Down and Out(59)

Jesus f*cking Chr—
Rage and lust war within me, and I almost have a stroke at the sight of her all sexed up. “Why do you have to be so stubborn?” My jaw clenches as I plant my hands on the wall next to her head, leaning down as I cage her in.
Ain’t no way she’s leaving this hallway looking like that.
She uncrosses her arms and licks her lips, but that cruel smile’s still curving her mouth. “Why do you like it when I’m stubborn?” she asks, stroking my cock through my jeans.
I groan as my head falls forward, feeling the soft cotton of my boxers wrap around me under my jeans and her fingers. The light, teasing friction is driving me crazy, and I don’t know why, but she’s right. Arguing with her is like foreplay, and every time she runs her mouth or sasses me, it’s like . . . like I want to f*ck her into submission. I want to own her, completely.
We’re both strong-willed—or pig-headed, depending on who you ask—and I’ve never been with a girl like that. I like to be in control, call the shots. It’s no secret that most men do. But I’m starting to realize that with Savannah, I don’t think I was ever in control. She’s always been the one calling the shots, and I’m surprisingly okay with that.
Doesn’t mean I won’t still try, though.
I swallow and lean my head back, snaking one hand through the hair at the nape of her neck to gently pull her head back, her red lips parting in surprise as she looks up at me. “Don’t start something you can’t finish, Kitten.”
Savannah grins and releases me. “Then I’d better stop, ’cause I have no intention of letting you ‘finish.’”
She’s just left me high and dry in a public place, but for some reason I’m smiling down at her like she just gave me an awesome quickie. “You’re such a tease.”
I let go of her hair and tuck my erection under my waistband, and by some divine miracle, she re-buttons her shirt without me having to ask her. Or tell her.
Reaching up, she starts finger-brushing her hair into a ponytail, and I still her wrist. “Leave it down?”
A slim brow arches, but she shrugs and lets the waves cascade around her shoulders again.
I grab her hand and lead her back into the lobby, looking over to see her staring down at our clasped hands. I’ve never tried to just outright hold her hand before, and I don’t really care how uncomfortable she feels with affection right now. Things can get kinda crazy down in the arena and I’m not letting go of her. “I’m holding your damn hand. Get over it.”
Her mouth tilts to the side as she glances up at me. “You’re so bossy, Mr. Whitmore.”
My cock strains against my waistband as I groan and bring her hand up, kissing her knuckles. “Never stop calling me that.”
We see fewer people the farther we go, and by the time we hit the hallway with the conference rooms, we’re virtually alone. I hold open the door to Room C for her. Savannah glances at the sign that reads “Reserved for Private Function” and gives me a puzzling look as we walk into the empty, gargantuan room.
Off to the side is an innocent-looking door labeled Boiler Room, and I open it, leading her into a small foyer with a freight elevator. I press the “down” button, watching in amusement as she looks back and forth between the fake boiler room door and me, trying to put the pieces together.
“You need a way to get a lot of people in and out of the basement without looking suspicious,” I say. “This way, people go into the conference room, and sometime later, they all come out. It just looks like any other meeting from the outside.”
“Oh,” she says as the doors slide open. “That makes sense, I guess.”
We step inside and I press the button for the basement. The doors slide closed and we begin our descent into The Pit.





When Declan told me he was an underground fighter, I imagined something straight out of Fight Club. You know, bareknuckle fighting in grimy basements, with sweaty men wrestling on the floor while a blood-thirsty crowd cheers them on. But this clean, well-lit basement with a boxing ring and bleachers? Not what I expected.
They even have a full-service bar and a place to take bets.
The place is packed as Declan leads me through the amped-up crowd. People start recognizing him, and he waves or politely nods in response. They call out his name and pat him on the back. It earns us a wide berth, and for that, I’m both thankful and irritated.
Thankful, because now I don’t have to brush up against a disproportionate number of guys who are obviously drinking or drunk, based on all the cups in their hands. And irritated, because now a lot of attention is focused on Declan and the girl he’s holding hands with. It’s earning me quite a few dirty looks from the women in attendance.
We pass the betting booth and the tail end of what must have been a long line, based on how many people are here. As we head toward the ring, I see that there are actually four sections of bleachers, set up several feet back from each side of the ring. They’re filling up fast.
Just as I wonder how we’re going to find a seat, I see Marcus sitting in the front row of a bleacher section. He’s looking down at his phone, but when Declan calls out his name, he looks up and nods in greeting. He stands when we approach, glancing down at our clasped hands before meeting my eyes, his expression unreadable.
“Marcus, you know Savannah, right?” Declan asks, gesturing to me.
“Yeah, we’ve met.”
Three pleasant-sounding bells chime over the PA system, and I glance up at Declan. “What’s that?” It sounds like the little notices they give on subways before the doors close.