Page 12 of Moonlit Temptation

It was all couples and partners.

And then there were the handful that sat close together, watching other couples.

I wasn’t sure how I missed it before, but almost all the tables in this room only had two chairs. Even the booths were designed to only fit two bodies comfortably.

Some empty tables had a third chair in the mix, and I couldn’t help but think of three people coming here together.

Was the air suddenly broken in here? It was becoming rather warm. I pulled at the neckline of my dress.

“What the fuck?” Saint breathed out the husky words, still twisted around in his chair, taking in the scene as a man fed another man a chocolate-covered strawberry, making him suck the juices off his fingers when he was done.

“You picked this place,” I accused as a steady beat of heat found rhythm between my legs.

“A buddy of mine told me about this place the other day.” He turned around to give me a glare, though his pupils were wide. “Said it was perfect for a night with a woman.”

“I mean, clearly.” New noises joined the moans, and I was convinced Saint and I were locked in a special kind of hell.

God, my skin felt tight. My body restless. I had to get out of here or?—

Saint pushed away from the table so fast, the chair fell down behind him. Every muscle in his body was pulled taut with tension as he threw down enough money to pay for the food we hadn’t yet ordered and turned to me. “I need a smoke.”

“You know smoking’s bad for you, right?” I watched as Saint put a cigarette between his lips and ignited it with the small lighter he pulled from his suit jacket.

His eyes closed in ecstasy as he took a drag, careful to blow the smoke away from me.

Casually pinching it between his fingers, Saint gave me a dry look. “You know, I don’t think anyone has ever mentioned that to me before. Thank you for your wisdom, Madelayne.”

I stuck my tongue out at him. The sarcasm was thick with this one.

We were outside a pub. After leaving the restaurant where sex was the main course, Saint and I stumbled onto the street in a daze. Our bodies tense and libidos charged.

No words were exchanged for several streets until we got here and Saint took out his well-loved pack of cigarettes, a bite to take the edge off.

Saint leaned against the wall, one of his legs bent at the knee so his expensive leather loafer was propped against the worn brick. He looked cool, badass with an air of no care as he stood there.

It reminded me of all the times I saw him smoking around town, same pose but simpler outfits.

But no matter if he was wearing a suit or his old uniform of band shirts and black jeans with a chain looped around his pocket and shit kicker boots, Saint still pulled off the gives-no-fucks vibes.

An intimidating mass of muscle that scowled at every passing person who walked a little too close to me.

“Can I have one?”

“No,” he said as he brought the cigarette back to his lips.

I jutted my lip out in a sullen pout.

“They’re bad for you, remember?” He inhaled the smoke with a smirk.

“You’re smoking one.”

“Yeah, well, I’m bad for you, too,” he mumbled as a group of loud drunks walked by, masking over his words.

“Wha—what?”

“I said, yeah, well, it’s not good for you to do.”

He took another drag, again conscious of where I was standing so he wasn’t exhaling smoke in my direction.

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