Caged

Book 4: The Mastered Series

by Lorelei James

Genres: Women's Fiction; Romance; Contemporary Romance

Synopsis

In the searing fourth novel in the Mastered Series, following Unraveled, only one woman can set a hardened fighter free from his past.…

In order to survive a life of tragedy, Deacon McConnell embraced his roughest edges and learned to fight on the streets. Then a life-changing jujitsu seminar led by Sensei Ronin Black led Deacon to become a professional fighter. With his muscular physique and his body covered in tattoos and scars, the MMA fighter defines mean, both on and off the mat.

But everything changes when innocent Molly Calloway signs up for his kickboxing class. Molly is Deacon's opposite in every way: she's kind, sweet, thoughtful, and educated. After a heated argument between them turns into a passionate encounter, Deacon realizes Molly is eager to experience more, and she looks to him to take her to the darker edge of lust.…

The last thing either of them expects is how deeply their lives will be thrown upside down by the passion they find together.

Release date: July 14, 2015

Publisher: Berkley

Print pages: 384

Sample

CHAPTER ONE

“YOU’RE taking me to a strip club? Seriously?” Molly stared at her friend/coworker/frequent rabble-rouser, Presley, hoping she was joking.

Presley slipped her arm through Molly’s. “Good golly, Miss Molly, this’ll be fun. I promise. See, Bloody Mary used to work here.”

The blond bruiser from Presley’s roller derby team known as Bloody Mary walked in front of them. “Why’d she quit stripping?”

“Last year she scored a job as a personal trainer. I guess the bosses at the skin boutique weren’t happy she’d put on so much muscle. They prefer their strippers to be tanned bags of bones with fake jugs.” Presley shrugged. “I don’t get that. If I were a dude paying to see tits and ass, I’d want a variety of tits and ass—know what I mean?”

“To be honest, Presley, I have absolutely no idea what you mean, or why you think I’d want to see any tits and ass. Hell, I don’t even want to look at my own boobs and butt.”

Then they were standing below a neon sign that boasted HOT EXOTIC DANCERS—READY TO DANCE FOR YOU!

“Hot and ready . . . Sounds like a pizza joint,” she muttered. When Presley didn’t respond, she cast a quick glance around the line of guys ahead of them, waiting to get in. The closer they got to the entrance, the more she was tempted to make a break for it.

“Don’t you even think about ditching me, Calloway,” Presley warned in her ear. “You will walk in and have at least one drink. If it sucks, we’ll go.”

The bouncer, a big African-American guy, threw open his arms when he saw Bloody Mary. “Marisol! Gimme some sugar.”

“Marisol was her stripper name,” Presley whispered.

“I gathered that.”

“Black Bart, baby,” Bloody Mary cooed. “You’re looking as badass as ever.”

“No need to flatter me. You know I’m waving the cover charge for y’all. Tell me who you’re bringing to class up the joint,” Black Bart asked.

“You remember Elvis from my Denver Divas roller derby team?”

It took a second for Molly to remember that Presley’s team nickname was—duh—Elvis.

Then Bloody Mary snagged Molly’s hand and tugged her forward. “We’re popping Miss Molly’s strip-club cherry tonight.”

Black Bart gave Molly a slow once-over. “You don’t say.”

She fought the urge to fidget. This man was used to seeing women with perfect bodies, naked women, letting it all hang out—literally. Please ignore me. That’d be easier than seeing a sneering expression that proved he found her seriously lacking.

But he offered her a hot-eyed stare and a very wolfish grin. “You need anything, pretty eyes—and I mean anything—you come find Black Bart and I’ll take care of you. Mmm-mmm, sweet thang. Would I love to take care of you.”

She blushed like a virgin. “Ah, thanks?”

Bloody Mary kept a firm grip on Molly’s forearm as she led the way inside. They paused in the doorway. “So, Cherry, behold Jiggles, the classiest strip joint in Denver. Which ain’t saying much. But trust me—this is ten steps above the other clubs in town.”

Cherry? Awesome, she’d gotten a nickname.

“Let’s sit there,” Presley said, pointing to a table in the back. “I don’t need to see a cooter up close.”

“Then why are we at a freakin’ strip club?” Molly demanded.

“We drink for free. See, dudes in here ain’t ever gonna get with a stripper, no matter how many lap dances they buy. So when they start looking around and see a table of available women . . .” She shrugged. “It’s win-win. We flirt, they buy us drinks, and sometimes we end up with a hot hookup.”

Molly noticed all the chairs at the table faced the stage, so she couldn’t look at, oh, the wall. “You’ve hooked up with a guy you met in a strip club?”

“In some ways it’s better than meeting a guy in a bar.” Presley plopped down next to her. “Just steer clear of the ones you can see masturbating under the table.”

Her mouth fell open. “You can see that?”

“It’s obvious by how fast their arm is moving,” Bloody Mary said. “I always felt sorry for the cleanup crew. They have to stock some special, industrial-strength jizz remover.”

The stripper strutted onstage wearing a spangly fringed top, slinky black pants, and a black cowboy hat. Molly recognized the song as “Wild West.” The stripper was gorgeous, with auburn hair that fell past her shoulders, long legs, and—holy crap—she just ripped off her shirt to reveal enormous boobs. After a few twirls around the stripper’s pole, another rip and her pants were gone. The woman had no hips to speak of, and her legs bordered on scrawny. Her sparkly G-string was the only item of clothing remaining, besides the five-inch acrylic stilettos.

She gyrated her hips, shook her nonexistent ass, spun around the pole, dropping into a squat and rolling up slowly. On the last spin she performed a backbend, keeping one hand on the pole until she did a walkover and landed in the splits. Then the stripper whipped off her G-string and played pussy peekaboo with her cowboy hat. Her final bow—with her head between her legs—gave everyone a full view.

The DJ warned the patrons to stick around because Madora the Sexplorer would be taking the stage in ten minutes.

Molly tried to play it cool, but she gawked at the women strolling around in ankle-breaking heels and itty-bitty scraps of silk. Even if she had a super-hot body, she doubted she’d ever have the guts to parade around half naked. She wondered if the dancers ever got cold.

Of course they do; look at their nipples.

Then again, with as vigorously as they rubbed a guy’s crotch during a lap dance, friction had to at least keep their butt cheeks warm.

The cocktail waitress took their orders. Bloody Mary ordered Jäger bombs. Jägermeister always reminded Molly of him.

Deacon McConnell.

Even his name dripped sex.

When Molly had signed up for a kickboxing class at Black Arts dojo, she hadn’t known Deacon “Con Man” McConnell was the instructor. He’d strolled into class and scared the crap out of her. It wasn’t his killer physique that turned her knees to jelly, although six feet two inches of a massively muscled, heavily tattooed, shaven-headed MMA fighter with icy blue eyes would kick-start any woman’s hormones. She’d never been attracted to a man with a don’t-fuck-with-me badass attitude, so the pull she’d felt toward him both fascinated and frightened her.

Not that Deacon had noticed. The only time he paid attention to her was to chastise her in class. But even when the man barked orders at her like a drill sergeant, she wondered what it’d be like to hear that sexy southern drawl whispering honey-sweet words against her fevered skin in the dark.

Since Molly’s boss, Amery Hardwick Black, was married to Ronin Black, Deacon’s boss, they occasionally ended up in social situations outside their class time. One night a group of them had gone out to a bar and Molly had sensed Deacon watching her. Liquid courage in the form of three margaritas had allowed her to meet his gaze. Those crystalline eyes showed no guilt at getting caught staring at her, yet she hadn’t seen a glimmer of attraction either, so she’d brushed it aside.

The man sent her mixed signals. He let her know he was pissed off that she’d signed up for private boxing lessons from Fisher Durant—another Black Arts MMA instructor—instead of him. Deacon didn’t mention his displeasure again for almost a year . . . until she’d missed three of his kickboxing classes. Then he’d shown up at her apartment—three Sunday afternoons in a row—for makeup lessons.

The following week he’d cornered her at the dojo and asked her out on a real date. She’d been so excited and nervous, it hadn’t occurred to her that he might’ve been messing with her. So she’d felt like a total chump, sitting in the restaurant for two hours waiting on him, only to get a Sorry, bad timing–C U around text that wasn’t an apology or an explanation.

Then, to make matters even more confusing, Deacon had passed off his kickboxing classes to Shihan Beck, the new second-in-command at Black Arts. So Molly hadn’t seen Deacon for two months.

That didn’t mean she hadn’t thought about him. She had, way more than was healthy, actually—which was sort of pathetic, even when half of her scenarios had a violent comeuppance, where she leveled one perfect punch to Con Man’s smug mug, which knocked him out cold. In front of everyone in the dojo.

Yeah? What about the other scenario? Where you lick his bulging, tattooed biceps and stroke his shaved head until he purrs? Tease him into a sexual frenzy so he regrets that he stood you up?

The cocktail waitress dropped off the shots and whispered in Bloody Mary’s ear.

Bloody Mary stood and said, “One of my old regulars is here in the VIP section. I’m going to surprise him.”

What constituted a regular customer? Was there a VIP punch card? Buy four lap dances and get the fifth one free? And what kind of hard-up loser was a frequent strip-club patron anyway?

“Molly, you all right?” Presley asked. “You’re quiet.”

She gave Presley a fake smile. “I’m awesome. Cheers.” She held up her shot for a toast and knocked it back. “Whoo-ee! That’ll put hair on your chest.”

“I’d much rather have a hot guy’s hairy chest rubbing on mine,” Presley grumbled.

“Look around, Pres. You’re not gonna find that guy in here tonight.” Molly leaned closer. “My cherry is officially popped. I saw a stripper and had my one drink. Let’s ditch this place and go somewhere we can dance, okay?”

“Fine. I’ll go tell Bloody Mary we’re leaving.”

Molly stood. “I’ll do it. I have to use the restroom anyway.”

She wandered to the VIP section, which wasn’t cordoned off with velvet ropes, just a small sign that warned membership cards were required. The area was more smoke and mirrors than posh. The chairs were wider—likely for all of those free lap dances. A private bar lined the back wall.

A table of businessmen watched as a guy in the corner got a lap dance.

Single men sat at smaller tables among the groups of guys.

Molly’s gaze moved to the man, who had both his hands full of Bloody Mary’s ass as she straddled his lap, her boobs in his face.

Then Bloody Mary threw herself into a backbend, which gave Molly an unimpeded view of the “regular’s” face.

A familiar face, smiling at Bloody Mary with those icy blue eyes.

Deacon.

His sexy grin dried up when his gaze connected with Molly’s.

Her heart plummeted. Now I know why you stood me up, you bastard. Face burning, she retreated and kept a leisurely pace as she cut through the tables, her gut urging her to run outside, snag a cab, and go home.

Once inside the restroom, she braced her hands on the sink and dropped her head down, forcing deep, even breaths into her lungs. It didn’t help. Mortification had morphed into anger. Mad as hell, she let fly, “You motherfucking, cocksucking sonuvawhore, ass-licking fuckwad!”

The bathroom door opened.

“Whoa. What’s wrong?” Presley asked. “You ran in here like you saw your minister in the VIP section.”

“No. But guess who I did see?” She paused and met Presley’s eyes in the mirror. “Deacon.”

“As in our former kickboxing teacher, Deacon?”

“Apparently he’s Bloody Mary’s regular customer.”

When Presley didn’t say anything but became very interested in checking her makeup, Molly’s eyes narrowed.

“You’ve seen Deacon in here before.”

“Just once, okay? It was around the time Knox and Shiori got married, so I figured it might be a bachelor-party thing.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because I didn’t know it’d matter to you.” Presley’s gaze met hers in the mirror. “Why does it matter to you?”

“It doesn’t.”

“Oh yeah? Then why are you so upset?”

“I’m not upset!” Okay. She sounded upset. Molly slumped against the wall. “Seeing him here clears up the mystery about why he pulled a no-show for our date. I’m not his type.”

Presley got right in her face. “Fuck that. And fuck him. You don’t want a man who drools over tits and ass, unless it’s your tits and ass. I’ll bet a lap dance is the only action he gets since he’s so big, mean, and scary-looking.”

Molly had watched ring bunnies hanging all over Deacon because being big, mean, and scary-looking was what made him so compelling. And she was smart enough to admit that was part of the reason he appealed to her too.

Appealed. Past tense. Let it go. “I need a drink.”

“Come on. I’ll buy.”

Molly followed Presley out of the bathroom.

Presley stopped in the middle of the hallway so abruptly that Molly ran into her.

When she glanced up to see what’d caught Presley’s attention, she froze.

Deacon leaned against the wall, his muscled arms crossed over his chest, one knee bent with his cowboy boot pressed behind him. The pose seemed casual, but she wasn’t fooled.

“Beat it,” he said to Presley. “I need to talk to Molly.”

Her stomach swooped.

“You have shitty manners,” Presley said.

Deacon ignored Presley and continued to level his brooding stare at her.

Talk about unnerving.

Talk about hot.

Shut up, hormones.

Then Presley moved and blocked Molly from his view. “Tell me what to do.”

“Go. I’ll give him five minutes.”

“Don’t take his crap.”

“I won’t.”

Presley’s gaze darted between Molly and Deacon as she backed away. “I’ll be right over there if you need anything.”

“She won’t.”

“I wasn’t talking to you, asshole.”

“I know. Keep walking.”

When they were alone, Molly kept the entire width of the hallway between them. “You were rude to her.”

“So?”

“So you save your decent behavior for the strippers working the VIP section?”

His eyes flashed. “Sometimes. What are you doin’ here?”

“Drinking with my friends and soaking in the naked entertainment.”

“Doesn’t seem like your scene.”

“I hardly think you can chastise me for being here when it appears you’re a frequent patron of this strip club, Mr. VIP.”

In the blink of an eye, Deacon had caged her against the wall, his mouth next to her ear.

She shivered when his hot breath tickled her neck.

“Goddamn flowers,” he muttered. “You always smell sweet. Even after sweating in class for an hour, you didn’t reek like everyone else.”

“There’s a compliment.” Molly put her hands on his chest and pushed him. “Now move it.”

A soft growl vibrated against her cheek. “You drive me crazy, woman.”

“Hey!” a loud male voice shouted behind them. “Let her go.” The bouncer stopped a foot from Molly and set his hand on her shoulder. “Hey, pretty eyes. Is this fucker harassing you?”

“No, I’m not harassing her, but I’ll break your hand if you don’t take it off of her.”

“Deacon!” she gasped. “What is wrong with you?”

“Got a case of mine, I’m thinking,” Black Bart said. “You know this joker, sweet thang?”

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 c