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.