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
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