football party. Ever. Again.
Before I can untangle myself, there's a commotion down the hall.
No. Please no.
"Damn, Hawkes," someone booms. "In the hallway? Really?"
I whip my head around to see a guy in a suit standing at the end of the hall, grinning like he just won the lottery. Except…I'm pretty sure the wiry photographer beside him is the one who just won the lottery.
He takes all of two seconds to process the scene in front of him before the camera in his hands flashes, capturing my humiliation. The first shot is me still on my knees in front of Austin, my hand on his dick, my ass out. The second is me, also still on my knees, one hand still glued to his dick, my ass still out, now looking guilty as sin.
For one wild second, I wish the floor would open up and swallow me whole. A nonstop trip straight to hell would be preferable to this.
"Fuck," Austin rumbles.
The sound of his voice unfreezes me. I let go of his dick like I've been electrocuted and scramble to my feet, wobbling but mostly upright.
Austin quickly steps in front of me, blocking the camera's line of sight. "Not now, Dace. We're busy."
