Page 8 of My Puckin' Luck
Suddenly, I race for my laptop and type in some notes in my idea file as the hammering and noise continues overhead. As a writer I find inspiration everywhere, and questions surrounding Saint’s life feeds my imagination like crazy.
“Maybe Saint is a muse?” That’s all he would ever be for me. No sense getting my hopes up about our time together at the event tonight.
5
THE DEVIL
SAINT
I hate these things—theblack bow tie strangling my neck. I slip a finger between the tight bond of my shirt collar to my skin and tug. At the top of my shit list though are these galas that Mom wrangles me into attending a few times a year.
This one tonight is different, as the fundraiser actually supports a cause near to my heart. The one Mom started after my father passed away, Stroke Effects Families Emergency Fund, is a worthy venture, in honor of Dad’s memory. I’ve already donated a quarter million.
The money in my trust fund is more than I could spend in five lifetimes. My father earned it all with his blood, sweat, and tears. Building his own successful tech firm brick by brick, only to die too young after a stroke and heart attack, leaving it all to a family trust. I revered him.
My mother? Not so much, for good reason. When I was six and caught her with a?—
“There you are. I thought you’d never make it.” My little sister, Esme, practically drapes herself all over me in her greeting. Her pink satin gown rides too low, her cleavage embarrassingly on display. She’s clearly taking advantage of the open bar and forgetting we’re not exactly pals, considering she’smy half-sister, the product of an affair my mother had. A fact my father chose to somehow overlook. I don’t know how he could do it. I couldn’t.
“Slow down, Es. Mother wouldn’t like it if you make a spectacle of yourself,” I warn with a grimace and pull her off of me. Her Marilyn Monroe wig almost tangles on my silver cuff link in the process.
Then again, she and Mom are tight, two of a kind, cut from the same Hollywood mold of high-maintenance, catty women. They hold a special animosity towards the fact that I’m involved insemi-professional hockey, not that they would be any more impressed if I played professionally.
“You’re in a devilish mood. Fitting considering your costume.” She cackles. “Maybe you should find a woman to play with for the night. That’s what you’re best at, isn’t it?” It’s always a fight with her or with Mom or both. But I don’t care about their opinions. I live on my own terms.
“Not tonight. I have a date with someone special.” I grab two flutes of champagne from a server’s tray as they pass by, and I leave her gaping in my wake.
Tonight I am not Barbara St. James’ playboy good-for-nothing son—her words, not mine—but I’m a sexy devil in a custom all-black tuxedo, and I’m cocky enough to admit it.
A devilish mask of red and black leather fits across my eyes only. Red horns in my hair and black leather wings hanging off my shoulders complete the look. Misty did well, putting this together for me. And I have a date with the angel who just walked through the door. One look and half of me wants to cover her up so other men don’t ogle her curves. The other half has my chest puffing with pride to be seen with her.
For fun, Misty made us promise not to see each other before the gala, so we’d be surprised. Anastasia posted pics on her social media profile, though, which I quickly copied to keep onmy phone. Yeah, I secretly stalk her there and have since the day we met.
She’s beautiful, an ethereal-like creature calling to me with her golden eyes peeking through her mask. And I’m the devil to tempt her. The bad boy takes the good girl, an old tale of time. Only I falter on the way to her. What exactly is my play here? What am I going for? A night of pleasure lost between her thick, gorgeous thighs? Something tells me one night wouldn’t be enough.
I don’t have any answers or a plan. I just know my feet continue to carry me to her like she’s the magnet at the center of the universe. Irresistible, like the clouds open and rays of sunlight shine upon a stunning angel. All clad in white lace, standing to the left of the entrance, she appears timid, like she’d rather fade into the wallpaper.
A rare beauty like that shouldn’t shrink into the background. I’m the perfect guy to usher her out of her corner.
My eyes explore her body freely, being partially hidden behind this red mask. Yes, she’s just my type, too, and she’s mine tonight. It takes a nanosecond to decide that.
I glide up to her, smooth as fuck, like a suave spy, offering her the glass of champagne. Her eyes like a warm velvety brown punctuate her vulnerability, fluttering up to me. Her dark hair, her body—all of it does it for me.
“Thank you. How charming of you.” She takes the glass and sips. Red lips smile broadly, with a giggle and a hint of nervousness that floats into my ears.
Is she afraid of me? Afraid of how good I would give it to her?
She should be.
I can’t contain my smile. I’m a giddy devil and have to keep myself in check—and my cock from busting through my zipper.
It’s the thrill of pursuing. The hunt that drives me. The reward that I claim if she gives in to my tempting dare.
But… Hell. She’s also Misty’s best friend. And while a night with her would undoubtedly be my undoing, I have to remember I asked her here as a favor. My head is so screwed up about this.
“You look handsome tonight.” She pays me a compliment. Like an idiot, I realize I haven’t said a word yet. “A handsome devil.”
“And you are a stunning angel.”
