Perched on the window seat, I hug my knees in the dark, watching for signs of movement near the driveway. The rain plays tricks on my eyes. It feels like forever before I spot Marco’s familiar gait. Strong and lean, hands shoved in his pockets as if nothing can touch him.
I crack the door open, and he speeds up when he sees me. God, he’s beautiful—even with a T-shirt plastered to his chest and rain running down his face.
He stops at the door, and the hunger in his eyes makes my knees weak. I grab his wet shirt and pull him inside. “You’re soaked. How far away did you park?”
“Far enough to keep Lex from getting in trouble.” Marco touches my hips and tugs me toward him, careful to leave just enough distance between us to keep me dry. His fingers graze the skin above the waistband of my jeans, sending shivers up my spine. He shakes his head and squeezes his eyes shut, as if he’s in physical pain.
I push the wet hair away from his eyes and press my hand against his cheek. “Are you all right? Did something happen?” I search his face for bruises or signs of a fight.
“I didn’t think you’d call.”
“I told you how I felt about you.” My hand slides behind his neck.
“I know. But I figured after you had some time to let it all sink in, you’d change your mind.” He raises his head, and our eyes lock. “You deserve a lot better than a car thief, Frankie.”
I hook both arms around his neck and press closer. The water from his wet shirt and jeans seeps into mine. “That isn’t who you are.”
Marco’s eyes flicker to my mouth, and he leans closer. I lick my lips and he watches, his breath coming faster. His lips crush mine, and our mouths fall into perfect rhythm. He wraps an arm around my waist and picks me up. I lean against the wall behind me and drag his hips closer.
Marco moans against my lips. “What are you doing to me, Angel?”
The sound of his voice ignites a need in me that I never knew existed. With our bodies pressed together like this, it’s impossible not to feel Marco’s need, too. His lips brush mine and he pulls back, leaving his arms draped over my shoulders.
I search his face for a clue that will tell me why he stopped.
“What’s wrong?”
“Would it sound crazy if I said this was too right?” His voice is raw and deep.
“Yes.”
He goes silent for what feels like minutes when he’s looking me in the eye like this. “Kissing you isn’t like kissing other girls.” I cringe, and he curses under his breath. “That came out wrong. I meant it’s different with you.”
Not helping. “Different good or different bad?”
He moves one of his hands away from the wall and traces a line with his fingertip from the bridge of my nose down the center of my lips to the hollow at the bottom of my throat. “Different perfect. The kind of perfect that tells me I’ll never be able to forget kissing you.”
No one has ever said anything like that to me. I repeat the words in my head so I can remember exactly the way Marco said them.
“Do you want to forget?”
“Your dad is investigating me, Frankie. And he’s not wrong.” He shivers, and I touch his arm. He’s freezing.
“I have an idea. But you need to get out of these wet clothes.” I tug on the hem of his shirt.
He smiles—that sexy-sweet bad-boy smile I think about way too often. “Are you asking me to strip?”
“Go in the bathroom and find something dry.” I give him a little shove. “There’s a changing room.”
“I bet.” Marco looks around for the first time. He’s probably comparing it to his modest apartment, and I’m embarrassed by the excess. He kicks off his high-tops and crosses the dark room.
When Marco returns, he’s shirtless and barefoot, still wearing his wet jeans.
“You didn’t change.” Not that I’m complaining. The moonlight skims every gorgeous muscle from his shoulders to his abs.
He tosses the towel into the bathroom. “Whoever wears all those checkered golf shorts in there isn’t exactly my size. This is as close to dry as I could get.” Marco sits next to me on the sofa.
I’ve never seen his tattoos all at once, and I can’t look away.
Black bands encircle one arm, and the sleeve of tattoos covers the outside of the other. I touch the pile of skulls that curves around his wrist and trace the tree growing up from the center, along the outside of his arm. The tree branches out, curving into what looks like a cliff at Marco’s elbow. But it’s another skull, less detailed than the ones near his wrist. I drag my finger over the branch that moves up his arm and morphs into the stem of a black rose. The petals open over Marco’s bicep.
What comes next takes my breath away.
The bottom of a lion’s mane curves up from the center of the rose and spreads over Marco’s shoulder. It’s drawn in a tribal style that’s different from the rest of the tattoo.
“So what’s your idea?” he asks.
“My dad and his partner aren’t really interested in you. They want the person at the top of the food chain—whoever is selling the cars. Catching the people who steal the cars is just a way to follow the chain.”
Marco frowns and clasps his hands together. “Okay…?”