Down and Out(78)

Everything south of my navel clenches while I struggle not to close my eyes and absorb his deliciously naughty words. And now, thanks to one sentence, I have to change my panties before I leave tonight.
Declan’s hands land on my shoulders, ending my lewd thoughts as he turns me sideways. “Now, if you’re done shamelessly flirting with me, I have to finish getting ready.” He brushes past me, crossing the hall and disappearing into his room.
I’m left standing in the bathroom doorway, with my jaw practically touching the floor, as his door closes. I don’t know whether to kiss him or kill him.
What the hell was that? Is he done punishing me? Or is this some new, twisted form of punishment?
Lust-induced torture. . . Is that a thing?
It is when Declan Whitmore does it.
Well, Declan and his army of sexual innuendos can suck it. I’m not caving. I’m still doing the fight.
It takes me a minute to gather myself, but when I do, I snatch my flat iron off the countertop and march back to my room. I think I’m leaning toward “kill.”

Declan stands from sitting on the couch when I walk into the living room, his face clouding over as he looks me up and down. “What is that?” The line of his jaw tenses as he looks at my clothes and scowls.
I pretend not to notice, and say, “It’s a dress,” as nonchalantly as I can while putting in my earrings. Checking my reflection in the mirror next to the front door, I see him come around the sectional.
“Like hell it is. It looks more like a napkin.”
Declan’s not too far off with his assessment. The clingy black fabric is not only sleeveless, but super-short, and it has a huge oval cut-out on the back that stops just short of my ass. It makes wearing a bra with this dress impossible. At least the front is fairly modest, though, since it has a cowl neck that covers up what little cleavage I have.
Hey, if he’s going to fight dirty, then so am I. He has his words and wields them like a samurai sword. All I have in my arsenal is my body.
Shrugging, I say, “Napkin. Dress. As long as it covers my lady bits, I don’t really care.” I feign interest in my reflection, smoothing the tight fabric over my hips.
I went for “edgy” tonight, seeing as how I’m supposed to be this badass fighter. I don’t quite feel like one yet, but I figured I should at least look the part, so I went with dark makeup, a high, stick-straight ponytail with a little pouf in front, and killer heels I borrowed from Macy.
They’re black leather, dizzyingly tall, and have little silver spikes on the back of the heel. Totally badass, and totally liable to break my neck if I trip in them.
“You’ll care when you get outside and freeze to death,” Declan mutters under his breath.
Picking my keys up from the entryway table, I turn and face him. He obviously went for “yummy” tonight.
My eyes flicker as I look him over. How can a simple white Henley and a pair of beat-up jeans look so damn sexy? It’s not fair. I put so much time and effort into looking slightly better than normal, and he just showers, throws on some clothes, and BOOM—my ovaries explode.
Tearing my gaze away from him, I say, “My car has heat.” Sort of.
Declan looms in front of me, so close I have to take a step back. “Nuh-uh,” he says, snatching my keys out of my hand. “You’re not driving anywhere in that rusted piece of shit looking like that. If you break down. . .” He shakes his head and shoves my keys in his pocket. “Nope. Not gonna happen. I’m driving.”
I hate that he’s right. My car’s not exactly reliable, but I’m also not a child. Why can’t he offer a ride instead of telling me I’m getting one?
And why is he choosing to be a bossy * now, after all this time of acting like he doesn’t care? What the hell is going on with him tonight?
I’ve wanted Declan to acknowledge my existence for weeks, and this is how he finally does it? By being an ass? I don’t think it’s cute or funny right now, and I’m wondering how I ever did.
“What’s wrong with how I look?” I know I’m just being nitpicky at this point, and I’m just looking for something to fight about, but I can’t help it. His confusing one-eighty has put me in my own pissy mood.
Declan returns my glare before he moves past me to open the front door. “It’s not what’s wrong with it that’s got me worried, it’s what’s right with it.”
I blink at him as he stands there with the door open, letting in the chilly night air. He’s got a mocking “ladies first” expression on his face, and the chivalrous gesture pisses me off even more. “I’m not yours to worry about,” I mutter, pushing past him.
“That’s not gonna stop me from doing it,” he calls out as he shuts and locks the door.
“That’s not gonna stop you from doing a lot of things, will it?” I storm down the stairs as carefully as I can. Fun fact: it’s not very effective when you’re going at a snail’s pace.
The concrete staircase shakes as Declan bounds down, and I pause, holding onto the metal handrail as he passes me. Stopping on the step below me, he turns and says, “Nope,” as he scoops me up and flings me over his shoulder.
A surprised yelp erupts from me as he turns again and starts down the stairs, jostling me with every step. I beat against his firm back. “What the hell are you doing?”
“Speeding things up. At the rate you’re going, the whole night’ll be over before you make it down these stairs.”
He might have a point. And I’m loath to admit that the view’s actually pretty nice. I have a front row seat to the greatest ass ever known to man, both literally and figuratively. Then a cold gust of wind hits dangerously high on the back of my thighs and it dawns on me that he’s got the same view.