Chapter Two
Serena
This is not happening. It cannot be happening. Except…it is. I have my hands all over a football player's cock, and I don't even like football.
Hockey, I understand. It makes sense. My brother plays hockey. You just bash the hell out of the opposing team until you sink the puck. Sweat, aggression, and men on skates? I get that. I love that.
But football? There's just no logic. Out of every sport on the planet, it makes the least amount of sense to me. Yes, let's run five yards, stop, rearrange, and then run five more yards before we do it all over again.
Why? I'm not convinced even they know.
I snatch my hands back, my cheeks burning with humiliation.
"Don't stop on my account," Austin Hawkes drawls, smirking down at me like the hottest damn devil I've ever seen.
I may not know much about football, but I know about Austin Hawkes.
He and my best friend accidentally ended up in the papers together last year.
Even if that hadn't happened, his face is plastered on billboards all over the metro area.
He's hot on said billboards, but up close and in person?
Maybe I might be convinced to watch a game or two if he's playing.
He's a mountain of a man with the greenest eyes I've ever seen and a smirk that should come with a warning label. No wonder every woman downstairs is dressed for battle with their tits up and their claws out.
"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."
"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 could probably 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."
We're busy? Is he serious right now?
Dace chuckles, raising the beer like he's toasting. "No worries, bro. But, uh…maybe use a bedroom next time?"
This is hell. This is literally hell. It has to be hell.
The photographer, to his credit, tucks his camera away with a shrug and follows Dace back toward the party.
"So…that just happened," Austin says into the silence, chuckling like he finds the whole situation hilarious.
It's not hilarious. It's a disaster. Come tomorrow, my face—and thong—will be plastered all over the internet. The whole world will think I was servicing him in the fucking hallway at a party.
"Fix it," I hiss, jabbing him in the ribs. "Fix it right now!"
"Nah," he says, turning to me with that damn smirk plastered across his face. "I'm good."
He's good?
He's good?
What does that even mean?!
I see the kind of red that comes right before a murder. Specifically, the murder of a six-foot-six quarterback with an attitude problem and an erection you could see from space.
I lunge for his arm, drag him into the bathroom, and slam the door behind us.
"What the fuck is wrong with you?" I demand, whirling on him. "Have you taken too many hits to that obnoxiously giant head of yours? Are you drunk? Concussed? Mentally unstable? Completely off your rocker?"
He doesn't even flinch. He leans back against the sink with his arms crossed, the very picture of amusement, like I'm running through his playbook exactly as scripted. "You mean besides my ruined pants and erection?"
"Besides the fact that you're apparently into public humiliation?
" I pace, then whirl on him again. "Do you have any idea how fast those photos are going to spread?
I'll be on every meme site by breakfast. My boss will see them.
My mother will see them. My brother will see them.
Complete strangers will see them for the rest of my life!
" I press my hands to my cheeks, breathing like I just ran a race.
"Oh, my God. I'm going to be 'Kneeling Serena' forever. "
His lip quirks. "Could be worse."
"How? How could this possibly be worse, Austin?"
He thinks for one whole second, like he's searching for the most outrageous answer. "You could have actually been giving me head, but you weren't. So, might as well make the most of it, right?"
My shriek could shatter glass. "I have met you exactly once. I have no intention of making the most of anything involving you, or your—" I gesture violently at his crotch "—fucking MVP."
"Let's agree to disagree," he says, and then, like he's the victim here, "You know, it's not like I asked you to touch my MVP."
"You're a menace," I hiss, jabbing him in the chest with a finger. "A menace hellbent on my destruction. I can't be 'Kneeling Serena' for the rest of my life! There's not enough therapy in the world."
He watches me lose my mind for a minute, then straightens, all six thousand feet of him, and crowds me against the vanity. "I'll make you a deal, princess."
"I'm not interested in your deals."
He ignores me. Of course he does. Men like him don't hear no, only whatever variation of yes their delusions have conjured up. "I'll make sure the photos disappear before they hit the internet. I know people. But you have to do something for me."
My blood goes cold. "What, like…kill a man? Steal a playbook? Rob a bank?" Honestly, the possibilities are endless here. Nothing about him inspires confidence.
"Go out with me."
I blink at him. "What?"
"Date. Me. Serena." He says it slowly, like he's teaching a child to speak. "Go to dinner with me. Or a movie. Or a hockey or baseball game, since you're weird and hate football so much. I don't care."
"Th…this is blackmail!" I splutter.
"I know." He steps closer, his smirk diabolical. "Genius, isn't it?"
He's so close I can feel the heat of his body. The scent of his cologne—rich, smoky, a little dangerous—seeps into my pores, doing unspeakable things to my brain chemistry. I can't think, which is why my next question comes out all breathless and stupid. "Why? You could have anyone."
He lowers his head until his lips are right by my ear, his whisper a deep rumble. "Maybe I don't want just anyone," he murmurs. "Maybe I just want you."
I hate that my heart stutters at that. I hate that my body reacts, heat pooling low in my belly, when it absolutely should not.
"No," I say, but my voice sounds weak, like I'm bartering with myself more than him.
He lifts my chin with one finger, tilting my face up until our gazes lock. His green eyes are molten, mischievous, and more than a little challenging. "Come on, Serena," he murmurs. "What's the worst that could happen?"
Did he miss the part where my ass is going to be on the internet come morning? Surely I wasn't ranting to myself about that, right?
"You're basically Satan, and you're hellbent on my destruction. That's the worst that could happen."
He grins. "And yet, you can't stop looking at me."
I wonder for a split second what it would feel like to just…give in. To see what would happen if I said yes. To fall into him like an idiot.
But I'm not an idiot. My parents are walking, talking proof that some things just should not happen. Austin Hawkes is definitely one of those things. This will only lead to disaster, and I've had more than enough of that in my life.
I duck under his arm and throw the door open, marching out into the hallway with my chin up. My knees are only a little wobbly. "I am not dating you," I vow over my shoulder. "Never, ever, ever."
He laughs behind me, the sound so satisfied it makes me shiver. I swear, if the devil has ever gained a soul, he's never been this happy about it.
"We'll see about that, princess."
I don't answer him. I do the smart thing. I scurry away as fast as my wobbly legs and tattered dignity will take me.
I make it as far as the end of the hallway before I have to stop and press my back to the wall, breathing hard.
The din from the party below floats up the stairs—conversation, laughter, the clink of glasses—which only reminds me that somewhere in that mess is a photographer compiling my humiliation for posterity.
This is, literally, a nightmare. Except…none of my nightmares ever looked like Austin Hawkes before.
"Jesus, take the wheel," I whisper, but I'm pretty sure that ship has sailed. The wheel is in the devil's hands now. And the devil is the most infuriating man I've ever met.