Rescuing the Bad Boy (Second Chance #2)(72)

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, na?ve 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.