Pushing the Limit

Dash

Iknock on Peppermint’s door, knowing she already made it home from the bar. Her porch light comes on, and her door opens a few inches as she peeks outside.

“Dash? What the hell are you doing here?” she asks as she eases it open.

“Not happy to see me?”

She shakes her head. “It’s not that. Just wasn’t expecting you.”

“From here on out, you should be expecting me.”

“Well, I’m exhausted,” she says as she goes to sit on her couch. “Working two jobs is kicking my old ass.”

“Two jobs?”

She’s already showered and wearing an oversized T-shirt. She isn’t wearing a lick of makeup. She’s stone-cold gorgeous.

“Yep. I still work at the factory during the day. I figured I’d pull some shifts at the bar until we can hire some servers.”

I sit down beside her and pull her feet into my lap, gently massaging her soles. She lets out a moan and sinks lower onto the couch. I’m content with this. Don’t need to bust a nut again to be happy.

“So, Bishop mentioned you had some family stuff to deal with earlier. Everything okay?”

The club knows about my family, but I’m not one to talk about them. Don’t really see the need in telling everyone my dad is a piece of shit, and my mom doesn’t think she deserves better. Talking about it doesn’t change a fucking thing.

“Yep.”

“That wasn’t convincing at all.”

I frown a bit. Sure, I’m happy sitting here with her and not fucking, but do I want to talk about my family? Open up like that?

“I have a piece of shit dad and a mom who continuously forgives him.”

“Okay. How is your dad a piece of shit?”

I hesitate, unsure I want to talk to her about this. I don’t discuss my family with anyone, not even the club. I had a great childhood until I didn’t — until the man who was raising me, my father, left out of the blue.

“He had another family,” I confess. “And he chose them. End of story.”

“There is definitely more to that story,” she says. “You can tell me whenever you’re ready.”

“Why? So you can make things better for me?”

The question comes out bitter, harsh. Not at all the way I intended. I planned to say it flirty. Like she knows exactly how she can make things better.

“If I can,” she replies. “When my husband died, I kind of bottled all that up. Didn’t want to talk to anyone about it. Cancer is a ravaging disease, and no one needed to know how it made me feel to watch him wither away. At least that’s what I thought. But once I talked about it, I felt better.”

“Don’t think talking about my fucking problems will make me feel better.”

She drops it, which I appreciate. She’s not immature and needy like other women I’ve been with. She doesn’t get upset because I won’t whine about my shit family. She simply rests her head against the cushion and watches me massage her feet a moment before closing her eyes.

Once I hear her breathing even, I lean over and pull her into my lap, intent on carrying her to her bedroom. She wraps her arms around my neck and whispers it’s the second door on the left down the hall. I effortlessly carry her, kicking her door open with my foot. I ease her down, and she rolls over onto her side. After I’ve covered her up, I toe my boots off and strip down to my underwear before crawling into bed beside her.

“You’re staying?” she asks sleepily.

“Yes. If that’s fine.”

Rather than respond, she snuggles up to me. I came over here with every intention of burying myself in her pussy. Instead, I massaged her feet, and now we’re spooning. Crazy thing is, I’m totally good with it.