Pushing the Limits (8 page)

He laughed. “You're the most unique ring girl I've ever met. Most are counting calories and concerned about carbs and sugar.” His eyes skimmed over her quickly, but thoroughly. “Not that you have anything to be concerned about,” he said, his voice sounding thick.

She felt a new rush of heat and, channeling her best imitation of Lucy, she said, “I'm concerned about all of that. Of course I am. I'm just not obsessed with it.” She paused, trying to figure out how to segue the conversation back to Dane. The less time they spent talking about her, the better. And the sooner he stopped looking at her with unconcealed interest, the safer for everyone. Getting involved with him would be the dumbest idea ever. Something she had to force herself to remember. “I guess when you were training, nutrition was important, huh?”

He nodded.

“Do you still train MMA?” she asked. The YouTube video suggested he hadn't lost any skill in his time away from
fighting. She'd watched it at least a hundred times and she still couldn't believe the way he'd handled two attackers at the same time. It was impressive . . . and a little bit hot. Okay, a lot hot.

He moved to the tiny grill on the patio and, turning on the gas, he opened the lid. “No, I don't train anymore.”

“So the job at the bar . . . that was your future?” She took another sip of the tea, then, remembering how bad it tasted, she set the glass down on the tiny table on the patio.

He sighed as he turned to face her. “It was a way to pay the bills. Not a great way.” He shrugged.

“I saw the YouTube video,” she said quietly. Now was as good a time as any to bring it up, seeing as they were on the topic.

He frowned. “That doesn't surprise me. Most of Vegas has seen it.”

“You did the right thing. I can't believe they fired you for it,” she said.

“Yeah, well, apparently you don't break up a fight between the owner's cousin and whoever he decides to antagonize.”

His cell phone chimed in his pocket and he glanced at it quickly before tucking it away.

“Do you need to get that?” she asked. For the first time she realized she had no idea if he had a girlfriend or not. He hadn't mentioned anyone and she hoped he wouldn't be inviting her back to his place if he did, but still . . .

“No.” He was silent for a long moment, staring off into the distance, and she started to sweat a little.

Fantastic. It
was
a girl. She hated the jealousy coursing through her and, story or not, being there was not a good idea. “You know, I should probably go . . .” She walked toward the patio door, but he caught her arm.

“Please don't,” he said, quietly.

She sighed. “Look, it's none of my business . . . or maybe it is, seeing as I'm in your apartment, but do you have a girlfriend?”

He shook his head. “No.”

She released a breath, more relieved than she should be. He let her arm go.

“You asked if I was still training,” he said slowly. “Well, the truth is my coach, Tyson Reed at Punisher Athletics, has been trying to get me back into the gym.”

“So, why don't you?” she asked, carefully. Finally they were getting somewhere.

He shook his head. “I'm not a fighter anymore. That's all in the past.” He put the burgers on the grill and closed the lid.

Taking his wrist, she turned him to face her. “You sure about that?”

He hesitated for a moment, his gaze burning into hers.

Her heart raced and her mouth went dry. Touching him wasn't the smartest idea either. For a second, she forgot completely about why she was there, asking him all of this. For a second, the story didn't matter.

He opened his mouth to say something, then clamped his lips shut. Breaking the hold on their locked gazes, he nodded toward her abandoned iced tea. “Want a beer instead?”

She sighed. Well, that was the end of that conversation. “Sure.”

* * *

In the ten months since moving into the run-down, low-rent apartment, Dane hadn't invited anyone inside. Now his first houseguest was a smoking-hot ring girl who'd stripped down to a spaghetti-strap, white tank top—his kryptonite—because of the heat in the apartment. Little beads of sweat pooled on her chest, and the lace trim of the cotton fabric clung to her body. She wasn't the typical ring-girl shape. Her breasts were obviously real and her hips were wide and round. He wondered how she'd ever gotten involved with the Xtreme Fight organization in the first place. She didn't seem like the fighter-obsessed fan that most of the girls were.

And after meeting her family, he could understand why she kept her job a secret. Sort of.

“So, why does your family think you're a reporter?” he asked, loading their empty dishes into the dishwasher a little while later. It was all for show. The old dinosaur of a machine didn't work and he'd later be pulling the plates and glasses out to wash them by hand, but anything to feel less pathetic in front of her. He could only assume the way she seemed comfortable in the suffocating heat and the way she kept all judgment out of her eyes when she scanned his apartment was an act.

Colby peeled the label on the sweating beer bottle. “That's what I went to college to do,” she said.

“Then how did you become a ring girl?”

She shrugged. “Finding work as a reporter isn't easy. Besides, propeller maker and club bouncer aren't exactly your dream jobs either.”

She could barely compare the two. At least he'd been living his dream until it had all come crashing down around him. “That's different,” he said, leaning against the counter and folding his arms across his chest.

“You're right. At least I'm trying to follow my dream. You love fighting but you refuse to even consider getting back inside the cage.” She raised an eyebrow but her words were said without any trace of meanness, softening the impact of their blow.

“Look, I'm not the one to give you any advice. You're right. But I think you should be honest with your family. You're lucky to have amazing parents who support you,” he said.

“What about you? What's the deal with your family?” she asked, wrapping her lips around the beer bottle in an agonizingly tempting way that made him look away.

Swallowing hard, he weighed his answer, unsure how much of himself he was ready to reveal. “As I mentioned before, my father left when I was a kid. My mother has bipolar disorder, which makes a relationship with her . . . difficult.” It was an understatement.

Her mouth gaped slightly and a look of sympathy flickered in her eyes. A look he'd seen far too often in his life. One he'd grown to resent. One that had fueled him to be something more than the poor kid with the crazy mom, who needed to be pitied.

“I'm sorry . . .”

He shook his head, anger simmering near the surface. “No. Don't do that. Don't pretend like you weren't digging to find a scar.”

She stood and moved toward him. “I wasn't. I'm just curious about you. I want to get to know you.”

He stared at her. “Anything you could possibly learn about me is not anything you're going to like.” He checked his watch. It was after eight and long past the point where he could continue to be polite and pretend he wasn't living in a shithole apartment, with a life that added up to nothing except for the job she'd gotten for him. His already tattered self-esteem could only take so much. “I think maybe we should call it a night.”

She touched his forearm and her hand felt cool against his hot flesh. The desire to feel that coolness all over his body made him stiffen. He hadn't been with a woman for a long time, and he'd never been with one like Colby—smart, ambitious, kind, so fucking beautiful it hurt to tear his eyes from her face.

And today wasn't the day to change that.

“I just thought you could use a friend,” she said softly.

What he really needed was one night where he could forget the unending loop of thoughts that drove him crazy. One
desperately needed break away from the maddening spiral of remorse and guilt that threatened to swallow him. Her hand was still on his arm, and he gripped her wrist, pulling her into him.

Her soft body pressed against his and, lifting her, he set her onto the counter. He rested one hand on either side of her face and his gaze locked with her surprised, reluctant one. “And what do you get out of it?” he asked.

“What?” she whispered, her voice slightly shaky.

“What do you get out of this friendship?” he asked, trailing a hand along her cheek, and running his finger along her bottom lip. He knew she'd taste like heaven if he allowed himself to let go and forget he didn't deserve anything close to heaven.

Reaching up, she slid her hands into his hair at the back of his neck. “Why don't you tell me?” She leaned closer until her lips were an inch from his. “Better yet, why don't you show me?” The smell of beer lingered in the air between them and heat radiated from their closeness in the small, humid space.

This was not a good idea. He was a mess of a man—broken and lost. But she was so soft, so sweet, so perfect . . . so fucking not what he needed right now. Or maybe she was. Placing his hands beneath her ass, he lifted her from the counter and pulled her body into his. Leaning forward, his mouth crushed hers as her arms went tighter around his neck. His fingers gripped her hips as his tongue teased her bottom lip, demanding entry, and he backed her up against the wall of the apartment.

She moaned as he moved his hand along her leg, over her hip, and up under the base of her tank top, which had ridden up to expose her smooth, firm stomach. He hesitated when his fingers reached the base of her bra but her eyes opened momentarily and she nodded, giving him permission to continue.

Reaching behind her, he unsnapped the bra expertly with one hand, then cupped her exposed breast beneath the thin, silky fabric.

Her breath caught as his thumb flicked over the hard nipple and his lips left hers to leave a trail of kisses along her neck. As always, she smelled like warm honey, and she shivered as his tongue licked the beads of sweat from her glistening collarbone.

“Colby,” he growled, biting her ear. His cock had awakened and the desire to be inside of her was intense and unyielding. Carrying her, moving quickly, he approached the bed near the patio doors and lay her down on top of the comforter. He removed his T-shirt before pressing his body back down on top of hers, sliding her tank top and bra up and over her head, tossing them next to his shirt on the floor. “Your body is amazing,” he said, trailing a hand gently between her breasts, down across her stomach, circling her belly button, before dipping lower beneath the waist of her jeans.

Her back arched and her stomach caved in, allowing his hand to move further, over soft, smooth, hairless skin. Fuck, she was bare. The desire to bury his head between her legs and run his tongue along the smooth skin there made his breathing come harder as he unbuckled his jeans. He ignored the voice in his head telling him to stop, warning him against getting close to her.

He needed her.

He needed to feel a comforting touch, feel a woman's body eager for him, feel like the pieces of his tortured mind and battered soul were being pasted back together . . . even just temporarily. “Tell me this is okay,” he asked, his voice sounding foreign to his own ears as he stopped before removing her jeans.

She reached for the fabric at her waist and lifted her hips off of the bed as she wiggled free of them. “It's okay,” she whispered. Tossing the jeans onto the floor, she cupped his face and looked into his eyes. “I want you, Dane.”

His body was more than willing but quieting his mind was proving challenging. “Colby, this isn't . . . I mean, it doesn't mean . . .”

She frowned, letting her hands fall away from his face and leaning away from him. “Is this a gratitude fuck?”

“What?” Was there such a thing?

“You know, for getting you the interview with my father.” She folded her arms across her chest, partially blocking his view of her naked body.

Oh, shit. She had to go and remind him he worked for her father. He stood and ran a hand through his hair. “No. But now I'm not sure I can have sex with my boss's daughter,” he grumbled.

His cock was claiming he could. Easily, in fact, but despite what people might believe about him, he had a moral compass—one that was pointed straight at all times these days. He'd fucked up enough for one lifetime. He carried enough guilty weight on his shoulders.

Colby wiggled off of the bed and placed her hands on his shoulders. “Yes. You totally can,” she said. “Hey, at least I didn't bring up how my brothers would kill you if they found out.”

“Shit, Colby,” he said, removing her hands from his body and stepping away from her.

She sighed. “Sorry. Let's forget I opened my big mouth and let's go back to this . . .” She trailed her hands down the front of his body, over his chest, over his abs, tracing the oblique muscles that disappeared below his jeans.

When she unbuttoned the jeans and lowered to her knees, dragging the denim with her, he willed his brain to stop
repeating all of the reasons he shouldn't get involved with her, and he prayed the images of her father and brothers lining up to kick his ass would fuck off already.

Unfortunately, he could feel his cock losing its determination. “This isn't going to work,” he said with a heavy sigh.

Reaching through the opening of his boxer briefs, she pulled his dick free of the fabric and ran her hand along the shaft as she glanced up at him. “Are you sure about that?”

Sweet baby Jesus. He moaned as her tongue licked the tip and slid the length of him. All other thoughts vanished as her mouth wrapped around him. He gripped her shoulders, willing his legs to remain strong and steady. He couldn't remember his last blow job. No doubt it hadn't been memorable. He already knew this one wouldn't be easy to forget.