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?”