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  YIELD TO ME

  A Club Excelsior Novella

  SARAH CASTILLE

  NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLING AUTHOR

  Published by Sarah Castille

  Copyright © 2014 by Sarah Castille

  Kindle Edition

  Cover by Croco Designs

  ISBN: 978-0-9938168-0-2

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be used, reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any electronic, mechanical or other means without prior written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  This book is a work of fiction. All characters, names, places and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual locales, events, organizations or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  This book was previously published in the New York Times Bestselling anthology, Unraveled, ISBN 9780991916 (no longer available for purchase), and now includes approximately 50% new content.

  To Nana, and her secret love of romance

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Newsletter

  About the Author

  Connect with Sarah

  Other books by Sarah

  Chapter One

  “You’re afraid of submission.”

  Kneeling astride a grapple dummy in the corner of the fight ring, primed and ready to test a new submission move, Marcy Foster frowned at the dark-haired stranger squatting beside her.

  “Do I know you?”

  “Jax Stratham. Fight coach and consultant. I’m here for the next six weeks to help Club Excelsior’s fighters up their game. Didn’t Reid tell you I was starting today?”

  “Maybe.” Reid Callaghan, the club’s owner, probably had told her, but she rarely paid attention to the politics at Seattle’s Club Excelsior. She was here to train, not socialize. Be the best damn MMA fighter possible. After disappointing her high-achieving family at every turn, she had finally found something she could do well, and if she won the Washington State Championship, she might be able to work up the nerve to tell them what she was doing with her life, possibly even make them proud.

  “Maybe?” Jax frowned, the creases in his forehead doing nothing to mar his disturbingly handsome face, roughly chiseled to perfection. Seriously? What kind of fighter had a perfectly straight nose and not a single scar? And what was with the long hair? Thick and sable brown, just brushing the collar of his white Team Excelsior shirt, his hair invited touching … and pulling. There was a reason most fighters shaved their heads and why she French-braided her long brown hair before every fight.

  Maybe he didn’t fight anymore. Maybe he was just what he said. A coach.

  “I don’t need another coach.” She dropped over the grapple dummy, positioning her elbows on either side of the dummy’s head before she tucked her legs between the dummy’s thighs.

  Disturbingly life-like and covered with synthetic leather, the dummy had anatomically correct human features and joints but was missing a face and a male essential that could have made her solo fight practice more entertaining. At five feet four inches tall and weighing fifty pounds, the dummy was the smallest one in the gym, but then Marcy was one of the smallest fighters. Men outnumbered women ten to one at Club Excelsior, and there were only a handful of women training in the lower weight classes with her.

  “You’re part of the team. Reid says the team needs a push. You get me.”

  Marcy huffed and shifted position for an Ezekiel choke from inside the guard. “I’m four and oh by knockout in my last four fights. Doesn’t get better than that. Which means, I don’t need a push or a coach.”

  Jax dropped to his knees on the mat beside her and folded his arms over his chest, causing his impressive biceps to flex into tight, rounded peaks, straining the sleeves of his T-shirt. Surrounded by muscle every night at the gym, Marcy wasn’t usually affected by the sight of yet another pair of pythons, but something about the way his muscles swelled against the hard planes of his chest sent a delicious shiver down her spine.

  Or maybe it was the fact he couldn’t take a hint.

  “Thanks for stopping by.” She dropped into the choke and turned her head away, waiting for him to leave. Instead, he leaned forward, so close she could feel his breath warm against her ear.

  “I watched all your fights on DVD,” he said. “I’ve read all your interviews. I’ve been through Reid’s file. So far, you’ve been lucky. Not one of your opponents was strong on submission, but all it takes is one expert and you’ll be down for the count. If you freeze up every time someone puts you in submission, you’ll never have a shot at the state title.”

  Marcy swallowed hard and pushed herself up, treating him to a cold glare. “I don’t freeze up.” At least not every time. Her words sounded unconvincing, even to her. Could he sense the fear that had niggled at the back of her mind since Reid had first identified her problem—the possibility that maybe she wasn’t cut out to be a fighter?

  “Show me.” His quiet demand caught her off guard, and she shot another glance at him from beneath the curtain of her lashes. His eyes were a soft brown, his lips perfectly sculpted, and his jaw square. Broad shoulders tapered to a slim waist, accentuating long, muscular thighs and a mouth-watering six-pack. But it was his sheer, palpable presence that gave her pause.

  No. Not presence. Power. Raw power.

  Her stomach fluttered. For the first time, her natural instinct to rebel failed. He spoke with confidence, an absolute certainty she would comply. The tenor of his voice was such that she doubted anyone ever disobeyed him.

  “Ah…” She bit her lip to hide her internal disquiet and glanced down at the smooth, expressionless face of the practice dummy beneath her. “Grapple Man isn’t very good for practicing submissions.”

  “Maybe not, but I am.”

  Marcy’s heart thudded in her chest. “I’ve already practiced with a partner tonight. I don’t think—”

  “On your back. Legs apart. I’ll mount and take the dominant position.”

  She startled at his abrupt command, and heat flooded her veins, pooling between her thighs. Flustered at her body’s unexpected response to words she heard every day in practice, she stiffened. “Maybe another—”

  Firm hands grasped her around the waist, lifting her off the grapple dummy and into the air. Although strong, she was a UFC flyweight at best, and he handled her as if she weighed nothing. Instinctively, she twisted to face him and kicked blindly, making contact, but instead of releasing her, Jax carried her down to the mat, then rolled until he had her on her back.

  His hard, heavy body pinned her to the padded vinyl surface, his hips pressed tight against the juncture of her thighs. Shock stole her breath away. Okay, so maybe he wasn’t just a consultant. She’d only seen moves like that in the pros.

  “Breathe.” His bourbon-smooth voice wound through her like a silken ribbon, loosening the tension that had frozen her lungs and releasing a wave of anger more intense than anything she had ever felt in the practice ring.

  Who was he to manhandle her into submission? Who gave him the right to waltz in here and tell her she wasn’t fighting her best fight? And why the hell was she trembling?

  “Get off me.” She pressed her hands against his rock-soli
d chest and pushed.

  Jax grasped her wrists and leaned forward, pinning her hands to the mat above her head. “Make me.”

  She twisted and writhed beneath him, but despite her skill, he was simply too big, too strong, and too experienced to be thrown, countering her moves seamlessly with only the slightest adjustments to his hold. Marcy had never been so absolutely and overwhelmingly pinned. Even when she trained with the male fighters in the gym, they held back, giving her enough room to move, fight, and breathe. But Jax held nothing back. Whenever she found an inch of wiggle room—a lift of her shoulder, a turn of her thigh—he simply dropped his weight and tightened his hold.

  She drew in a ragged breath and caught the scent of his cologne, sharp and fresh. Her mouth watered. So inappropriate. She should be angry and afraid. And yet it wasn’t fear that sent adrenaline coursing through her veins, making her heart pound, but the profoundly erotic sensation of being trapped under his hot, heavy body, totally under his control.

  Long-dormant arousal sent a pulse of desire down her spine, so intense she trembled, so deeply buried she almost didn’t recognize it for what it was. But with it came the memory. Preston. Her heart squeezed, and she drew in a sharp, shuddering breath.

  “You okay?” His brow wrinkled in consternation.

  She gritted her teeth and shook off the memory, the self-loathing and disgust on Preston’s face when he’d walked away, and her absolute sense of despair at having revealed her deepest, most secret desires only to be reviled by the one person she had thought would accept her for who she was.

  “As okay as someone can be with two hundred pounds of muscle lying on top of them.”

  Jax laughed. “Let’s even the odds.” He slid his hand around her waist and rolled until he was on his back, with Marcy straddling his hips. The ease with which he manipulated her body was at once disconcerting and sublime.

  She glanced quickly around the gym. Was anyone watching them? Would they think Jax’s actions inappropriate? But although the gym was packed, all the cardio machines in use, line-ups at the free weights, mats full to capacity with fighters practicing grapple techniques, no one was looking in their direction. Well, except for Two Step.

  She caught Two Step’s gaze and shook her head when he took a step forward. Two Step frowned. One of the few superweights in the club, with a heart almost as big as his beautifully dark, barrel chest, Two Step had become her self-appointed guardian on her first day at Club Excelsior when he’d done her weight class assessment and pronounced her “baby size.”

  Turning away, she looked down at Jax. He had folded his arms behind his head as if he were lounging on his couch instead of lying on the mats in an MMA gym with Marcy astride his hips.

  Despite the intensity of his gaze and the probing questions he asked about her favorite moves and techniques, Marcy managed to hold up her end of the conversation while soaking in the feeling of his hard body between her thighs and raking her gaze over the taut lean muscle that rippled beneath his shirt when he shifted position. Once or twice, she made a move to slide off him, but Jax stayed her with the slightest shake of his head, telling her he preferred to have his intake meetings with new fighters in whatever position they felt most comfortable. And she seemed to be more comfortable sitting on him than most.

  From there, they moved to basic grapple moves and techniques so Jax could assess her skill. For the first time ever in the ring, she felt clumsy and awkward, her arm bars and triangles almost laughably ineffective. But if Jax noticed, he gave no sign. Instead, he spent the next hour drilling her through the basics until her muscles had heated and relaxed, her breaths were coming in pants, and she had no thoughts beyond the moment he called it quits.

  But, damn, he was good. And patient. Reid would have lost it with her by now, and the whole gym would have been privy to his irritation. By contrast, Jax’s voice remained calm and even no matter how many times she had to repeat the moves until she got them right.

  Finally satisfied with her basics, Jax lay back on the floor, motioning for Marcy to mount him. With a sigh, she straddled his abdomen and tightened her thighs around his hips.

  “Now what?”

  “Submission time.” He gave her a breathtaking smile, and in one swift movement, he grabbed her left wrist and tugged her arm across her body, pressing her tricep against her carotid artery. His leg came up over her shoulders, hooking under his opposite shin in a basic triangle submission. He had only to increase the pressure of the hold to cut off her air and make her lose consciousness. A simple submission. But effective.

  Marcy froze and glared at his impassive face as her training kicked in. Bastard. This was totally unfair. He was twice her size and twice as strong. She lifted her head to preclude the full force of the submission and struggled to bring her arm away from her neck.

  “Yield.” Jax’s lips twitched at the corners.

  “Go to hell.” She struggled in his hold, trying to find a way of reversing or escaping the figure-four lock, painfully aware of the proximity of her head to the generous bulge beneath his fight shorts that she prayed was a cup.

  He increased the pressure on her throat by pulling her arm away from her body and pressing down with his leg. A warning.

  “Yield, little fighter.”

  Fury overrode common sense. “No.”

  And then a shadow fell across the mat. Marcy glanced up into Reid’s scowling face and groaned.

  Six feet three inches of solid muscle with broad shoulders and lean hips, Reid had tattoos covering most of his massive back and chest. Too handsome for his own good, his blond hair was cropped military short, and three hoop earrings glistened in his ear. No one messed with Reid. The once UFC pro heavyweight champ had retired after a severe knockout almost cost him his life, but he still kept up the same rigorous exercise regimen, and he ran the gym like a military boot camp.

  “What’s going on?”

  “I don’t need him.” Marcy struggled in Jax’s hold, but no matter what she did, she couldn’t break his submission without rendering herself unconscious.

  Reid squatted down beside her and tilted his head to the side. His lips quirked up in an amused smile. “Looks to me like you do.”

  “Get him off me.”

  “Tap out. Or have you suddenly forgotten how to fight?”

  When Jax raised an eyebrow, she was tempted to refuse, but she didn’t want to annoy Reid. She wouldn’t be where she was without him, much less have a job at his family’s sporting goods store, and although he would do anything for his fighters, he had a low threshold for disobedience in his club.

  With an irritated sigh, she thumped the mat twice with her hand. Jax released her and swung his leg off her shoulders.

  “Looks like you have some fight in submission after all.” Jax winked, and Marcy pushed herself up, backing away until she was standing in the comfort of Reid’s shadow.

  Reid glanced from Marcy to Jax and back to Marcy. “Jax is the best fight consultant in the business. He’s here for four weeks to help our team train for the state championships. Give him a chance. His methods are unorthodox, but he gets results. I won’t let you throw away a promising career just because you don’t like his techniques.”

  Marcy glanced over at Jax, leaning against the ropes, thick arms folded. Could she train with him? He had to be about six or seven years older than her, making him about thirty-one or thirty-two, and so damned handsome it was almost a sin. Why couldn’t Reid have found a plain coach? Maybe an old, retired fighter, soft and slightly balding, with a bit of a paunch. Someone without a strong, toned body and lean, powerful legs. Someone she wouldn’t want lying on top of her … dominating her.

  Her breasts tingled with the memory of his hard chest pressed tight against her nipples and the ripple of smooth, warm skin over rock-hard muscle as she struggled to get free. But it was the raw power vibrating beneath the surface that set her blood on fire. Everything about him awakened feelings in her she had buried long ago. After Pres
ton.

  Jax’s face softened. “You want to be the best, Marcy? You want to win the state championship? You can’t be afraid of submission. You need to embrace it. Fight back. I know you’re on the card to fight at TriStar’s event next week. I promise I can make a difference in one week. Let me help you.”

  She held his gaze for a moment too long, a moment that made her heart pound and her mouth go dry. She didn’t need the distraction, nor did she need his help. With a shrug, she turned away. “No, thanks.”

  * * *

  No.

  He shouldn’t have been surprised. After what he’d just seen in the ring, he should have realized Marcy wouldn’t easily accept help. Reid would have known that about her. So why hadn’t he warned Jax? He would have taken an entirely different approach. Not come on so strong.

  Or maybe he should have come on stronger.

  Jax stood beside Reid and watched Marcy cross the floor toward the exit, her beautiful ass perfectly outlined in her fight shorts. Damn, she was sexy. He’d trained lots of female fighters, but something about Marcy pushed all the right buttons. Like most serious female fighters, she was lean and toned, but she’d kept her curves in the places that mattered most. His groin tightened at the memory of her breasts pressed up against his chest, the swell of her hips as she sat astride him, her creamy thighs parting as she settled in full mount. Thank god he’d worn a cup, although if she’d remained on top of him even one second longer, the cup wouldn’t have been much use in hiding his body’s response.

  “Marcy.” Reid called her name, and she turned. Her gaze rested on Jax for the briefest second before flicking to Reid, but for that moment, he was lost again in that sparkling green sea. Such beauty. With her perfectly heart-shaped face, high cheekbones, and long, dark lashes, she’d almost totally distracted him from his task of assessing her response to submission.

  His mind still reeled from their brief grappling session. Not so much from her skill in the ring but from the way she’d responded to his touch. For a brief few moments, she had submitted in an entirely different way—an unspoken plea that had triggered his dominant instincts.