by Fawkes, Sara
supposed to tell me off for callin’ you baby girl. And then I’d tell you that you looked like a baby girl
to me, all tucked in that hospital bed for the last few hours.”
Catching her gaze drift to the water jug, he poured a glass of water and held the straw while she
sipped. The cool water soothed her parched throat and she fell back on the pillow with a sigh.
“You’d make a terrible jailer. You’re far too nice.”
He brushed a stray curl off her forehead, his gentle touch belying his massive frame. “More like
relieved. You went down pretty hard.”
The memory came back to her in a rush. Camille DeSilvio’s arm around her neck, slowly
tightening. Reid and Jax shouting from the ropes. Freezing instead of fighting. And then blackness.
“It was nice of you to come,” she said softly. “And it would be even nicer if you could break me
out.”
Two Step gave her a crooked grin as he paced back and forth in front of her bed, clearly restless in
the stark, confined space. “You think anything would have kept me away? You’ve been in my corner
for every fight. Least I can do is give you a pretty face to wake up to, especially after Reid said you’d
put in your file not to call your family.” He fiddled with the blood pressure monitor on the wall and
sighed. “Kinda crazy not wantin’ your family around when you’re hurt, especially since they live
nearby.”
Marcy shifted in the bed to face him, wincing as the IV tugged at her wrist. “My family doesn’t
know I fight. They were pretty disappointed with my pot smoking, class skipping, party-until-you-
drop death metal phase in high school, and devastated when I didn’t follow family tradition and get a
job on Wall Street. Even worse, I’m the only dog owner in a family of cat people. I can’t imagine what
they’d think if I told them I was a fighter. But I figure one day if I reach the top, maybe I’ll tell them.
How could they look down on me if I’m the best?”
“You got a rebellious streak in you.” Two Step patted her hand. “That’s why the kids at the youth
club love you and are always begging to take your fight class instead of mine. They sense you’re one
of them.”
A smile tugged at Marcy’s lips. “More like a sporting streak. My love of sports made me the
family freak.”
His face softened. “At Excelsior, we’re all freaks one way or another.”
She snorted a laugh and looked around for her clothes. “So how about letting a fellow freak
escape? Now that the fight is over and I don’t have to worry about making weight, I’m desperate for a
hot dog and a chocolate fudge sundae.”
“No can do.” Two Step shook his head. “You aren’t allowed to leave until you get the doc’s all
clear, and then you gotta deal with Reid and Jax.”
“What do you mean ‘deal with them’?” Marcy frowned.
“They aren’t letting you fight in the next event unless you train with Jax. Not only that, Reid is
thinking of kicking you out of the club if you say no.” His voice broke and he took a deep breath. “You
might have been hurt worse if Jax hadn’t been watching so close. He was in the ring before you hit the
floor. You gotta train with him, Marcy. The gym won’t be the same without you. I’ll even help you
free up your time. I’ll walk your vicious mutt, wash that bucket-of-bolts ancient Jeep you pass off as a
vehicle...”
Narrowing her eyes in mock rebuke, Marcy cut him off with a sigh. “I love my Jeep. It’s sporty
and fun and I like the idea it’s a tad unsafe—makes it more exciting to drive. And Noodles isn’t a
mutt. He’s a Schnauzer Poodle cross and he’s gentle and affectionate with anyone who doesn’t growl
louder than him.”
“Is that a yes?”
Marcy nodded. A choice that was no choice. If she wanted to stay with the team, she had to train
with Jax, lock away her silly fantasies, and maintain the same professional distance she had with her
other coaches. And that was the key. He was a coach. Nothing more.
Chapter Two
It was wrong to want her.
He knew this, even as he watched her cross the gym toward the practice ring, the dim lights
flickering over the gentle curves and taut lines of her body.
And yet, here he was, leaning against the ropes, feet planted firmly on the mat, his body
thrumming with anticipation. Her need was there. Reid saw it. Hell, the other fighters saw it. She just
needed a catalyst to see it, too. He had almost kissed the referee who had been too slow to end the
fight at the TriStar event last week. But not after wanting to throttle him first.
Over the last ten years, he’d used his gift for reading people to train hundreds of fighters. He had
read her. Strong on the outside. Controlled. So controlled she couldn’t let go, but when she did, she
would fly.
And he wanted to be the one to set her free.
He just had 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. He would do his job and he would do it well. When the four weeks
were up, she would be a better fighter and he would say his goodbyes—as he always did. He touched
his hand to his chest, an almost unconscious gesture of remembrance for his mother and sister, and the
goodbyes that had broken his heart.
Marcy reached the elevated ring and looked up at him, her soft green eyes wide with apprehension,
the slightest flush to 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 on the mat.
“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.”
Marcy raised an eyebrow. “I thought you were a coach.”
“I used to fight. Old habits die hard.”
She smiled, warm and bright. “You’ll be pleased to know I’m a White Sox fan, too, although I just
go for the junk food and men in tight pants.”
Jax barked a laugh. “I’m surprised Reid lets you eat junk food.”
“He doesn’t.” Her eyes sparkled and his body heated in response. “But I don’t always do what I’m
told, 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.
The softer side. And 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 soft, creamy skin 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. “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 from the ravages of cancer. And he had control.
“Is this okay?” The slight sway of her body betrayed her anxiety and he placed his hands on her
shoulders to steady her. She trembled beneath his touch, like the baby robin he had rescued as a young
boy after a crow had torn apart the robin’s nest. He’d spent the next ten years dreaming of becoming a
vet and wound up in a fight ring instead with the nickname, The Terminator. Irony at its finest.
Life had thrown him an unexpected curve ball. Just like now. But would he run or would he play?
Marcy glanced back over her shoulder. As her gaze focused on him, apprehensive, trusting, he
knew he wouldn’t be running away.
Time to play ball.
“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?” Her breath caught as her finger hovered over his heart. “Old girlfriends?”
“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.” His voice was gruff, hoarse, and he resumed the touching exercise with brusque,
efficient movements.
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 sliver of delight wormed its way into his chest when her
breath hitched.
“And if it’s Susie Q,” he said quickly, “she’ll wish she was you because I made her stand on her
head for half an hour 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. And after a
moment of uncomfortable silence he deliberately changed the topic.
“Why do you care what they think?” he murmured.
Marcy shrugged. “I’ve always cared what people think but I still do things that make them think
badly of me. I don’t know why. I’ve spent my life trying to live up to people’s expectations and failed,
but secretly, I always hope.”
“Not with me.” He brushed his lips over her ear, inhaling her fragrance, sweet and wild. “I have no
expectations of you, so relax, little fighter.”
He sensed her internal struggle, observed the rapid tightening and release of her muscles, heard 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. His thumbs
glided over her ribcage and abdomen, and then brushed over the top of her fight shorts sending the
wrong signals to the right part of his body.
So soft. So hot. He ached to strip off her restrictive clothing, free her breasts...
Stop.
With a mental jerk, he brought his mind back to his task, focusing on the mundane details 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
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 bec
ame a fighter.”
“I...ah...needed a job.” Her voice was hoarse, delightfully throaty. “Reid’s family hired me to work
in their sporting goods store. 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, reacting before I think.
Anyway, I chased him and tackled him, 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 club. 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. “A young woman attacking a thief is 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?” she asked quickly.
“I was running away. Still am.” He caressed her cheek then cupped her jaw in his hand, tilting her
head back as he leaned in...
“Jax?”
Chest heaving, jaw tight, he wrenched himself away, holding onto his control with the slimmest of
threads. Too much. Too overwhelming. He had to cut it short or he would do something they would
both regret. Hell, he’d almost just crossed the line.
“We’re done for today. Same time tomorrow.”
As he stepped out of the ring, he wondered how would make it through tomorrow. Hell, how would
he make it through the night?
***
He plunged two fingers into her dripping 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, his broad chest glistening with