Page 4 of Saint (The Divine Ruin #2)

Luca

I can’t take my eyes off of her.

When Jackson invited me to dinner, I expected spreadsheets and policy talk, not the vice grip now tightening around my self-control.

The girl sitting across from me toys with her pearl earring, unaware of how the restaurant’s dim lighting catches in her honey-brown hair, how it falls in soft waves past bare shoulders that rise from a black Chanel dress cut just low enough to make a man’s mouth dry.

Her fingernails—short, unpolished, and oddly innocent—tap against crystal stemware while her wide eyes, the color of whiskey I’ve been drinking for longer than she’s been alive, occasionally flick up to meet mine.

Her presence transforms this routine meeting into something dangerous.

“Tourism is up fifteen percent since last quarter,” Jackson says, spreading his manicured hands like he personally stood at JFK’s arrivals gate with a welcome banner for each visitor. “But we need to address the congestion issues in Midtown before the holiday season hits us like a freight train.”

I nod, murmuring something about infrastructure while my attention remains locked on his daughter like a heat-seeking missile.

Lily sips her iced tea, beads of condensation sliding down the crystal tumbler to pool around her slender fingers, leaving glistening trails across her porcelain skin.

When she brings the glass to her lips, I’m transfixed by the way her plush mouth—painted the color of barely-ripe strawberries—closes around the black straw, the slight hollowing of her cheeks as she draws the liquid in, her throat working in a delicate ripple beneath skin so translucent I can trace the blue veins pulsing beneath.

“The hotel tax revenue could fund the infrastructure improvements,” I suggest, my voice steady despite the heat building under my collar. “My development team has a proposal that balances tourist appeal with resident quality of life.”

Jackson launches into his thoughts on tax allocation, his voice fading to white noise as Lily reaches for a calamari ring.

Her slender fingers pinch the golden-fried circle, dipping it with deliberate slowness into the creamy sauce.

She brings it to her mouth, parting those strawberry lips just enough to take a delicate bite.

The crisp sound of her teeth breaking through the tender flesh sends a jolt straight to my groin.

A pearl of aioli clings to her bottom lip, glistening under the candlelight like morning dew.

She captures it with the tip of her pink tongue, a languid sweep that leaves a subtle sheen across her mouth.

Her eyes flutter closed for just a moment—a silent expression of pleasure that makes my blood run hot.

Jesus Christ.

“What do you think, Luca?” Jackson asks, interrupting my inappropriate train of thought.

“I think your assessment is spot on,” I recover smoothly, having caught enough of his monologue to respond intelligently. “The subway extensions would certainly ease the Broadway district congestion.”

Lily shifts in her seat, leaning forward to reach for another appetizer.

The movement causes her dress to pull taut across her chest, the black silk molding to the delicate curves beneath like a second skin.

The shadowed valley between her breasts deepens, drawing my gaze like a magnet.

They’re perfect—round, high, and undoubtedly firm beneath that whisper of expensive fabric.

I imagine how they would feel against my palms, warm and yielding, the weight of them filling my hands as her rosy nipples pebble beneath my thumbs, her breath catching when I trace them with my tongue, tasting her skin like the finest champagne.

I’m going straight to hell.

“Lily’s professor actually wrote an interesting paper on urban mobility,” Jackson says proudly, straightening his monogrammed cuffs. “Tell Luca about it, sweetheart.”

She looks up, caught off guard. A flush spreads across her cheeks like watercolor on expensive paper, blooming beneath her skin. I wonder if it extends down her neck, across her collarbone, to the swell of flesh barely contained by black Chanel?—

“Professor Martinez believes the future of city transportation is in elevated pedestrian networks,” she says, her voice soft but surprisingly articulate, her teeth briefly catching her bottom lip between thoughts. “It would reduce street-level congestion while creating new commercial space."

“An interesting concept,” I reply, leaning toward her. "I’d love to hear more about it sometime.”

Her blush deepens. She returns to her iced tea, using the straw to push the lemon slice around the glass. The nervous gesture is oddly endearing, and I find myself wanting to put her at ease even as I fantasize about making her more nervous in entirely different ways.

“Lily’s considering a summer internship in Albany,” Jackson announces, swirling his twenty-year Macallan, the amber liquid catching the light like the flecks in his daughter’s eyes.

His silk tie—Republican red—shifts against his starched collar as he leans back, oblivious to the electric current running between his daughter and me.

“I’ve told her it would be an excellent experience before her senior year. ”

Something flashes across Lily’s face—a tightening at the corners of her strawberry mouth, a momentary hardening of those whiskey eyes—before she smooths it away like expensive lotion.

Her fingers clench around her napkin beneath the table where her father can’t see.

Interesting. The governor’s perfect porcelain doll has hairline cracks.

“And what are your thoughts on Albany?” I ask her directly, angling my body toward hers, effectively cutting Jackson from our private sphere.

She hesitates, her tongue darting out to moisten her lower lip. I track the movement like a predator. “I’m considering all my options,” she finally says, each word measured as precisely as the pearls around her slender neck.

Diplomatic answer. I admire her restraint even as I imagine testing its limits.

“The Ravello Foundation offers internships as well,” I say, sliding my business card across the white tablecloth until it touches her fingertips.

I savor the way Jackson stiffens beside me, his knuckles whitening around his tumbler.

“Our urban development initiatives might align with your. .. interests."

“Luca,” Jackson laughs, the sound brittle as thin ice over deep water. A vein pulses at his temple. “Are you trying to poach my daughter?”

Yes, but not in the way you think.

“Just offering alternatives,” I reply smoothly. “Diverse experience builds a stronger resume."

Lily’s eyes meet mine, a silent acknowledgment passing between us. She understands exactly what I’m doing—challenging her father’s authority, offering her an escape from his plans. She takes another sip of her tea, but this time, she maintains eye contact over the rim of her glass.

My cock strains against Italian wool, the rigid length trapped painfully against my thigh like a caged animal.

I shift in my chair, the subtle movement sending a delicious friction through my groin as I adjust myself beneath the crisp white tablecloth.

I’m forty-eight hours away from announcing my mayoral candidacy, sitting across from the governor whose endorsement I need.

All I can think about is the taste of his nineteen-year-old daughter’s skin against my tongue, the silk of her thighs wrapped around my waist, her innocent gasps turning to desperate moans as I claim every inch of her untouched body.

I’m a goddamn cliché—the powerful man lusting after a girl half his age.

But when she bites into a stuffed mushroom, her eyelashes flutter against her cheeks like dark butterflies.

The tip of her tongue catches a fleck of herbs at the corner of her mouth, and heat pulses through me in a slow, dangerous wave.

“The duck here is exceptional,” I tell her, letting my voice drop to a timbre that brushes against her skin like velvet. “Have you tried it before?”

She shakes her head, the movement sending a whisper of her jasmine perfume across the table. “This is my first time at Le Bernardin.”

First times. The words hang between us like ripe fruit waiting to be plucked. I imagine her skin flushed pink beneath my hands, her body arching as she discovers sensations she’s never felt before.

“Then you’re in for a treat,” I promise, letting my gaze caress the hollow of her throat where her pulse flutters like a captured bird.

Jackson clears his throat, perhaps sensing the shift in atmosphere. “Luca is being modest. He’s a regular here—knows the chef personally, don’t you?"

“Eric and I go back many years,” I confirm, reluctantly turning my attention back to the governor. "I’d be happy to introduce you both after dinner.”

As Jackson launches into another political topic, I notice Lily watching me with newfound curiosity. She’s more perceptive than her father, sensing the power dynamics at play. When she reaches for her water glass, her fingers brush against mine in what could be an accident but feels deliberate.

I’m playing with fire. The heat of it licks across my skin, pooling low in my abdomen. Jackson Moore could burn my ambitions to ash if he knew how I imagine his daughter’s lips parting under mine, the soft gasp I could draw from her throat with just one touch.

Or at least, he’d try.

But as Lily’s eyes meet mine again, holding for just a beat too long, I feel that familiar tightening in my chest, the slow drag of desire that makes rational thought blur at the edges.

Some hungers can’t be satisfied with power alone.