Yield to Me

by Sarah Castille

  Problem was, he had to find a way to deal with the tightening in his gut every time he saw her—an uncharacteristic yearning. Yes, she was beautiful and sexy as sin. And Reid had been right about her skill. When she’d stepped into the ring at the TriStar event, he’d been blown away by her raw talent. She’d fought smart, and she’d fought hard. But then it had all gone to hell.

  Well, it wouldn’t happen again. Not on his watch.

  Marcy reached the elevated ring and looked up at him, her soft green eyes wide with apprehension, the slightest flush in her cheeks. His abdomen tightened, and arousal stirred low in his groin.

  So much for resolve.

  He held the ropes open, and she joined him in the practice ring.

  “White Sox fan?” She gestured toward the white lettering on his T-shirt.

  “Always. Never missed a game when I was a kid. Some of my greatest memories are the afternoons I spent with my dad in the stadium. Those were the days I could eat hot dogs without worrying about making weight for my next event.”

  Her face brightened when she smiled. “I’m a White Sox fan, too, although I just go for the junk food and men in tight pants.”

  Jax chuckled. “I’m surprised Reid lets you eat junk food.”

  “He doesn’t, but I’m not always so good at following the rules, as you’ll find out tonight. If you’re planning on tossing me around the ring again, I won’t be so easy on you this time.”

  He saw her humor for what it was. An attempt to diffuse the tension. Still, he liked this side of her. Soft, gently teasing. He wanted more.

  “I’ll be sure to keep up my guard.”

  As he led her to the center of the ring, he caught her taking a quick glance around. The gym was busy for a Friday night. Every station had a line-up, from the free weights to the grapple mats and from the practice rings to the studios. The slap of gloves on leather, the steady beat of the punching bag, the slip slap of jump ropes, and the whirr of exercise machines all blended into a symphonic cacophony of sound. Was she glad for the company or wishing they were alone, as he did?

  “Sit.” He gestured to the mat, and they sat facing each other. Her fight shorts rode up as she crossed her legs, and he dragged his gaze away from the creamy softness of her inner thighs.

  “Do you like to be touched?”

  The question startled her as it was meant to do, and she blushed. “I don’t understand—”

  “It’s a simple question. Do you like to be touched? After watching you fight, I don’t think you do.”

  Her voice dropped to a throaty rasp, and she looked away. “No. But I don’t see how this is relevant to…”

  He edged closer to her and took her hands in his. “That’s what we’re going to do tonight. I’m going to touch you. Not in a sexual way. Clothed areas are off limits. But I want you to get comfortable enough with touch that it doesn’t elicit a fear response. Does that make sense?”

  She shook her head. “Other fighters touch me every day in practice. I don’t have a problem with that.”

  “But in a highly charged situation, when the adrenaline is flowing and you’re being pressed into submission, you do. What I’m trying to figure out is whether you freeze because of the touch, the loss of control, or something else entirely.” He helped her to her feet and led her over to one of the four corner pillars that marked the corners of the practice ring. “Face the pillar, hands on the ropes on either side.”

  For a long moment, she hesitated, and his heart thudded in his chest. He could help her, wanted to help her, but more than that, he needed to help her. Some part of him had connected with her the first day they’d met, sensed a need in her that he knew instinctively he could fill.

  She drew in a deep, shuddering breath and then placed her hands on the ropes.

  A familiar warmth suffused his body, slowing his pulse and easing his tension. This was why he had left the ring and become a coach. He could help people in a way he had been unable to help his mother and sister. Never again would he feel that sense of helplessness and loss as he’d watched them die.

  “Is this okay?” The slight sway of her body betrayed her anxiety, and he placed his hands on her shoulders to steady her.

  “Relax, little fighter.” He brushed his fingertips along her arm from shoulder to wrist, savoring the soft warmth of her smooth skin as a wave of heat crashed through his body. Christ. If he reacted like this every time he touched her, he would combust before the session ended. Stepping back, he stripped off his shirt, but the cool air did nothing to dampen the fire raging through his veins.

  Before he could stop her, Marcy spun around. “What are you—?” Her gaze fixed on his chest, and she sucked in a sharp breath.

  “Awesome tats.” She gestured to the intricate swirls inked across his pecs. “Is that a Celtic design?”

  Jax steeled himself against the urge to press her hand against his chest and nodded. “My Dad is Irish. Some of the symbols are in our family crest.”

  “And the names?”

  His breath caught as her finger hovered over his heart.

  “My mother and sister. They died of breast cancer within five years of each other.” With a gentle touch, he drew her hand away.

  “Oh, Jax. I’m sorry.”

  Resting his hands on Marcy’s shoulders, Jax turned her to face the post, taking a moment to regain his composure. Her genuine sympathy stirred emotions he went to great pains to hide.

  “Back to work.” He resumed the touching exercise with brusque, efficient movements, wondering what had possessed him to share such a personal piece of information. He usually kept his fighters at a distance, never socialized outside the gym. He wasn’t there to make friends, especially when he knew, after a few weeks, he would be moving on to his next contract. And he and Marcy had come to an agreement.

  Yet, as his hands glided over her body, her responsiveness drove away the momentary melancholy, replacing it with raw desire. He noted her every sharp intake of breath, the quiver of her muscles, and the heat of her skin. When she finally spoke again, he heard an unmistakeable waver in her voice, a need that matched his own.

  “Jax … what are people going to think?”

  “They’ll think it’s that crazy Jax training Marcy with his crazy ways.” His fingers glided over the dip between her neck and shoulder blade, and a sliver of delight wormed its way into his chest when her breath hitched.

  “And if it’s Susie,” he said, “she’ll wish she were you because I made her stand on her head for half an hour this afternoon whistling ‘Always Look on the Bright Side of Life.’”

  Marcy laughed, and the last remnants of his sorrow drifted away.

  “I didn’t take you for a man with a sense of humor.”

  He rubbed his knuckles over her cheek. “And I didn’t take you for a woman who didn’t like to be touched.”

  “I wasn’t always like this.” Her voice was so soft he could barely make out her words, but he noted how tightly she clenched the rope with her fists when his finger traced over her collarbone, the quickening of her breaths. A disconnect between wanting to be in control and needing to let go.

  “How did you get into fighting?” He moved closer, a distraction and a message. Here. Now. She didn’t have to struggle. He was in control.

  Marcy drew in a ragged breath. “It’s not that interesting.”

  “Everything about you interests me, Marcy.” He slid his hands down her back, brushing over the bare skin between her sports bra and fight shorts and then sliding around to the front. He had done this exercise countless times and on many fighters, but here … now it seemed less an exercise and more an indulgence. Or even … an invitation.

  His thumbs glided over her rib cage and abdomen, then along the waistband of her fight shorts, sending the wrong signals to the right part of his body.

  So soft. So hot. So hard.

  Stop.

  With a mental jerk, he brought his mind back to his task, focusing on the mundane detail
s of his life to quench his growing arousal: the reports he had to prepare for Reid, the renovations he had to complete to put his parents’ house up for sale, the stray pup he’d found on the beach and given to his dad to help bring him out of his depression, the protein shake he’d had for lunch when really all he’d wanted was a couple of hamburgers in soft, white buns…

  Fuck.

  He crouched behind her and ran his fingers lightly down the backs of her toned legs and then up along the sensitive skin of her inner thighs. Marcy gasped and tightened her grip on the ropes.

  “I’m still waiting to hear about how you became a fighter.”

  “I … ah … needed a job.” Her voice was hoarse, delightfully throaty. “Reid’s family owns a sporting goods store, and his brother hired me. A few weeks after I started, a man came in and tried to steal some watches. I didn’t really think. I just reacted. It’s one of my biggest problems, being impulsive. I chased him and knocked him to the ground. Got in a couple of punches before Reid caught up with us. He thought I might make a good fighter, so he brought me to the gym. Here I am.”

  Chuckling, Jax pushed himself to his feet. He could well imagine Marcy chasing down a thief. He’d seen her fire—her spark—the first day they’d met. “Sounds pretty exciting to me.” He stroked his thumb up and down her neck, gently at first and then with increasing pressure until a soft “oh” escaped her lips.

  “You like that.” Curious, he turned her around to study her face. Under his steady gaze, she blushed and looked away, but not before he caught the slight dilation of her pupils. Was her arousal a result of the exercise or the tiny jolt of pain, or both?

  Or neither?

  “So, how did you become a coach?” Her gaze drifted away from him and over to Reid, doing bicep curls in front of the mirror.

  He swallowed an unexpected sliver of annoyance. “I was running away. Still am.” He caressed her cheek then cupped her jaw in his hand, tilting her head, forcing her to look at him as he leaned in…

  “Jax?”

  Chest heaving, jaw tight, he wrenched himself away, holding on to his control with the slimmest of threads. Too much. Too overwhelming. He had to cut it short or he would do something he would regret.

  “We’re done for today. Same time tomorrow.”

  As he stepped out of the ring, he wondered how he would make it through tomorrow. Hell, how would he make it through the night?

  * * *

  He plunged two fingers into her pussy. “So wet, baby,” Jax whispered as he angled his fingers to pulse against her sensitive inner walls. “But I want you wetter.”

  Marcy arched out of her bath as she thrust two fingers deep inside her. With her other hand, she cupped her breast, then pinched her nipple between her thumb and forefinger.

  Oh god. So close.

  She closed her eyes and imagined Jax covering her with his body like he’d done in the ring. Except now he was naked, his broad chest glistening with sweat, his beautiful tattoos shining in the dim light as his cock, hard and thick, prodded at her entrance.

  “I want to fuck you, Marcy. I want to fuck you till you scream.”

  She pumped her hand, spreading her fingers, pressing her palm against her clit, imagining his cock swelling inside her. But as she climbed toward her peak, her fantasy changed, and Jax had her facing the wall, her cheek pressed against the cool surface, hands bound and secured over her head. And then she heard the soft hiss of a flogger as its tails flew through the air. When the first imaginary blow thudded on her skin, she climaxed. Hard and fast. Pleasure merging with a fantasy pain. And then she sank into the water, drifted, wondering how she would tell Jax the training wasn’t going to work.

  A run in the park followed by an early-morning exercise routine cleared her head after a restless sleep. But the minute she saw Val at the store, something cracked inside her. Between the rows of boxing gloves and volleyballs, she let everything spill out: her desire for Jax and her fear for the future of her career.

  Val thought she should sleep with Jax and get him out of her system. Then she wouldn’t be wondering about how good he might be in bed; she’d know. Marcy didn’t agree. Her career was at stake. What if sleeping together ruined their professional relationship? He was uniquely qualified to help her, and without his help, she might never get ahead. Val thought the sexual tension was already ruining their professional relationship, especially after Marcy told her how Jax had abruptly cut their last session short. And did Marcy ever consider that they might be able to make it work? Lots of relationships started in the gym. Lovers helped each other train. Why was she so different?

  Marcy couldn’t tell Val why she was different. She had never told anyone about her darkest, most forbidden fantasies—the fantasies she strongly suspected could come true in Jax’s arms. He was simply the most dominant man she’d ever met. Where Reid was loud and aggressive when he wanted something done, Jax could command obedience solely through the tone of his voice, a look, or even a touch. Utterly confident, assertive, and in control, he epitomized everything she secretly longed for but had been too ashamed to seek out after Preston’s brutal rejection.

  What she wanted from Jax as a lover was the opposite of the fight he wanted from her in the ring. The incongruity of his demands with her innate desires was tearing her apart. How would she get through the next few weeks of training? She couldn’t. Not without taking drastic steps to solve the problem.

  Chapter Five

  “Anything you want to discuss about our session yesterday?”

  Arms folded and legs apart, Jax stood in the center of the training mat. His tight green and white fight shorts only served to inflame Marcy’s already heightened state of arousal. Why couldn’t he have worn baggy, torn shorts like some of other fighters, maybe an unwashed T-shirt, or better yet, a ski suit? Why did he have to taunt her with his chiseled pecs and toned abs when she was already at the edge of her rope? Damn Val and her insistence that a quick roll in the sheets was the solution. If Val hadn’t kept on about it all afternoon, putting all the wrong images in Marcy’s head, she would have had no problem keeping it professional.

  None.

  Really.

  Jax frowned when she didn’t respond. “You seem distracted. Were you okay last night?”

  Marcy sucked in a sharp breath, and her cheeks heated as she thought about just how okay she had been after their session last night—the first night in over a year that she’d let anyone touch her in a way that wasn’t entirely fight-related.

  “Sure.”

  Jax outlined his strategy for their evening training session and the weeks to come. Marcy took a deep breath and forced herself to focus. She just had to get through the next hour and then … what? Tell him it wouldn’t work or invite him home? Tell him it would work and invite him home? Just invite him home? She gritted her teeth. How about ripping off his clothes and running her hands over his muscular body?

  “If you’re happy with that,” Jax said, wrapping up the outline, the end of which she’d missed in favor of indulging herself in torrid fantasies of her and Jax rolling around on the mats, “we’ll start with some simple arm bars and triangles.”

  Relieved to be spared another session of his hands touching her body, Marcy dropped to her knees on the mat and waited for him to position himself on his back.

  “Mount.” He beckoned her forward, his voice curiously husky, and for a moment, she wondered if his touching exercise the other day had affected him as much as her. She crawled up his body and then sat astride his abdomen in full mount. God, his stomach was rock-hard. Just like the rest of him.

  His body stiffened beneath her. “Christ, Marcy. Are you trying to kill me?”

  Puzzled, she shrugged. “I thought you wanted me like this.”

  “I do. No. Fuck. I mean, to practice the submission, you need to be in high mount.”

  Understanding dawned, and she tried and failed to repress a smile. “Am I mounted too low for you, Jax?” She was sorely tempted
to give a little wiggle because she could feel something hard pressing into her ass, and she was desperate to know if he was wearing a cup. In all her years of training, she’d never affected a guy this way, and she had to bite back a laugh.

  His eyes blazed with liquid heat, and his voice dropped to a husky bark. “Move up.”

  Marcy eased herself up, her thighs parting wider as she positioned herself high on his chest, her knees under his armpits. “High mount is easier with female fighters,” she said. “Your chest is so broad—”

  He cut her off with a low growl. When she glanced down to see what she’d done to irritate him this time, she was caught in the blistering heat of his gaze.

  “I’m on to you, little fighter.” His eyes glinted, amused. “Don’t think for a minute you’ll distract me from doing what I came here to do.”

  A smile curled her lips. All week, she’d had to listen to the fighters at the gym talking about the aura of mystique surrounding Jax and his “fighter whisperer” ways. And yet his visible discomfort at her position on top of him made him seem all too human.

  “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

  He raised an eyebrow and exhaled through gritted teeth. “How about we try for mid guard?” The warmth of his breath caressed her inner thighs, and moisture flooded her sex. How unprofessional. She’d practiced this position countless times with other fighters in the club. Not once had she ever become so utterly and desperately aroused.

  “Actually, probably better if we move to full guard.” Jax bucked, throwing Marcy forward and onto her hands and knees, a standard defense to high guard but one that put her breasts within an inch of his lips.

  Her nipples tightened, and she quickly rolled off him to hide her body’s response. With gentle pressure, Jax pushed her to her back, then moved into a dominant position on top of her, taking his weight on his elbows, his legs tucked between hers.

  So hot. So heavy. So utterly male. Desire coursed through her veins, and she tried to think of anything but the erotic weight of Jax on top of her.