Page 10 of Saint
“And I’ll be over there,” she says, pointing to a table with a clear view of mine but far enough away to give me privacy. “Text me if you need an emergency exit. One text and I’ll fake a roommate crisis.”
I roll my eyes but squeeze her arm gratefully. “Thanks. Now try to be invisible.”
I settle at my table, arranging my textbooks and notes in an artful display of studiousness. I check my reflection in my phone’s camera, tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, and try to calm my racing pulse.
The bell above the door chimes, and I look up.
And there he is.
Luca Ravello walks into the café like he owns it, the ambient chatter dying as heads turn. Six-foot-three of raw masculine energy wrapped in a charcoal button-down that clings to his torso, sleeves rolled to expose tanned forearms corded with veins. His dark hair, artfully tousled with those distinguished silver temples, makes my fingertips ache to touch it. The scent of his cologne—sandalwood and something dangerously masculine—reaches me before he does.
His blue eyes lock onto mine across the room, pupils dilating slightly. A slow smile curves his full lips, the kind that promises sin and satisfaction in equal measure. The temperature in the room rises ten degrees.
My mouth goes dry, a delicious shiver racing down my spine and pooling low in my belly. What have I gotten myself into?
Chapter 8
Luca
I seeher the moment I step through the door.
The bell above me chimes, announcing my entrance, but I barely notice. My attention is fixed on Lily Moore, tucked away at a corner table with her books spread around her like props in a play we both know she’s performing. The cashmere sweater she’s wearing clings to her curves in a way that makes my mouth water. Pink. Soft. Like her.
She looks up, those innocent blue eyes widening when they meet mine, the kind of eyes that have never seen a man’s darkest appetites. A blush blooms across her cheeks like spilled wine on silk—Christ, she’s so fucking young—and I feel my cock twitch behind my zipper. My fingers itch to grip that delicate jaw, force those virgin lips apart, and claim what no man has tasted before. Something I should control.
But I won’t.
I move through the café with practiced ease, aware of the eyes following me. I’m used to it. The way people stare, the conversations that falter when I enter a room. Power has a presence that can’t be hidden, no matter how casual the clothes or setting.
Her scent hits me as I approach—vanilla and something floral that makes my mouth water, like I could devour her in one bite. She nervously tucks a strand of dark hair behind her ear, the movement pulling her sweater tight across her breasts. The pearl earring catches the light—expensive, tasteful, daddy’s perfect little princess who’s never been properly defiled. Yet.
“Is this seat taken?” I ask, my voice dropping an octave, though we both know I’m sitting regardless of her answer. I want to see those blue eyes up close when they dilate with fear. Or desire.
“No,” she breathes, shifting her textbooks to make more room. “I mean, it’s yours if you want it.”
I slide into the chair across from her, observing how her pulse flutters visibly at the base of her throat. That spot where I’d like to press my lips, feel her life force jumping beneath my tongue.
“Algebra?” I nod toward her textbook. “I remember those days.”
"Not my favorite,” she admits with a small smile. “But required.”
We fall into a brief silence. For the first time in years, I find myself unsure what to say next. This girl—this teenager—has somehow managed to disarm me with nothing but a pink sweater and wide eyes.
I lean forward slightly, the leather of my chair creaking beneath me, and lower my voice to a rumble that won’t carry beyond our intimate bubble. “Tell me something, Lily. Do you typically flirt with your father’s associates? Batting those innocent eyes while they choke on their drink?”
Her cheeks flame crimson against the cream of her skin, the blush spreading down her slender neck like watercolor on expensive paper. But her eyes—those vast blue pools—dance with unmistakable mischief beneath long lashes. A giggleescapes her lips—Christ, a giggle like spun sugar—and she leans in too, mirroring my posture until I can count the light freckles dusting her nose, smell the jasmine in her shampoo.
“No,” she whispers, her breath warm against my jaw, voice honeyed and conspiratorial as if sharing a delicious secret. Her teeth catch her bottom lip for just a moment. “I made an exception for you.”
My cock hardens against my thigh, straining painfully against expensive Italian wool at her unexpected boldness. The sweet-faced college girl in her pink cashmere has fangs, and Christ, I want to feel them sink into my skin.
“Why me?” I ask, voice rougher than intended. “What made me worth the exception?”
She shrugs one delicate shoulder, the movement causing her sweater to slip just slightly, revealing a constellation of freckles across her collarbone that I instantly want to trace with my tongue. “You didn’t look at me like I was just the Governor’s daughter. Everyone else treats me like I’m made of glass, or worse, like I’m just an extension of my father.” Her eyes lock onto mine, pupils dilating. “You looked at me like you wanted to devour me whole.”
And I do. I want to spread those virgin thighs and feast until she’s sobbing my name, until that pristine image her father has cultivated is shattered beyond repair. Not the political prop, not daddy’s innocent princess, but a woman writhing beneath me, marked as mine in ways that would destroy us both.
“What about you?” I ask, redirecting the conversation like a shark circling toward fresher prey. “Tell me about Lily Moore when she’s not being the perfect daughter at political functions. What do you do for fun?”
