Rescuing the Bad Boy

by Jessica Lemmon

  “Difference was,” he continued, “back then, I didn’t know what to do with that feeling.” The pressure lessened on her head and he massaged gently. “Your sweetness wasn’t something I knew how to deal with.”

  “I hate being sweet. It’s a nice way to say I’m weak.”

  “No, Scampi.” He eased out of her body oh-so-slowly, taking her breath with him. “Not true.” He stroked into her again, hard and thick, and grinned. “That was the sweetest sound I’ve ever heard. And there isn’t a damn thing weak about you.”

  Except for where he was concerned. There, she was weak. Like wet-paper-plate weak.

  Tilting his hips, he drove into her again.

  “You have a decision to make, Scampi.” He drew out, muddling her mind. “Slow and smooth or hard and fast?”

  Given that the slow and smooth was making her feel all sorts of things she knew she shouldn’t, she said, “Hard and fast.”

  His grin suggested he didn’t mind her request.

  “You got it.”

  He made good on both counts. And the second time he mentioned the word “tight,” it sounded a lot like a compliment to her.

  Sofie woke with her hand over the words tattooed on Donovan’s ribs, her entire body sealed against his. Her left leg was thrown over his thigh, the bottom of her foot against the side of his foot, and her right cheek against his left shoulder.

  The sun streaming through the balcony door woke her at least twenty minutes ago. She’d had several thoughts since her eyes opened. Like how she should get up, get dressed, get ready to make her day into whatever it was going to be. But she hadn’t. She just lay here. Enjoying the feel of his rising and falling chest. And remembering each and every moment of what they did the night before.

  Her fingers traced the ink decorating his torso. Then she moved to the ink tracking up the arm she wasn’t wrapped in. Carefully so she wouldn’t wake him, she shifted so she could see his face. Black hair a disaster, long lashes covering eyes she’d never forget, Donovan looked like a dark angel. There really wasn’t any debate over why she’d given him her virginity.

  Or why she’d fallen in bed with him last night.

  Seven years ago, she had been ready to have some unscheduled fun, to do something wild with her straight-and-narrow self. He had been the answer to both desires. When the night they spent together went south, it haunted her for years, following her into her next relationships. The memories were etched deep into her skin, into her bones. And now… Well, now she didn’t know how to summarize what he meant to her. She wasn’t a virginal, naïve girl any longer, but neither was he the same hotheaded, angry guy.

  Sighing, she flattened a hand on the center of his chest and rested her chin there, her eyes tracing the tattoos decorating his shoulder. A series of waves, indiscernible patterns, mostly shapes she couldn’t make out looped up his arm.

  “Morning, Scampi.”

  Her eyes flicked up, finding his closed. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

  “You did.” His arm wrapped her tightly, his palm closing over one butt cheek. Lashes fluttered, and then those silver-blues were on her.

  “Your eyes are beautiful.” She didn’t exactly mean to say that, it just sort of fell out of her mouth.

  The side of his mouth frowned. “Delicate things are beautiful. Paintings, flowers.” His hand squeezed her backside, cradled in his palm. “You.”

  Flattered, her cheeks warmed. She never thought of herself as beautiful—or delicate, for that matter—but somehow, he made her believe it.

  “Beautiful is also how you describe things that are powerful. The ocean, a herd of wild horses…”—she tapped his chest—“ You.”

  He stayed silent, searching her face for a moment, his expression indiscernible. She traced a finger over the waves on his shoulder. “You have so many.”

  Tilting his chin, he looked to where she pointed.

  “Do they mean anything?”

  “I’d like to say yes. But truth is, most of them were selected by shape and size.”

  She thought back to what he’d said about the tattoo on his arm, to the words emblazoned over his ribs. “Because they cover scars?”

  “Yeah.”

  She traced a finger along his collarbone, felt the unnatural way the bone raised. That’s where a serpentine line started, blending into the waves on his shoulder.

  “He threw me down the stairs.” Donovan smiled, but it wasn’t a happy smile. “Parquet floor is harder than it looks.”

  She flattened her palm over the broken bone. Not trusting her voice to come out steady, she traced her fingers over to his shoulder and raised her eyebrows in question.

  “Bat.”

  A baseball bat. Her stomach flipped. Pain flared in her chest, forcing her eyes closed. She felt his fingers in her hair a moment later and opened her eyes. He pushed the length of it over her shoulder and brushed her cheek with the back of his palm.

  He’d had to be so strong as a child. Too strong.

  “Don’t look at me like that, Scampi.”

  She didn’t need a mirror to know the look on her face. Hurt. Hearing details of the abuse caused by his father—the one man who should have protected him—hurt her.

  Taking his hand from her face, she rubbed her finger over his star tattoo. This one was the most familiar to her—he’d had it since she met him. In her mind, the star was his defining mark.

  “Past is past,” he said quietly.

  “Tell me.” She shouldn’t want to know, but the truth was his truth. Straight through was the only way out; he’d said so himself. And she wanted him out. Free.

  “Sweetheart—”

  “I want to know.” She didn’t. But she did. This was who he was.

  Who he is.

  He blew a long breath from his nose, then said, “My father had this pocketknife. Antique. White bone and brass handle. I borrowed it, after strict instructions never to touch his things.”

  Worse. This story was going to be worse than the bat or the fall to the parquet floor. She clenched her jaw, suddenly angry. His eyes met hers.

  “I broke it.”

  “You were a kid,” she said, her defense of him too little, too late. Way too late.

  “He found out and decided to teach me a lesson so I’d never, ever borrow his pocketknife again.”

  She wanted him to say he’d accidentally cut himself but knew from his toneless voice that wasn’t where this story was headed.

  “It worked. I didn’t.”

  She examined the tattoo closely. Then she saw it. Beneath the filled-in black-blue ink was a scar. White, jagged, and running the width of his index finger. She rubbed her fingertip over it. Flat, save for a raised edge between his first and middle finger.

  “The bastard cut you.” She felt sick. Infuriated. With no one to spew her anger at, she growled, “I hate him.”

  “No, sweetheart, don’t give him that. He doesn’t deserve any feelings from you.”

  Donovan’s calm voice dampened the spark of her anger. He was right. Wasting energy on a man—a beast—who would harm his own child was a waste. It was better spent on the man in front of her. The man who was gentle in spite of having a million reasons not to be.

  She lifted his finger, pressed a kiss to the star. “I wish I could make it better.”

  Hand on her lower back, arm around her, he pulled her closer and pressed his lips against hers.

  “Trust me. You are.” He lifted his arm and tucked it under the pillow behind his head, propping himself up, looking at her. “Bones heal. Scars fade.”

  “But you’ve immortalized yours.”

  He was quiet for a long time, so quiet she didn’t think he was going to comment.

  “My body is my life’s roadmap, Scampi. Erasing those scars completely”—he shook his head—“wouldn’t be right.”

  Plopping her chin back down onto her hand, she lay there, allowing her finger to trace the lines and ink decorating his imperfect skin. She was be
ginning to see what he meant about the rocks he chose for his fireplace.

  There was much more beauty in imperfection than perfection.

  “My shoes are still in the yard,” she mumbled after a long bout of silence.

  His chest shook with gentle laughter. She felt her smile as she took in the lines on either side of his mouth. His tongue darted out to wet his bottom lip as his eyes slid to hers. Bedroom eyes brimming with hot intention. Remembering how he’d loved her with his mouth last night, she squirmed, going damp between her thighs at the thought.

  “Why are you laughing?” she asked, hoping to hide her reaction to him. “Is it because you have new clothes to change into, and I’m going to be stuck with the wrinkled and rumpled ensemble strewn across your bedroom floor?”

  His hand was at home on her butt, his smile intact.

  She flicked her eyes to the balcony. The sun was shining bright, the clock unstoppable.

  “I should get out of bed.” Sad, but true. “There are so many things I need to do today,” she announced glumly. “So many calls…”

  “Slow down.” His arm tightened around her body, sliding up to her ribs. Goose bumps popped up on her naked skin. “In my world,” he said, his voice a seductive murmur, “this is not how mornings go.”

  Her nipples pebbled at the notion she might get to find out what was under his gravelly tone.

  “How do they go normally?”

  “Don’t want them to go the way they normally go.” He gave her a sleepy smile. “Want to know how they go with you.”

  The breath halted in her lungs. She held it there like she could hold on to this moment. As if time would stop if she willed it to obey.

  “Normally,” he said, “I get up, feed Dog.” Gertie, hearing her other name, padded to the edge of the bed and rested her chin on the blanket. Large, pale blue eyes that matched her temporary owner’s stared them down. Donovan reached out and gave her a pat. “Morning, Dog.” To Sofie, he said, “I let her out, feed her. Shower, shave. Get to work on the house.”

  The house. So many things to do and a looming deadline for the dinner—the campout—lay before them both. She lifted her hand to rub the headache forming over one eyebrow. “I have a zillion things to do.”

  “You say that a lot.”

  “Because it’s true.”

  “You have time, Scampi.”

  “I really don’t.”

  Grabbing her up, he pulled her until she was lying on top of him, skin to skin, absolutely nothing in between them. Well, that wasn’t exactly true. Something was between them. Something large, nestled between his legs, nudged her suggestively.

  He smiled, tilted his hips. “Make time.”

  Dog whined low in her throat, begging for some of that time neither of them had to give. Donovan slid out from under Sofie, leaving her in bed, and threw the covers back over her body. He strutted bare-assed naked across the bedroom and shrugged into a pair of jeans while she snuggled into a pillow and enjoyed the show. Watching a worn pair of denim cover his perfect butt was almost as fun as watching him take them off.

  Almost.

  Shirtless, he pulled open the bedroom door and commanded, “Do not get out of that bed.”

  Which, of course, she ignored.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  It might have been the most stunning shower she’d ever seen in her life.

  Stone walls, various sprayers at varying heights, and a huge round shower head hanging right over the middle of the enclosure. There was no door, just sort of a hallway leading into the shower.

  Yes, she’d gotten out of bed. She wasn’t trying to be obstinate; she had to pee. On the way through the bathroom, she’d spotted the shower and was drawn to it by no fault of her own. The tub in her apartment was small, narrow, and the plug designed to stop the drain, broken.

  But this massive, luxury veritable wall of water? Yeah, there was no way she was passing up the chance to get in there.

  Sofie tilted her head back to rinse the shampoo out of her hair when she heard a familiar, deep voice echo off the stone.

  “Thought I told you to stay put.”

  She pushed the water off her face and blinked, sweeping a mass of wet hair back. Donovan leaned on the edge of the shower, out of the spray’s range, jeans on, shirt off. He ran a gaze—a hot, hungry gaze—down her body and up.

  “Second thought, this might be better.” He grinned, reaching for the waistband of his jeans. Shamelessly, she watched him undress. He did so proudly.

  Guys. So secure with their bodies. They would never know what it was like to be a woman. To obsess over cellulite, bathing suit season, breast size, butt size, shoe size for Pete’s sake. Of course, the naked man stalking toward her in the shower had nothing to be insecure about. His long, lean, marked body was perfection in the flesh. More amazing than years ago when he’d been more lanky than broad.

  Donovan wasn’t lanky now. His body was still lean, yes, but strong. Dips and curves and protruding muscles, laced in warm hues of red and orange and blue on the artwork on his shoulder, black and white ink decorating his arms, his hand. His ribs. His wide chest tapered down to a waist leading to those “V” thingies curving over his hips. And his legs. Covered with a smattering of hair, his thick thighs proved he was a runner, or at least used his legs to lift. Because seriously, those suckers were fit.

  He stepped in the shower with her… well, not so much with her, as against her. He walked right into her personal space, under the cascading water, cupped her bottom in both hands, and pulled her to his chest.

  She went willingly, palming his pectorals, watching water spill over the ink decorating his skin. She didn’t care how he defined it. Donovan Pate was beautiful.

  “You owe me an apology.” He backed them out of the overhead spray, but water shot out of every wall, covering her in warmth and infusing the air with steam.

  She tipped her head back to study his face. He raked a hand through his hair, now damp.

  “For?”

  “For that.” He backed away, revealing the soldier saluting her from between his legs.

  She smiled, knew he was teasing. Liked him when he was teasing. Liked him with a matching easy smile on his face, rather than a formative scowl. Just liked him, period.

  “That’s not my fault.” She made no effort to look away. Matter of fact, she was kind of staring.

  A brief, deep chuckle rumbled from his chest, making her heart rise like a helium balloon. Definitely, she liked him more when he was teasing her.

  “Scampi, sweetheart. Your fault.”

  Steam billowed, but that was only half the reason why she was hot. Warm and loose, with no immediate place to be, a drop-dead gorgeous man standing naked before her, she did believe she’d just discovered her brazen side.

  “I can take care of that for you, you know,” she said, her voice husky.

  She’d thought his gaze was hot and hungry earlier, but that was nothing compared to now.

  His eyes flared, fire in their depths. “I know.” He was focused on her intently, arms surrounding her.

  The ends of his wet, dark hair clung to the sides of his neck and she touched his throat, running her fingers over his chest, over his inked skin. “Did Evan do any of these?”

  Blinking, probably out of the thought she’d inserted into his head, he glided her fingers to the words on his rib cage.

  “This one. And… another,” he added, his voice rough.

  She ran the pads of her fingers over the words, thinking about the meaning behind them. We live with the scars we choose. Poetic.

  “Where is the other one?” She cocked her head, appreciating the way his body looked with water droplets clinging to his muscles.

  He tensed beneath her touch. Just a little, but she noticed.

  “Donny?”

  He licked his bottom lip before he moved her hand to a spot high on his left rib cage, under his arm. Wordlessly, he palmed just behind her left breast and rubbed her tattoo with
his thumb. They stood, their hands on one another, arms extended.

  Her tattoo.

  He couldn’t mean… She moved her hand aside and revealed the tattoo on his flank. An infinity symbol.

  Like hers.

  The one and only bit of ink she’d had done.

  A memory from years ago hit her front and center.

  A light summer drizzle fell on the parking lot when Sofie left the Wharf at midnight after her shift. Donny was there, leaning back against his Jeep, cigarette between two fingers, smoke trailing through his nose.

  “Scampi! Where you going, girl?”

  Butterflies swarmed her stomach at the sound of his voice. Sexy, sexy Donny. Would she ever get over what his voice did to her insides? She’d worked with him just two months and already had the biggest crush on him imaginable. He scratched his nose and she spotted the star tattoo on his index finger.

  Her car was parked next to his, so it made sense for her to walk in his direction.

  “I got it done yesterday.” She tipped her chin at his tattoo, blinking away the tiny raindrops. They’d been talking about tattoos in the kitchen last week. What she wanted and why.

  “Bullshit.” He grinned. “Show me.”

  “No way. I told you where I was getting it. You’re just trying to get a free peek.”

  “Scampi”—serious now, he gestured to himself as smoke curled from the end of his cigarette—“who do you think you’re talking to? I am a professional. I have tattoos.”

  He’d mentioned another on his shoulder, but she hadn’t seen it. She fantasized about a quick game of I-show-you-mine-you-show-me-yours.

  “I can give you my expert opinion.” Even in the moonlight, she could see the silver in his eyes. Those pale, pale blue eyes she saw in her dreams the moment she closed her own each and every night.

  “I don’t know…” She flirted back, shrugging a shoulder, and what the hell—just went for it. “Maybe if you show me—”

  “Fucking finally!” came a shrill female voice from behind her. Sofie turned to find Heather Conrad, her face pinched. She aimed a scathing glance at Sofie, pushed past her, and walked up to Donny. “Hey sexy, you got the stuff?” she asked him, clasping his leather jacket in one taloned fist.