Page 5 of Saint (The Divine Ruin #2)
Lily
The moment his fingertips—rough and warm—graze my bare knee under the crisp white tablecloth, electricity shoots from that single point of contact straight to my core.
My breath catches as carbonated bubbles burn the back of my throat.
I grip the delicate crystal stem of my water glass tighter, forcing my face to remain placid while my pulse thunders in my ears.
Across from me, Daddy drones on about the upcoming election cycle, utterly oblivious to the inferno igniting beneath his very nose.
“The polls are looking favorable, but we can’t take anything for granted,” my father says, his gold cufflinks catching the candlelight as he cuts into his bloody ribeye with practiced ease.
The rich, metallic scent of the rare meat wafts across the table, mingling with the heady aroma of Luca’s cologne.
I make a mental note to scold Daddy later about his overconsumption of red meat—his cardiologist would have a fit if he could see the crimson pool forming on the white porcelain plate.
I steal a glance at Luca Ravello sitting across from me, his impossibly blue eyes—the color of deep ocean water at sunrise—focused on my father with respectful attention.
The charcoal suit stretches across his broad shoulders, the fabric straining slightly when he shifts, hinting at the hard planes of muscle beneath.
My mouth goes dry as I slowly walk my fingers onto his palm, tracing small circles against his warm skin, imagining those strong hands gripping my thighs, pinning my wrists above my head.
His expression never changes as he replies to my father, “I couldn’t agree more, Governor. Public sentiment is fickle. My team is prepared to increase contributions to your campaign fund as we discussed.”
But beneath the white tablecloth, his thumb traces the sensitive skin between my fingers before capturing mine in a grip both possessive and tender.
Heat blooms low in my belly, spreading like wildfire through my veins.
I run my tongue slowly across my bottom lip, savoring the tart-sweet remnants of cherry reduction sauce, letting my teeth graze the plump flesh.
His eyes darken instantly, pupils dilating as they lock onto my mouth with such raw hunger that my thighs instinctively press together beneath my silk dress.
For one breathless moment, the air between us crackles with dangerous possibility.
“More tea, Lily?” my father asked, breaking the spell.
“No, thank you, Dad. I have an early study session tomorrow, and I’ll need to leave soon,” I reply, withdrawing my hand from Luca’s with reluctance.
“Always the dedicated student,” my father beams with pride.
“Speaking of studying,” I say casually, twirling my fork between my fingers, “I've found the most perfect little coffee shop near my apartment in SoHo. Mystic Mocha. They make this incredible lavender latte that powers me through my Saturday afternoon study sessions.”
Luca’s eyebrow raised slightly. “SoHo? That’s a vibrant neighborhood for a young woman.”
"I love it there,” I continue, letting my voice linger on the word ‘love’ while holding Luca’s gaze for a heartbeat longer than necessary. “Especially on Saturday afternoons around two." I trace the rim of my water glass with my index finger, leaving a faint smudge on the crystal.
Still completely oblivious, my father checks his watch, the one his own father gave him when he won his first election. “It’s getting late, sweetheart. Do you need Thomas to drive you home? The streets aren’t safe for a young woman after dark, even in your neighborhood.”
“I can manage,” I say, placing my cream linen napkin on the table and rising with deliberate slowness, arching my back just enough to accentuate the curve where my waist meets my hips.
I steady myself against the mahogany chair, praying I won’t trip over the Louboutins I’ve only worn once before.
“The car service app is already open on my phone.”
I round the table to hug my father, inhaling his familiar cologne—that distinctive blend of sandalwood and bergamot he’s worn since I was a kid. “Thank you for dinner. Love you.”
Then I turn to Luca, extending my hand with practiced grace, my manicured fingertips angled downward. His massive palm envelops mine completely, calloused yet smooth, sending electric currents racing up my arm and settling like warm honey in my chest.
“It was a pleasure meeting you, Mr. Ravello,” I say, my voice dropping half an octave, each syllable dripping like nectar from my lips.
“The pleasure was entirely mine, Ms. Moore,” he replies, his Brooklyn accent softening the formal words.
As I pull my hand away, his fingertips linger against my palm, sending a delicious shiver up my spine.
I catch his eye and give him the subtlest wink, watching his jaw clench with barely restrained desire.
I turn toward the exit, feeling his hungry gaze burning into me as I walk away, my silk dress whispering against my thighs with each deliberate step.
I must be out of my mind teasing a man nineteen years older than me—a man whose powerful hands could probably break me in half or bring me to ecstasy with equal skill.
As I round the corner, I press my thighs together to quell the throbbing ache between them.
My nipples tighten against the lace of my bra as I imagine his hot mouth claiming mine, his weight pinning me against satin sheets.
Tomorrow at the coffee shop, I’ll wear that pink cashmere sweater that leaves little to the imagination.
Whatever happens, I know one thing for sure: the hours until two o’clock will be the longest of my life.