What perfect payback to proclaim she’d never seen him before. But that’d set him off. And Deacon “Con Man” McConnell in a rage was dangerous for everyone. “Yes, I know him. He is—was—my kickboxing instructor.”
Black Bart grinned. “No kidding. You one of them ka-rah-tay chicks?”
“No. I’ve discovered I like beating the crap out of something a couple of times a week.”
“I hear ya there.” Despite Deacon’s warning growl, Black Bart stepped between them. “Say the word and I toss him out on his tattooed ass. I don’t cotton with any women being threatened in my club.”
“Our conversation got a little intense, but we’re done now.”
Deacon’s dark look said, The hell we are, but he kept his mouth shut.
“Okay. You need anything, come find me.”
“I don’t like the way he looks at you,” Deacon said softly, the menace in his tone unmistakable.
“Like you’d know how he was looking at me,” she said hotly. “You haven’t stopped glaring at me since the moment you trapped me back here.”
“Staring at you and glaring at you aren’t the same thing, darlin’, and you damn well know the difference. Especially with me.”
“My mistake. But you’re always glaring at someone. Is that MMA badass behavior? Daring someone to screw with you so you can beat the snot out of them?”
“Beat the snot out of them?” A smile curled his lips. “Babe. If I hit a guy in the nose, it ain’t snot running out.”
“Eww. Thanks for the visual.”
Deacon inched closer. “No one here knows I’m a fighter. I keep it my personal business.”
“I don’t imagine there’s much talking going on during a lap dance anyway.”
“Not usually, no.”
“Whatever. I’m leaving.”
He shook his head. “Not done talking to you.”
“We have nothing to talk about. I ran into you at a strip club. Big deal. You’re a single guy. It’s your personal business if you pay some chick with fake boobs to grind her bony ass on your crotch.” She paused. “Does that about cover it?”
“No. That doesn’t begin to cover it.” Deacon crowded her against the wall. “You still seeing Jake, that pussy banker friend of Amery?”
How did Deacon know that? Moreover, why did he care?
“What about the douche bag caught your eye? The snappy suit? The nine-to-five work hours? The freakishly perfect groomed hair?”
“Maybe it’s that he didn’t stand me up for our first date,” she retorted. She gave Deacon’s shiny head a blatant once-over. “Sounds like you’re jealous of his hair, baldy.”
His eyes hardened. “Shaving my head is a choice.”
“How do I know you’re not sporting a chrome dome because otherwise you’d have a bad comb-over?”
Omigod. I cannot believe I said that. To Deacon.
Molly braced herself for his reaction.
But nothing could’ve prepared her for his mouth coming down on hers in an explosion of heat, need, and possession.
His kiss inflamed her. Head spinning, Molly fought the temptation to hold on to him for dear life—because holy buckets, his kiss packed as hard a punch as his fist. She melted into him, and that changed the tenor of the kiss from passion to sweetness.
The twining of tongues slowed, and he teased her lips with tiny nibbles and tender smooches. Then Deacon buried his face in the crook of her neck and his big body trembled. “Fuck. I knew it.”
“Knew what?” she managed.
Deacon stepped back. He didn’t act shocked or even contrite. He rubbed his hand over his mouth, and grim determination darkened his eyes. “I didn’t mean to do that. Not here, not like this. But I’m considering it a sign.”
“Of what?” My stupidity?
“That we’re gonna happen.”
The music had kicked on, so she must’ve misheard him. “What?”
“We’re gonna happen. I’ve wanted you for too damn long. I see you—I fucking smell you—and I can’t get you out of my head. I’ve tried staying away from you—for your good and mine. But now that I’ve tasted that sweet mouth? No more denying this.”
“Are you always this cocky?” she demanded.
His eyebrow winged up. “You kissed me back.”
Molly blushed. Dammit. He had her there.
Admit that the man could have you anywhere. Anytime. Anyplace.
“Don’t tell me you don’t want this.”
“I don’t even know what ‘this’ is, so you and I are never gonna happen, Deacon.”
That dangerous look settled in his eyes again. “Because a guy like me—a tattooed fighter without a college degree—ain’t good enough for you?”
“Oh, quit acting hurt. You lost that right when you pulled a no-show for our date. The only reason you want me is because you haven’t had me. Or maybe I’m more appealing to you now that I’m telling you no.” I’m not your type, Mr. VIP. Don’t make me say that out loud. This is mortifying enough.
“You sure got a mouth on you these days.” He locked his hooded gaze to hers, stalking her until her back met the concrete wall again.
“I’m glad my transformation from mousy to mouthy amuses you.”
Then his hands were on the wall beside her head. “I’m not amused. I’m proud. You should be too. You’ve come a long way, learning to stand up for yourself—verbally and physically.”
There was the mother lode of compliments. But it was too late.
“Happy as I am to have your professional approval of my progress, this is me standing up for myself. Goodbye, Deacon.”
Molly ducked under his arm and walked away without looking back.
CHAPTER TWO
THE punishing rhythm Deacon had set on the treadmill finally started to wear him down.
His body had become too slippery for the heart-rate monitor to stick. Even the armband holding his MP3 player had slid down and he’d had to take it off. So he’d run to the sounds of his thudding footfalls and measured breaths.
Black Arts was quiet as a tomb on Sunday—the way Deacon preferred it. After Sensei Ronin Black’s sojourn to Japan last year, he’d hired additional jujitsu instructors, which meant Deacon spent less time teaching and more time focused on MMA. Despite Deacon’s protests, Shihan Beck had taken over his kickboxing classes.
Not that any of his classes had been overrun with eager students. He had high expectations, and only the hardiest of souls lasted in his classes. So what if his students were afraid of him? If he didn’t push them beyond their expectations, they’d show up for class uninspired and unconditioned. Fear was a great motivator.
It’d definitely worked for Molly.
Just the thought of that woman sent fire through his veins. She’d gone from trying to melt into the wall whenever he came near her to telling him he was a sadistic bastard right before she released a flurry of punches at the heavy bag.
That’d been one of his proudest teaching moments.
Her fierceness in class had spilled over into her interpersonal dealings. He’d heard that her managerial skills had lessened his boss’s wife’s workload. He’d seen her increased confidence when their group went out. Yet, with all the changes, she’d retained genuine niceness, sweetness, and thoughtfulness. He wanted her in a way he’d never experienced. Yeah, he wanted to fuck her and watch those brown eyes heat with lust, but he also wanted . . . more. And since that was a new feeling, he had no fucking clue what to do about it or how to act on it.
As he kept up the brutal cardio, his thoughts drifted to the first time he’d considered taking action with her outside of class.
Last year the Black Arts crew had converged at Fresh, a fetish club, for Ivan Stanislovsky’s birthday party. While their friends had been doing shots or sneaking off to see club demos of spankings, floggings, and fire play, he and Molly had gotten into a heated argument.
“Why didn’t you tell me you were taking private boxing lessons?” he??
?d demanded when they had a moment alone at the table.
She rolled her pretty brown eyes. “Because I knew you’d act like it’s a personal affront to you.”
To keep their friends from eavesdropping, he’d moved in close enough to count the freckles on her nose. “Whose kickboxing class are you in?”
“Yours.” She studied him. “You’re telling me you’re a more dedicated teacher than Fisher?”
“Do I look like I give a damn if my students excel in a fitness class? Huh-uh. I try to break them.”
“Why?”
“Survival of the fittest, babe.”
“Sorry, but that attitude does make you a shitty teacher, Deacon.”
“Fish-dick is a shitty teacher. I break my students down to build them back up stronger than they were before.” He had a hard time keeping his eyes off that lush fucking mouth of hers, which needed his mouth on it pronto. “So did you hire Fisher because you wanted private one-on-one time with him?”
“Yes, that’s it,” she cooed with sarcasm. “Instead of showing me how to increase my impact and speed, Fisher ties me to the heavy bag and fucks me in front of the whole dojo. I’m surprised you haven’t heard about it.”
He forced himself to focus on the challenge dancing in her eyes rather than hooking an arm around Fisher’s neck and choking him out right there in the booth. Every time he inhaled, Molly’s flowery scent floated to him.
“But if you’re so desperate to prove your dick is bigger than his, I’ll bring a ruler next time.”
He laughed. “Better bring a yardstick for me, babe, not a puny ruler.”
“I’m surprised you can get pants on over that monster-sized . . . ego.”
Speaking of monster-sized. Jesus. All night he’d tried to keep his gaze off her truly spectacular tits. Something had prompted her to ditch the modest clothes she usually favored. And it made him fucking crazy to think she’d dressed differently because Fisher was here.
Needing to push her a little, Deacon lifted his hand to twine a long, shiny brown curl around his index finger. As his finger wound the spiral higher, the backs of his knuckles brushed the creamy swell of her full breast.
Molly’s refusal to slap his hand away intrigued him. As did the way her pulse hammered in her throat as he touched her.
“Tell me why you need to take more classes to increase your hitting power?”
“Are you asking if I’m still afraid of my own shadow?”
“From where I’m sitting, you’ve made great strides in confidence and the ability to defend yourself.”
She didn’t look like she believed him.
“What?”
“Do you know what I did today? I helped teach a self-defense class. I stood in front of fifty girls and told them about being attacked. How I’d felt like an idiot for being oblivious to my dangerous surroundings. How I’d felt lucky that at least I hadn’t been raped. Then I confessed I couldn’t go outside by myself after dark for more than a month after it happened. Even if I’d forgotten something in my car, I couldn’t make myself leave the safety of my apartment. A big, strong, tough guy like you doesn’t have any idea how it feels to be frightened out of your fucking mind. So getting to tell those girls today that I took control of the fear by enrolling in self-defense classes made me feel ten feet tall.”
Shit, he knew what was coming.
“But according to you, I’m still traumatized from that attack. I shouldn’t speak out publicly about what happened to me. I shouldn’t share the precautions other girls can take so they don’t end up in that situation.” She glared at him. “You think I’m weak. That’s why I didn’t ask you to teach me. Fisher has never seen me as a victim.”
When she attempted to pull her head away, Deacon held tightly to the piece of hair wrapped around his finger. His gaze encompassed every inch of her face. From the fire flashing in her big brown eyes, to the wrinkle in her brow, to the heat and alcohol turning her cheeks rosy, to the pursed set of her lips.
“Let me go.”
“You’ve had your say; now I’ll have mine. I told your friends not to assume you’d want to help with the class. The reason I said that? Because you’ve never spoken to me or anyone else at the dojo about the attack. So I assumed it still had a hold on you. That mistake is on me and I’m sorry. But I’ve never ever thought you were weak—especially since you faced down your fears and have been kicking them in the teeth. Do I tell you to toughen up in my class? Yep. But I tell everyone to push harder.
“The real reason you didn’t ask me to teach you? Darlin’, you’re afraid of this pull between us.” His focus momentarily slipped to her cleavage. “The thought of being alone with me, with my hands all over you, my body in tight behind yours, my voice in your ear . . . sent you running. But here’s a warning, babe: Don’t think I won’t chase you.” Another round of shots had arrived, breaking the moment.
Molly didn’t speak to him the rest of the night.
And he hadn’t found the balls to ask her out for another year. A year. Talk about fucking pathetic. He might be fierce in the ring and in his classes, but he was a chickenshit when it came to man/woman personal stuff. So when Molly had skipped his kickboxing class three times, he’d seized the chance to turn their teacher-student relationship into something more. He’d loaded his portable fast bag and other training equipment and shown up at her apartment.
The look on her face when she opened the door to him? Priceless.
But then she’d tried to bar him from entering. Rather than laughing and shoving her aside, he’d asked if she really wanted to drop his class. Because the only way he’d allow her to return was to make up the hours she’d missed.
Molly had reluctantly let him in.
Deacon was pretty sure she’d imagined his face on the boxing dummy as she’d pummeled it. After the workout, he’d ordered Chinese. They’d eaten side by side on her couch and watched three episodes of Bar Rescue.
So he’d warned her he’d be back the following Sunday for another makeup lesson. After a grueling session, she’d shocked him by cooking a pork roast with all the trimmings. Those few hours with her had been burned into his memory banks forever.
But the third lesson—he hardly remembered that one. Due to an unseasonably warm afternoon, she’d worn spandex workout pants and an eye-popping sports bra. They’d done mostly floor work because watching her gorgeous tits jiggle every time her fist connected with the dummy . . . A man had only so much willpower. He’d given her a lame excuse and left right after the workout.
Then all that crap had gone down.
And she hadn’t given him a chance to explain.
Not that he’d know what the fuck to say to her anyway. Because even to his own ears it sounded like a lousy fucking excuse.
“Get off that thing. Now.”
Christ. His trainer’s booming voice could compete with thunder.
When Deacon didn’t immediately comply, Maddox leaned over and stabbed buttons on the console until the machine shut off.
Unprepared for the sudden loss of movement, Deacon smacked into the handles. Then, bracing his feet on either side of the belt, he pulled the towel from around his neck and mopped his face and head.
“What is wrong with you?” Maddox demanded. “Three hours on the goddamn treadmill means you won’t be worth a damn for other cardio training tomorrow.”
Deacon slowly raised his head, his chest heaving from exertion. He respected the hell out of his trainer. Not only was Maddox Byerly the force driving him to finally get somewhere in his MMA career, but he’d become a good friend. Spending six days a week together, though, meant they had to maintain a line between friendship and training at the dojo.
“Don’t pull that silent-treatment crap on me, Deacon. How fucking hard is it to just tell me the problem?”
“Hard as hell, to be honest.”
“Tough. Park it. I ain’t going anywhere until you start talking.”
In the rare instances in the past that h
e’d needed advice, Deacon had relied on Ronin or Knox. They never pushed; they waited until he came to them. But Maddox was a fucking bulldog—he demanded full disclosure about Deacon’s life outside the ring because he claimed it’d affect Deacon’s performance inside the ring. So in the last six months, the motherfucker had tried to force—tried being the operative word—Deacon into talking about every-fucking-thing.