Caged (Mastered, #4)(119)

Thirty minutes later Molly knew Maddox had spilled more than he’d intended. But she also realized Maddox had assumed Deacon had told her way more than he had.

So Deacon’s claim that he’ll tell you everything lasted what . . . ? Two weeks?

She couldn’t ask Deacon specifics since prior to the fight she’d seen Deacon for ten minutes—five of which he’d spent f*cking her brains out up against the glass shower door. Then he’d bailed after blowing her circuits with a soul kiss.

She’d sat with the Black Arts crew during the exhibition. The fighters were seated in a different area of the arena, so Molly wondered if Deacon was making the “connections” Maddox had been harping on.

After the exhibition ended—Fee easily won her fight—Molly returned to the hotel with Beck, some guy named Gunnar who used to be an instructor at Black Arts, and Riggins. She skipped the after-party, and Riggins insisted on escorting her to her hotel room.

She poured herself a rum and Diet Coke and stared out the window at the glittering lights of Los Angeles. Molly didn’t know how much time had passed before she heard the door open. Her heart immediately beat faster. She saw Deacon in the reflection of the glass before he wrapped himself around her.


“Hey.”

“Hey.”

“You left right after the last fight,” he murmured against her neck.

“Since Beck was leaving, I caught a ride. I knew you’d be along when you finished.”

“Babe, what’s goin’ on? You seem sad.”

“I’m not. I was just thinking about how cool it would’ve been to see the ocean.” And Molly felt stupid for her hope that Deacon might’ve planned to surprise her with a romantic, late-night trip to the beach. But he didn’t do romance. Not for some macho reason, but simply because romance didn’t cross his mind. Sex did. So he wooed her and wowed her with sex.

And that night Deacon had introduced Molly to the joy of bondage. He’d tied her spread-eagle to the four-poster bed and f*cked her for an hour. Then he’d bent her over the couch and spanked her—more tease than pain—and f*cked her for another hour. Then he’d ordered fruit and ice cream from room service, spread her out on the bar, and used her body to create a sundae.

Just thinking about the contrasting sensations of his hot mouth and the cold ice cream on her body made her tremble. She could admit that Deacon licking and sucking on her everywhere—from her earlobes to her pinkie toe—had been romantic. In a Deacon-like way.

A shout startled her out of the memory, and she looked around the arena, wide-eyed, remembering where she was.

Right. Fight night had finally arrived.

The week following their LA trip, Deacon had been scarce. When they were together, he was sleeping or obsessively watching fight tapes.

Molly let him be.

Then he’d shown up at her apartment at two a.m. last night, looking exhausted and worried. “I couldn’t sleep,” he said. “I don’t like to sleep without you. I hadn’t realized until tonight how much I f*cking hated that this week.”

She’d stripped off her pajamas and crawled into bed with him naked. Almost as soon as he’d wrapped her in his arms and whispered, “Love you, babe,” he’d fallen into a deep sleep.

Her sweet, snuggly man had been gone this morning when she’d awoken. But he had texted her:


THNX 4 last night. I U

Might’ve been silly, but she’d looked at it several times during the day.

Now here she was, waiting to watch her sweet, fierce lover prove his prowess or get pummeled.

Black Arts had a reserved-seating section in the front three rows behind the judges’ table. Molly would’ve preferred to sit someplace else, but Deacon insisted she sit close enough that he could see her when he entered the ring.

So while the Black Arts section was full, none of her cohorts was in the area—most were at the back of the house with the fight crew. She wondered how different the night would’ve been if Deacon’s dad were sitting beside her.

The blond ring girl—who resembled Katie—sashayed around the outside of the ring. Katie had hung up her teeny black boy shorts and cleavage-baring sports bra after the success of the event in LA. Katie was a smart woman; most people underestimated the size of her brain when faced with the size of her chest.

Presley slid into the empty chair next to Molly. “Hey, ho – bag.”

“Hey, Pres. I wasn’t sure if you’d make it.”

“Wouldn’t miss it!” She leaned in to whisper, “But who are the smarmy suits in the front row? They eyed me like a tasty burrito. It was creepy.”

Presley had cultivated a retro edgy look that fit in with the fight crowd. She’d tied a thin animal-print scarf around her neck. Her square-necked blouse was the same fiery red as her lipstick. To complete the outfit, she wore dark denim vintage pedal pushers and a pair of black and red checked patent leather platform pumps. The only aspect that didn’t fit with the pinup-queen image were the tattoos running down her arms and the lip, nose, and eyebrow piercings.

“You done staring at me?”

Molly rolled her eyes. “Yes. Now I see why the guys were drooling over you. Sometimes it’s hard to be the friend of such a bombshell.”

“Ha. Answer the question. Who are those guys?”