Terms and Conditions (Dreamland Billionaires, #2)(34)

“One. Two. Three!” I launch the bouquet over my head.

I turn on my heels and almost slip from the rush, only for Declan to catch me and pull me into his firm chest.

Firm chest? Ugh. Maybe you are drunk after all.

The bouquet lands in someone’s open arms with a slap. I don’t recognize the woman who caught it, but the crowd around her squeals as they try to latch onto my bouquet with greedy hands.

“Finally.” Declan moves us toward the door before the DJ announces Declan's turn with the garter belt.

Oh shit.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

I bristle as he squeezes my hip. Cal slaps a hundred-dollar bill in the DJ’s hand as Rowan drags a chair out to the middle of the dance floor.

Cal waltzes over to help me into the chair, being mindful of the layers of lace and tulle swirling around me like a parachute. “Careful, Iris, your husband bites.”

An unobservable blush spreads from my head to my toes.

“I hate you both.” Declan’s eyes move back and forth between Cal and Rowan.

On cue, the DJ plays the most sensual song known to man. My tummy has a thousand little champagne bubbles popping along to the beat, all while my heart rate picks up speed.

Declan bends a knee and settles into a comfortable position in front of me. His left hand shakes again before he fists it, just like it did when everyone watched us slow dance earlier.

Turns out he is human after all.

I tug him out of his nervous thoughts.

“You look good on your knees, Mr. Kane.”

“Try to not let it get to your head.” The corners of his lips twitch into that usual Declan smile. A flash of a camera goes off, catching the moment.

His hand touches my covered thigh, barely leaving a dent from the layers of material. “This is wrong,” he mutters.

“You’re right. I feel absolutely scandalized,” I speak in an off-key British accent.

His head shakes as a noise that I interpret as a laugh breaks free from him. “You’re so drunk.”

“No. I’m buzzed.”

“What’s the square root of 64?”

“Eight, fuck you very much.”

He shrugs. “Sober enough.”

“For what?”

He doesn’t reply as he lifts the fabric of my dress ever so carefully so no one catches a glimpse of me down there. My lungs squeeze, trying to take in oxygen as Declan disappears under my gown.

“Remember, no hands!” Cal calls out, and the crowd hoots and hollers. Declan pops a blind arm out and flips his middle finger in Cal’s general direction. A few people laugh while others gasp, probably as shocked as me at Declan’s rare display of feelings.

I tune them all out, focusing on the heightened experience. The scrape of Declan’s stubble against my calf. The brush of his hair on the inside of my thighs as he parts them with his head. The feel of his teeth grazing the skin around the garter, accompanied by the press of his soft lips as he clamps down around the frilly piece of lace.

I shiver, and a vibration of his throat tells me Declan noticed and laughed.

I hate him. I hate my husband so much, he is lucky I don’t choke him with the damn thing once he comes back up for air.

Declan drags the garter belt down my leg. He pulls out from underneath my skirt with the strip of white lace stuck between his teeth. With an angry yank, he tugs the material from his mouth and launches it in the air without sparing it a second glance.

“Enjoy your evening, everyone.” Declan doesn’t bother helping me up from the chair. He swoops me out of the seat and cradles me, full bridal style, adding to the crowd’s excitement.

I tap on his shoulder. “Umm, Declan?”

“What?” His eyes soften.

“You’re supposed to carry me into the house, not out of here.”

He sighs like I’m the biggest inconvenience in the world. “You couldn’t walk a straight line out the door in flats, let alone in those shoes.”

“Hmm.”

His brows pull together. “What?”

“Maybe you care about me after all.”

“That’s the alcohol talking.”

I sigh. “Jose does have a way with words.”

His arms tighten around me. “Who the fuck is Jose?”

I grin into the lapel of his jacket. “Nobody important.”

“Good, then at least no one will miss him when he’s dead.”

One might think Declan would soften a bit toward me now that I am officially his wife.

Wrong.

The moment Harrison pulls up in the Maybach, Declan all but throws me in the back seat. I drop into the quilted leather with an oomph, and the material of my dress fans around me like a cloud.

“Would it kill you to be gentle?” I peek up at him.

Declan ignores me as he shuts the door in my face. I’m almost positive some of my dress hangs outside, caught in the doorjamb.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” I grumble.

His elderly driver nearly trips over his feet to beat Declan to his door.

Poor Harrison is probably afraid to lose his job based on the scary look on Declan’s face. Not that I blame him.

But what triggered his anger? Declan doesn’t spare me another glance as he takes a seat, which only adds to the weight pressing against my chest.