Page 33 of The Bad Boy Rule

The undeniable roar of his motorcycle echoes down the road, and my chest sags in a flood of relief.

Thank God.

Him actually being on time might be the one andonlything that goes right tonight.

I’m already preparing for the absolute worst, hence my anxiety being through the roof despite wearing this insanely gorgeous dress and having my makeup professionally done,which usually always makes nights like this slightly more bearable.

There’s no rational reason for my pulse to skitter so rapidly as I watch Saint pull up to the valet stand on his motorcycle, sleek, black, and gleaming beneath the sun that’s setting behind the clouds.

It definitely has nothing to do with the way that he looks in the custom Saint Laurent tux, tattoos crawling up his throat and painting his skin in a way that nearly feels unholy. The dark ink peeks out from beneath his cuffs as he reaches for the key and cuts the engine, the fabric of his sleeves tightening around his biceps.

My mouth isn’t dry because of him, right? No, it’s simply because of my nerves.

I’ve never been a great liar, even to myself.

Saint Devereaux is the forbidden fruit. The very thing that tempted Eve in the garden, and I wonder, would he be as deadly as I imagine?

His dark, molten gaze connects with mine as he swings a leg off his bike and stands at full height, handing the keys to the valet attendant.

I allow myself only a few seconds to look, imagining that he’s not the asshole I know him to be, and then I’m going right back to hating him.

He makes it disgustingly easy to dislike him, but that doesn’t mean that I can’t acknowledge the very unfortunate fact that he’s hot. Ungodly hot.

With his dark hair falling in his eyes from the slick-backed style he has tonight, the dark stubble shadowing his sharp jaw, and black ink peeking out wherever his tanned skin shows, he looks more like a mafia man out of one of Maisie’s stupid romance novels than he does a hockey player.

And honestly, I’m not sure which version is worse.

The tux fits him as if it was made for him and not simply tailored to fit. He has the kind of body that fills out a three-piece suit in a way that should be a sin.

I’m still staring when he finally turns my way, his eyes finding mine and catching me in the act of shamelessly drinking him in.

Shit.

His lips tilt into a cocky smirk, and he lifts a brow as he shoves his hands into the pockets of his pants and saunters toward me.

I steel my spine, sucking in a trembling breath while lifting my chin, hoping that my nerves aren’t written on my face.

“Golden Girl.” His voice is a low, rough, decadent timbre that unleashes a foreign feeling in the pit of my stomach, and I push it down, along with the shiver that threatens to rack my spine.

I swallow roughly. “Satan.”

His lips twitch. “Nice dress.” I feel his eyes everywhere as they travel down the length of my body in an unhurried perusal. Each place his gaze touches feels hot, like my skin would burn if I brought my fingers to it.

I’m obviously having a mental breakdown after all the stress leading up to tonight.

That’s the only reason I’m feeling so flustered and on edge right now.

Clearing my throat, I glance up at him. “Thanks. You… clean up nice.”

“Nice? Sunday school clothes are nice. There’s nothing nice about me, remember? I look hot as fuck in this monkey suit.” He brings a hand to his chest, fingers splayed over his heart, clutching it as if he’s wounded. “It’s okay to admit it. I won’t tell anyone the bad boy from the slums turns you on.”

And there it is.

The cocky, self-assured ego so big it barely fits into whatever room he’s walked into.

“Your lack of humility never ceases to surprise me. You’d think that I’d be used to the stuff that comes out of your mouth by now, but yet, here we are,” I retort with an eye roll before dragging my gaze to the entrance of the restaurant. “Are you ready? We’re going to be late, and there is nothing my father hates more than me being late.”

His snark is immediate, his stupid grin spreading into a shit-eating smile. “What’s that saying about apples never falling far…”

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