Page 4 of Moonlit Temptation

“Listen,” Archer continued. “Saint flies home tomorrow. I doubt he’s going out since he hates flying with a hangover, but I know he’d be happy to meet you for dinner tonight. He adores you. You’re like his little sister.”

I hated when people said things like that. Saint might’ve been family for my brother, but he wasn’t for me.

It wasn’t very brotherly of Saint to spread my thighs and bruise my flesh in my late-night fantasies.

And it was very unsisterly of me to wish he’d corner me when we found ourselves alone in my father’s kitchen, trapping me between his hard chest and the hard wall so he could lift my skirt, inch his hands up my thighs, and squeeze my ass before finding my wet, awaiting entrance.

Very, very unsisterly indeed.

“I’ll think about it,” I told Archer coyly. Couldn’t let him off that easily. I really wanted new wheels for my skateboard.

“Mady—”

“Text me his number, I don’t have it after I updated my phone. Gotta go, bye.” I hung up before he could say anything.

I clenched my phone.

Saint was in London.

How embarrassing would it be to ask him to join me for dinner because my brother abandoned me? Not to mention, if this was his last night, I was sure he’d rather be doing something else than entertaining his best friend’s sister. Or maybe he’d rather be doing someone.

He’d meet me, though. Saint was always there when I needed him, but what if I ruined his night?

Ruin his night to make mine better. Was I that selfish?

I thought of Saint’s face, his voice that caused goosebumps just from memory.

Yes, I was. When it came to Saint, irrevocably.

I knew Archer offered because he didn’t want me to be alone, afraid of what I might get into, but he should’ve thought about that before he abandoned me.

If Archer wanted to throw his best friend to me like a lifeline, who was I to say no?

I never turned down a present. Especially not one as alluring as Saint Delacore.

Which was why when my phone went off with a message from Archer, I didn’t hesitate to text the number he sent over.

Saint Delacore was walking sin in a custom suit.

He prowled through the restaurant like a lion who had already feasted. Self-assured steps carried him at a languid pace. Never one to rush, he liked people waiting on him.

Watching him walk toward where I sat at a small, candlelit table with a satin cloth over it, I was unable to suppress the nervous flutters that stirred in anticipation at the sight of him.

I’d known him my entire life and couldn’t remember a time when this hadn’t happened.

And I drank him in like the greedy girl I was.

At twenty-seven, his lanky body had long since grown into one of a man. Lean cut muscles that pulled at his jacket’s shoulders as his arms swung with purposeful ease at his sides.

And while his body was a finely crafted vessel, kept in shape by countless miles ran and endless hours spent in the gym, it was Saint’s face that held my attention.

He had the face of a fallen angel, beautiful and untrustworthy.

Everything about him was dark.

Black on black suit.

Deep brown hair that was forever a mess of tousled locks, like he spent too many hours running his fingers through it in frustration.

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