Caged (Mastered, #4)(5)
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 f*ck her and watch those brown eyes heat with lust, but he also wanted . . . more. And since that was a new feeling, he had no f*cking 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 f*cking 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 f*cks 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 f*cking 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 f*cking 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.”