Escorting the Player (The Escort Collection 3)

I scrunched one eye open, trying to figure out where I was.

All I saw was the enormous, hulking form of a shirtless Chase Layne snoring next to me, his bronze skin glinting in the early morning sun.

I shut my eyes tightly again, which only made my head hurt worse. Fuck. I moved a little and felt how sore my whole body was.

Fuck was right.

The last thing I remembered lucidly was drinking margaritas at a Mexican restaurant in Harvard Square. Everything was hazy after that. I only could recall snippets.

Chase and I dancing on a table in a club.

A club? When the hell did we go to a club? Since when did I dance? How the hell did Chase dance on a table without crushing it? And when had he actually started tolerating my presence?

Chase taking a body shot from between my boobs.

Chase with his hands on my ass, grinding his thick erection against me on the dance floor.

I felt my face flush. I gathered the sheet tightly around me.

Chase naked underneath me, a look of shocked pleasure on his face, his eyes burning into mine.

Holy mother of God. There was more news than Chase's toleration of my presence.

We'd had sex.

More was coming back to me now. I cringed underneath the blankets. An image of myself riding him, my back arched, my boobs bouncing in his face, suddenly appeared in my brain, and I winced. I'd

been, er…largely uninhibited once I'd drank God only knew what and we'd taken our clothes off. I remembered that much.

I screamed his name when I came. Hollered it.

He was just so big. I certainly remembered that.

"Holy fuck, Chase. YES! Fuck me just like that, baby! Right there!"

I couldn't believe I'd said—screamed—that. What the actual fuck?

We'd had sex, and I'd liked it. A lot. I'd orgasmed with him more than once. That might be the most shocking discovery of all.

Another image came back to me in a heated flash—the way he'd gripped my hips and his big blue eyes had locked with mine. He'd emptied himself into me and I'd shattered around him, my pussy sucking him dry in pure female triumph.

I thought he hated me. Was it a hate fuck?

If it was, I might have to try it again. It seriously worked for me.

My face flamed, and I pulled the sheet up over my head. I was so fucking mortified. Yes, I was an escort. His escort. No, I was neither a virgin nor a prude—I didn't think. But grinding my clit against a guy's shaft and screaming my head off when he made me come so hard I couldn't see straight? A guy I barely knew?

These things were not exactly my style.

Neither was letting someone take a body shot from between my boobs, but apparently, all bets had been off last night.

I'd been hired by Chase Layne for a job, and Elena had made it clear: I was here for the sex as much as anything else. If Chase wanted. But I'd just met the star quarterback yesterday, and he hadn't even seemed to like me. And I was pretty sure that I didn't like him—or it was at least clear to me that I shouldn't. I couldn't. He was so far out of my league, I couldn't even see his stadium from my seat.

But all of that had clearly changed—or just been drunkenly ignored—after multiple purple shots, margaritas, a body shot, and God knew what else. Maybe if Eric kept Chase and me drunk the entire time I was here, we'd get along just fine.

But I hadn't slept with him last night because I felt like I had to. It wasn't awkward like my other assignments, where I'd waited, dreading the John's first touch.

I'd had fun last night. I was drunk and when Chase had pressed all those big muscles against me, it'd made me horny as all hell. I remembered pulling him into my room and ripping his shirt off, gleefully running my hands down his enormous chest, feeling like I'd just opened the best Christmas present ever.