Rescuing the Bad Boy (Second Chance #2)(74)

“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.”