She dragged her nails over her palm, paint rolling under her fingernails in the present, but a shadow from the past causing her palm to tingle.
Donovan found a way to blame himself. Because that’s what kids who were abused did.
Tears welled in her eyes, but she blinked them back. She refused to cry. She would not go to him and treat him like a kicked puppy. He would never stand for it.
Straight through.
Stomping from the dining room to the kitchen, she followed the direction he’d disappeared. In the utility room, she found him bent, shirtless, half in the shower, scrubbing paint from his arm.
Tanned, rounded biceps flexed as he washed away remnants of paint in the streaming water. Veins stood out from his skin. An arrow tattoo ran the length of the inside of one forearm leading to the hand marked with the black bird, and the star on his finger.
She couldn’t look away. He was glorious.
He tossed his mass of black hair out of his face and noticed her standing there. More ink covered his shoulder, a pattern of waves and swirls she couldn’t make out the details of from here.
When she’d asked before about the new tattoo on his arm, he’d mentioned how rocks caused scars. Had he meant the tattoos covered scars caused from his work? Or other scars…
No.
Her eyes slid over all the tattoos covering his arms and hands. His shoulders. His flank. There were so many. Did they cover scars from an abusive father? A man who was not a man at all.
A monster.
The puzzle pieces slid together, and suddenly she understood why Donovan was the way he was. Disconnected, angry, short-fused.
But… what was he now? What was he to her? Right now he looked nothing short of beautiful. Like a wounded animal backed into a corner, growling whenever someone nice got too close. Because what did he know of close? What did he know of nice?
What had he known of virgins?
The kinds of girls she saw him leave with at the restaurant weren’t nice. They sure as hell weren’t virginal. Sofie remembered the way it hurt to see him go home with girls who didn’t give a crap about him when she cared so very much.
No, she wasn’t that kind of girl. But he’d gone home with her.
The blurry edges of the past narrowed and focused.
Unaware, he continued scrubbing his arm under the running water from the showerhead. He tipped his chin to direct her upstairs.
“I have a T-shirt if you want to clean up and change. There’s an attached bath in my…”
He trailed off, and the reason he trailed off was because Sofie whipped her shirt over her head. Stripping herself bare the way he had a moment ago when he told a story about a boy who had deserved compassion, not closed fists.
She swiped the paint from her arm and fingers and dropped the soiled shirt to the floor.
Standing in her bra and pants before him, she asked in a small voice, “Do me?”
Her request hung in the air between them for exactly half a second. Donovan slammed his fist into the faucet to shut off the water and reached for her with one dripping wet arm. He pulled her body flush against him, his mouth hitting hers hard.
Her eyes closed in relief—in sweet, sweet bliss. She ran her hands over his naked chest, his muscles, his tattooed skin. This kiss wasn’t as desperate as before. It was as if an understanding had passed between them because of what he’d told her. Now that she knew, she saw him in a new light.
Coming into the light.
Just a little. Just enough.
Stop.
Dammit, stop.
Donovan ignored the warnings in his head. Now that he was drinking Sofie in, her warm half-naked body pressed against his, there was no stopping. There was nothing he wanted more than to taste her, to feel her against him. To feel the noises she made when he turned her on vibrating along his rib cage.
There’d be no more telling himself how he didn’t deserve her, or reminding himself he was paying penance. There was only Sofie and there was only him and there was only the scorching heat burning between them. The same heat that had burned between them the last time he had her.
The last time he’d had anyone.
To say remaining celibate hadn’t been easy would be the understatement of the decade. His only method of survival was burying the sexual frustration in his work. Which was why he was a damn good mason. Why he had a waiting list of clients who paid handsomely for him to build custom fireplaces up and down the East Coast. There were no women pulling his hyper-focus from the one thing he did morning, noon, and night.
Like monks who made the best beer in the world, Donovan was a man without the distraction of sex.
Was.
With his tongue in Sofie’s mouth, and her hands climbing his body, his extended bout of celibacy was about to become a memory. If having her meant he couldn’t wrangle enough brain cells to construct another fireplace ever, so be it.
He wanted her. Only her. The dam had burst, and there was no holding back the flood.
He reached around her back and unclasped her bra. She continued kissing him, running her lips over his, making him forget his name, or what anyone’s lips had tasted like before hers.
“Scampi.”
“Yes,” she said, kissing him again and again. “That’s going to be my answer no matter what you ask.”
He hadn’t planned on asking her anything, but he’d take it. He needed a yes.
God, how he needed a yes.
He ran the straps of her bra down her arms, before tossing it to the floor. He took in every inch of her smooth, bare skin like a man savoring his last sunset before going underground forever. Fingers following the path of his eyes, he ran them over her rib cage, up the sides of those fabulous tits, and down over pink, supple nipples.
Soft. She was so fucking soft.
She tilted her head back and he kissed her neck. Her nipples peaked, hardening beneath his fingertips. He pulled his lips away to watch her, to bask in her glow.
He didn’t know how long he had. This moment could burn hot, then fizzle out like a dollar-store sparkler. If this was it, this was it. More penance could be paid after. For now, he could only think of committing the crime to do the penance for.
More than anything, he wanted this touch. Her touch. Gentle touch hadn’t been something he’d had a lot of over the years. Save for Caroline’s motherly hugs, or shaking Alessandre’s hand. Or the occasional pat on the back from a client. Aside from that, there had been no touching. Not since Sofie.
He worked her breasts with his thumbs and forefingers, pulling high mewls from her throat. His own skin sizzled in response, all of him on the brink of boiling over. Her fingertips glided along his abdomen, up his torso, over his pectorals. Lost in the feel of her touching him, his eyes sank closed. A groan left his throat. She made him feel… she made him feel…
That was it.
She made him feel.
He hadn’t felt in a long time.
“Is this okay?” she breathed as she raked her fingernails over his chest.
“Sweetheart, better than okay.”
She had no idea how much more than okay this was for him. Flushed pink nipples drew his head down. He tasted one precious bud, while the fingers of one hand worked the button on her cotton pants. The snick of the zipper sounded as his tongue swirled around her nipple, making it pebble.
Her hands grasped his shoulders. He palmed her back, arching her closer, feeling the tips of her dark brown ponytail brush his hands. She tasted like his past, but a good past. Good memories were very few and far in between. He continued pulling her breast into his mouth and drawing the same high, tight sounds from her throat. His cock throbbed in time with his heartbeat.
He had to have her. Now.
He gripped her butt in both hands, lifted her, and deposited her on top of the washer. Wrestling with her pants, he managed to free one of her legs, tossing her shoe to the floor as he did. Her hands went to the stud of his jeans. She had them
open, her hand inside grasping him one mind-numbing second later.
Through his boxers, she stroked his shaft, and for a moment all he could do was drop his head back and enjoy the sensation of being touched by a hand other than his own.
Her lips caressed the underside of his chin, moved down the length of his throat, wetting his skin, making him crazy. He opened his eyes, grasped the back of her neck, and kissed her. She accepted his tongue in her mouth, joining him in the intimate dance. This was the tension simmering just beneath the surface since he came back to town. Unhinged, unresolved, overwhelming attraction for the woman in his arms.
Sofie had come to him this time. She’d been the one to say yes. And had asked him to “do her,” he thought with a smile.
There was one problem. He hadn’t planned on having sex while he was here. Even after kissing her in the car, even after he’d thrown her over his shoulder this morning, sharing a brief moment of lightness. He didn’t expect to have her practically nude, on top of the washer hours later.
He pulled his lips from hers, and she let out a frustrated grunt, her hands tightening on the back of his neck, ruffling his hair. He had to tell her before this went any further.
“Scampi.”
“Don’t.” She kissed him again, two, three times, quickly on the lips. “Do not try to talk me out of this, Donny.”
He almost laughed. Talk her out of it? Not on her life. He managed a smile, a strained one, but still. “Not talking you out of this. But bad news, sweetheart.” He did some quick math—figuring out how long it would take him to get to town, park in front of Nelson’s drugstore, and run inside to buy condoms. Then drive back, breaking a minimum of nine traffic laws on the way.
Thirteen minutes, he figured. Fifteen, tops.
Risky. Fifteen minutes was enough time for the boiling-over heat between them to simmer. Hell, five minutes. Two. He took in her nakedness, the simple but sexy pink cotton panties she wore, the pants dangling off one leg, the shoe she still wore.
“No condom,” he announced bleakly. “Wasn’t planning on getting into your pants.”
She blinked up at him, eyes going wide for a second. Then she smiled, a gentle, sweet Scampi smile from way back. “There’s one in my purse.”
Later, he would worry about why she had one in her purse. But for now, he could kiss her. So he did. Quickly.
He raced from the room, pausing in the doorway, pants open, chest heaving, the taste of her lingering on his lips.
“Where the hell is your purse?”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Dining room,” she answered.
He took one last look at Sofie who was leaning back on her hands atop the washer, the room a sea of white behind her. Her ponytail was lopsided, some of her hair hanging over her face, her bare breasts begging for his tongue. Her panties begging to be tugged off with his teeth. He wanted her so much, he hated to leave her for a second.
Focus. A condom was around the corner.
He found her purse hanging on the back of a dining room chair, snatched it up, and dashed back to the utility room. Thrusting the small bag into her hands, he kissed her neck while she dug through the pockets.
“Here.” A small foil packet was pressed to his chest.
She reached for his pants and pushed them down his hips. He let her. She freed him from his boxers next. Her hand wrapped around him again, stroking once, twice, while he tore the foil packet open with his teeth, a shake working down both of his arms. He clasped her wrist with one hand, pulled her hand off his cock, and kissed the inside of her wrist.
“Trying to make this last, Scampi. You’re not helping.” He let go of her to roll on the condom, worrying for an insane second he may have forgotten how to do it. He hadn’t.
Thank God for small favors.
Grasping her butt cheeks with both hands, he pulled her closer, her ass squeaking along the washer’s lid. Her breathing had increased with the same anticipation firing through his bloodstream at the speed of sound.
He watched her breasts lift and fall, lift and fall. “I’ve never seen anything as beautiful as you naked.” He hadn’t meant to say that out loud, but it was the truth. Every inch of her was perfect… at least, the inches he could see. Should have laid her down in a bed where he could strip her completely bare, but beggars couldn’t be choosers.
And, yeah, he was the beggar in this situation. Taking whatever she was willing to give.
“Compliments are not necessary,” she told him. “I’ve already said yes.”
He wasn’t feeding her a line, but now wasn’t the time for that conversation.
He lifted her foot and eased her out of her panties, leaving her dressed on one side. As he lined up with her entrance, she fisted the back of his hair, her green eyes trained on him. In the still moment between them, his heart raced.
“Straight through,” she whispered.
He tilted his hips and plunged deep inside her.
The surprised, satisfied sound from her was an elixir, bathing him, healing him. He didn’t have to ask, he knew from that reverent sound she liked how he felt. From the sound, her pink cheeks, her open mouth, and the way her short nails bit into the muscles in his shoulders.
Subtly, she stiffened, and he knew he’d lost her mind and attention. Maybe she was remembering another moment similar to this one. The last time they’d done this.
Pulsing, and in too deep to dream of pulling out, he tightened his arm around her waist and waited for it. Waited for an accusation, for her to call him on his crap from years ago.
“Say it,” he commanded.
Her unfocused gaze met his. “I forgot how big you were.” Her fingers lovingly stroked his jaw and sifted into his hair, pushing it away from his cheek.
When he smiled, so did she, the slightly crooked tilt taking him back to the very first time he touched his mouth to hers. Dipped his tongue into the curve of her top lip.
Not able to keep from it, he kissed her there now. “I’m trying to hold out, Scampi. This. Is not. Helping.”
He pulled out and eased into her again. The feeling so consuming, he wondered if he’d be able to hold out at all. Pursing her lips, she let out a little “ooh” sound, also not helping.
“Good. So good.” She bit her bottom lip.
Concentrating, he tightened every muscle in his body to the point of pain.
“Was it ever this good? Ever?” She sounded like she was asking herself that question, but he knew the answer. No. No was the answer. He’d had a lot of girls in his bed in the blurry years before he’d slept with her, and yeah, on a purely physical level, sex had been satisfying. But now, nestled between Sofie’s thighs, “satisfying” was a lame descriptor.
What they were doing was mind-melting. Knee-exploding. Tendon-tearing.
Or it would be if he didn’t loosen the muscles in his legs.
His cock tingled at the tip and he clenched his ass cheeks. Hold out. Hold out. Come on, boy. Through teeth he was grinding into pea gravel, he managed, “I mean it, Scampi. Talk about something else if you want this to last at all.”
“I want it to.” Her voice was as tender as her touch, her fingers running from his earlobe, down his jaw, and ending at his chin. She kissed his bottom lip. “Please, I want it to.”
A shiver having nothing to do with the fact she was wrapping him tight in every way possible worked its way down his spine. That shiver was the reason he’d taken her home the first time. The reason behind it one he’d ignored back then, pretending not to recognize what it meant.
Not many women in his life had given a damn about him. His mother left when he was three, probably to get away from Robert, and really, who could blame her? Gertrude saw what she wanted to see, and ignored the rest. Most of the chicks Donovan had taken to his bed didn’t give a damn about him. They wanted what he wanted. To use him up, get a quick fix, and move on.
Then there was Scampi. She didn’t want to use them for anything. She cared about him, cared about
what he said, how he felt about things, his opinion. The night of the Christmas party when he approached her, she’d given him a shy smile. He couldn’t remember another time a girl had given him a shy smile.
When she came with him to the mansion, allowed him to take her inside, kissed him back, and finally allowed him to enter her… she blew his mind.
And by “blew his mind” he meant “freaked him the fuck out.” It wasn’t hard to figure out she was a virgin. She was tight. She was tense. She’d held her breath and scrunched her eyes.
He was being selfish, but she hadn’t seen it that way. She gave the gift freely. For a man who hadn’t received many gifts, it was a gift he’d taken with hardly a second thought.
Until after.
“S’mores,” she panted now.
The word snapped him back to the present like a rubber band stinging flesh. The last thing in the world he’d expected Sofie to say was…
“S’mores?” he asked.
She kissed the underside of his chin and wrapped her arms around his neck.
“Can you work with that?” She flexed her hips and drew him deeper, and he felt a tingle buzz from tip to shaft again.
His mouth dropped open. She kissed his chin again. Right. The distraction he asked her for.
“We’ll see. Keep talking, sweetheart.”
She licked her lips and nodded. He kept pumping, slowly, watching her face contort while she tried to keep up a conversation.
“I figure… Since we will be camping out… We are going to need a fire pit…”
He tried to concentrate on her words; the picture she was painting rather than the feeling of how tight and wet and warm…
Focus, dammit.
He tried to focus on the cool metal of the washer’s lid under his palm instead of the expression of lust on her face.
“That, I like that,” she said on a sensual sigh. “Where was I?”
“S’mores,” he somehow got out through a jaw of welded steel.
“Dark or milk chocolate?” Her words came out in uneven bursts, punctuated by little, panting breaths.
Rescuing the Bad Boy Page 15