Rescuing the Bad Boy (Second Chance #2)(46)

“If I balanced the car just right, I could roll it on two wheels on the rail. Nearly made it the length of the wall once.” His smile faded. “Until my father caught me, and I quote, ‘ruining’ the wall.”

He’d never forget the look of rage on Robert’s face. The way his lips pulled away from his teeth, the putrid smell of alcohol on his breath. Mostly, Donovan would never forget the brain-jarring slap to his face, the warm sliver of blood trickling from a small cut at the corner of his eye.

Sofie’s face went pale, her hand lifted to her throat. “Oh my God.”

Like that, she’d figured it out.

“I only had to be told once,” he said with a hollow laugh. “Never did it again.”

She took a step closer to him. “He… he hit you.”

Hearing Sofie say it out loud made the truth uglier. Her eyes were wide and full of sympathy—his least favorite look on her. He didn’t want her to feel badly about anything, especially for him.

Still, part of him drank in her sympathy. The fact that she cared—that anyone cared—made his chest ache. And reminded him how empty he was.

“More than once,” he answered. “But that’s not the point. Point is, I don’t want you to worry about the molding being ruined.” Words came into his mind unbidden, slashing him inside, parting his hollow chest and spilling out dust. His father’s words.

You don’t appreciate nothing. That’s why your mother left! Because you were an ingrate then and you are now. Little bastard. Get the f*ck out of this room. No dinner or breakfast! You starve and think of what you did!

His father had stomped the toy to pieces. Donovan had run upstairs and washed the blood away. He’d cried that night. He cried several times after, until he turned twelve and decided to never let Robert see him cry again. That was the year he threw a punch at his old man. Big thing for a twelve-year-old to attempt, but he’d had the element of surprise.

Robert hadn’t been able to believe his son had hit him.

Donovan hadn’t believed how much he liked feeling the skin of his father’s lip split open, or how satisfying it’d been to spill his father’s blood for a change. At the time, it made him feel powerful. Now, it tossed his gut.

“I’m sorry.” Sofie took another step closer. Her soft touch landed on Donovan’s arm, and the anger shuddering inside him shifted into an ache.

“Don’t be. He’s dead. And I hope wherever he is, he sees that”—he tipped his chin at the paint marking the molding—“and the bastard’s bones roll.”

The air between them radiated enough heat to set him on fire. But like the fireplaces he built, he could handle it. He could handle the heat from her, not because he was impervious, but because he was strong enough to soak her in and not burn to ash.

She swiped his arm where the paint was drying with one of her shirtsleeves.

“Sorry about the mess.”

“Don’t… I can…” Her soft touch rendered his brain useless. “There is a shower in the…”

He lost his train of thought when emerald green eyes hit him. He lowered his face, watching those eyes grow dark and wide. Watching her chin lift and her delicate throat work as she swallowed.

Heat.

He wanted more. If only to test his own strength.

He moved his lips gently against hers but resisted holding her to him. She held on to him, though, grasping his forearms with both hands, her fingers wrapped around his elbows. Then she pressed closer, her warmth fusing with his, her tits resting against his ribs.

Hell, sounded like an invitation to him. He thrust his tongue into her mouth, deepening their connection, and reached around grabbing her ass in both palms. When he squeezed, she sucked in a breath.

“Told you,” he rumbled against her parted mouth.

“Told me?”

“You weren’t complaining, Scampi.” He squeezed again. “Perfect.”

A choked laugh left her throat. “Big.”

Still moving his hands over her backside, he said, “First thing I noticed about you at the Wharf.”

He’d been plating up a chicken scaloppini when the manager walked in to show around a few new servers. Two he couldn’t remember, and Sofie. Bent over the plate, he’d peeked between the metal shelves framing that perfect ass. He’d stood to get a better look, and she’d pegged him with those moss greens.

“Second thing I noticed was your eyes.”

Her lips parted into a small smile.

He kissed that smile. Couldn’t help it. She tasted incredible.

“And the third thing?”

“The first time you talked to me.”

She rolled her eyes. “And what did I say?”

She didn’t think he remembered. She was wrong.

“ ‘Can I get a side of cock?’ ”

Laughing, she shook her head.

He grinned, unable to help himself. “Then you cleared your throat and said, ‘cocktail sauce.’ ”

“Worst abbreviation ever.”

“Kitchen guys are immature.”

She blinked up at him, studying him, like she was trying to piece him together. He didn’t want her to. Once she pieced him together and had the whole picture, she wouldn’t like what she saw.

He kissed her again, deep and slow, moving his hands gently on her body.