Page 13 of Saint
"And what do you think I expect, Lily?"
“I don’t know.” She licks her lips, the gesture unconscious and all the more erotic for it. “But I’m curious to find out.”
The car turns onto Park Avenue, and she slides closer to me on the leather seat. Whether intentional or not, the movement causes her thigh to press against mine. I feel the heat of her through my slacks, and it takes every ounce of control not to place my hand on that smooth skin.
“Curious enough to come up to my penthouse with a man your father would have shot on sight if he knew his intentions?”
She looks at me through those long lashes. “What are your intentions, Mr. Ravello?”
I lean in, close enough to smell that intoxicating perfume mixing with something uniquely her. “Nothing good, baby girl. Nothing fucking good at all.”
We ride in silence for several blocks, the tension between us thickening with each passing minute. She’s fidgeting now, crossing and uncrossing her legs, her fingers playing with the hem of her dress. The innocent nervousness of the gesture contrasts with the sinful dress, driving me insane.
“Stop that,” I command softly.
Her hand freezes. “Stop what?”
"Playing with your dress. You’re making me think about what’s underneath.”
Her eyes widen, pupils dilating until they nearly swallow the blue. “Maybe that’s the point.”
Jesus Christ. This girl is going to be the death of me.
When we arrive at my building, I don’t wait for my driver to open the door. I step out and extend my hand to her, watching as she hesitates for just a moment before placing her small hand in mine. The doorman nods respectfully as we enter, his eyes carefully averted from Lily’s legs.
In the private elevator, I stand behind her, close enough that she can feel my breath on her neck but not touching her. Not yet. She shivers, and I watch goosebumps rise on her exposed skin.
“Cold?” I ask, knowing damn well it’s not the temperature making her tremble.
“No,” she whispers, and the single word contains multitudes.
The elevator opens directly into my penthouse, and I’m rewarded with her sharp intake of breath as she takes in the floor-to-ceiling windows showcasing the Manhattan skyline. The lights of the city spread below us like a carpet of stars.
“This is... incredible,” she says, stepping forward.
“The view’s better from here,” I tell her, my eyes never leaving her silhouette against the city lights.
I watch her notice the dining table set for two, candles already lit, a bottle of champagne chilling in an ice bucket. Chef Marcel appears from the kitchen, nodding respectfully.
“Everything is prepared as requested, Mr. Ravello."
“Thank you, Marcel. We’ll serve ourselves.”
He disappears discreetly, and I hear the elevator doors close behind him. We’re alone now.
“You planned this,” Lily says, turning to face me. “Before I even agreed to meet you.”
I move toward her, stopping just shy of touching. “I don’t leave things to chance, baby girl. Not when I want something as badly as I want you.”
I pull out her chair, watching as she sits, the dress riding up her thighs. I pour champagne into her flute, my fingers brushing hers as I hand it to her.
“To unexpected pleasures,” I toast, clinking my glass against hers.
Throughout dinner, she tells me about her studies—literature and political science, a combination that makes me smile. She’s smarter than her father gives her credit for, passionate about writers I’ve never heard of, and political theories I find myself wanting to debate just to see the fire in her eyes.
“Why do you want to be mayor?” she asks suddenly, catching me off guard.
I consider lying, giving her the sanitized version I feed to reporters, but something about those blue eyes makes me want to give her a piece of the truth.
