Caged (Mastered, #4)(6)
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 f*cking 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 f*ck to say to her anyway. Because even to his own ears it sounded like a lousy f*cking 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 f*cking 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 he’d needed advice, Deacon had relied on Ronin or Knox. They never pushed; they waited until he came to them. But Maddox was a f*cking 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 motherf*cker had tried to force—tried being the operative word—Deacon into talking about every-f*cking-thing. Hadn’t worked so far, so he attempted to hedge. “I don’t know what your problem is. I thought you’d be happy I got my cardio in.”
“Nice try. Take your time working up to the real issue. I’ve got nowhere else to be today.”