Page 24 of The Fall of Sin (The Sins of Saint 2)

“Tell me.”

“Tell you what?”

“Why you don’t eat red meat.”

Uncomfortable being the topic of conversation, I shifted in my seat and cleared my throat. “Have you ever suffered a hangover so bad you thought you’d die, then after that you get sick to your stomach whenever you think of the alcohol you had that night?”

Saint didn’t react or respond.

“That’s how I feel about red meat. I was eleven years old and just moved in with a new foster family. They gave me rotten meat, and I was sick for days.” I eased my fingers around the stem of my glass. “After that, I couldn’t stomach eating red meat again.”

Silence settled, and Saint merely studied me with his intense stare, as if he could see the memory, reaching to the far corners of my mind and experiencing it for himself. It was unnerving how vulnerable he made me feel simply by staring at me. He didn’t need to say a word or take a breath. All he had to do was look at me.

I was sure he would push this conversation further, try to dig deeper, but he didn’t. He simply reached out to the platter of food. “Let’s start with this, then. Cured duck breast and goat cheese on a slice of bruschetta.” He shrugged. “We can go slow and work our way up to the finocchiona.”

I had no idea what finocchiona was, but the way the word rolled over his tongue, slipping past his lips with his already sensual accent, had me biting the inside of my cheek.

“Finocchiona is pork, in case you were wondering.” His eyes gleamed with amusement, again as if he could read my mind.

Saint leaned over the table between us and held the bruschetta in his hand, and for a second, I hesitated, our eyes locked on each other. All it took was a moment, and the air between us thickened, my body increasingly aware of his animal magnetism drawing me closer, seducing me with every passing second.

“Go on,” he urged. “Try it.”

I eyed him for a moment longer and moved closer, opening my mouth.

Saint pulled back an inch and narrowed his eyes. “Bite, and I’ll return the favor. But fair warning, when I bite, I draw blood.”

“Great. So, you’re—”

“Shut up.” He brought his hand closer again. “Now, taste.”

The bruschetta touched my lips, and I opened, never taking my eyes off his. I took a small bite, the crunch of toasted bread the only sound between us. The bold taste of cured duck came through strongly, but the tart, earthy taste of the cheese created such a delicate balance it wasn’t overpowering.

I swallowed, and his gaze explored down my throat. The indigo color of his irises darkened, and I took another bite from the bread he held in his hand. Not because I wanted more food, but because I wanted him to keep on staring at me like he was famished for a taste. A taste of me.

He sat back and popped the remaining piece of bread into his mouth, drawing all my attention to his lips. It reminded me of what it felt like having them against my skin, his tongue lapping at my heated flesh.

I clenched my thighs and crossed my legs under the table, the soft fabric of my dress brushing against my now sensitive skin.

Flushed and ardent, I took the last sip of my champagne. The ice clinked as Saint reached for the bottle, refilling my glass like a gentleman. But I had learned the hard way that Saint wasn’t a gentleman when it came to taking what he wanted.

He put the bottle of champagne back into the metal ice bucket. “Do you like it?”

I licked my lips, the taste of alcohol and food still lingering on my tongue. “I’m not sure. It’s rather bold. Strong. Unlike anything I’ve tasted before. I’m not sure it’s for me, though.”

“An acquired taste, perhaps?”

“Maybe.” I swallowed.

“Then you only make your final verdict after you’ve sampled it some more. Who knows, you might come to the realization that you have a palate foruniquetastes, rather than the mundane flavors you’re used to.”

One didn’t need a degree to know we were no longer talking about Italian bread or poultry. The hunger that reflected in his eyes wasn’t for the food laid out for us. And if I was completely honest with myself, I’d admit that the craving that burned within me wasn’t for a dietary need either.

The air around us was palpable, laden with toxic desire that penetrated my bones. The silence became louder, deafening, my lungs struggling to inhale deep enough. Heat spread from my cheeks, down the back of my neck, and a single drop of perspiration slipped down my shoulder blades. The summer heat merged with the flame of anticipation Saint so expertly lit in my core. There was no need for him to touch me. All he had to do was sit there, stare at me with the kind of hunger so strong, it invoked an appetite that would lead to overindulgence.

“What are you thinking, Mila?”

For the first time, I was able to break eye contact. “Nothing.”

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