Page 12 of Tempting Kat (Lust & Luxury #2)

Conrad

I 've always considered patience a virtue, but waiting for Katarina makes me feel like a goddamn predator stalking prey.

I arrive at Euphoria forty minutes before her shift starts. Santiago nods as I take my usual corner spot at the bar.

The door finally swings open with enough force to rattle the hinges. There she is—my obsession in torn fishnets and combat boots, storming in twenty minutes late.

“Fucking perverts!” Katarina snarls, slamming her bag on the bar.

“Some greasy asshole on the 42 bus had his hand on my ass the whole fucking ride.

When I called him out, the dickhead pretended like he was innocent.

Like, I know what 'accidentally' grabbing a handful feels like versus copping a deliberate feel, you know?”

She's talking to Mia behind the bar, not me, but my vision narrows anyway. My jaw locks so tight I taste metal. Some worthless piece of shit put his hands on what's mine. The glass in my grip is close to shattering.

“Then this bitch next to me had the nerve to tell me I should 'dress more appropriately' if I don't want attention. Like, sorry my existence offends you, Karen. Not everyone wants to look like they shop exclusively at Boring Bitches R Us.”

My eye twitches. My free hand forms a fist under the bar, knuckles white. I could find him. It wouldn't be difficult. The 42 route, the time she takes it—I could have my driver follow it tomorrow, identify the man, and make sure he never touches another woman again.

But that's not enough.

Katarina shouldn't be on public transportation at all. The thought of her pressed against strangers, vulnerable to whatever filth decides to violate her space—it makes something primal and violent rise in me.

After tomorrow, she won't set foot on another fucking bus. I'll make sure of it. She'll fight me on it, of course. My little kitty kat always does. But I've built my reputation by taking what I want, and what I want is her safe, protected, and completely under my control.

She finally notices me watching her, her emerald eyes flashing with recognition. The corner of her mouth quirks up in that smirk that makes me want to take a bite out of her ass.

“Well, if it isn't Mr. Dark and Broody,” she calls out. “You planning on drinking that, or just glaring at it until it apologizes?”

“I was considering which is more entertaining—watching you make a scene or this watered-down excuse for bourbon.” I take a deliberate sip, keeping my eyes locked on hers. “Your mouth is going to get you in trouble one of these days, Katarina.”

“Promises, promises.” She rolls her eyes and turns to Mia. “I got it from here. Go home to your cats or whatever.”

“They're dogs, actually,” Mia mutters, already untying her apron. “And maybe say thank you for covering your late ass again?”

Katarina flashes a smile that's all teeth. “Thanks, babe. I'll make it up to you.”

As Mia gathers her things, Katarina punches in her code at the register and she continues ranting.

“Seriously though, what is it with men thinking they own public space? Like their dick gives them squatter's rights to my ass?”

“Maybe they need a lesson in what happens when they touch what belongs to someone else.” My voice drops an octave, the threat unmistakable.

She snorts, grabbing bottles from the speed rail and rearranging them. “Right, because I'm property. Sorry to break it to you, but this ass—” she turns and slaps her own curved backside, “—is independently owned and operated.”

My cock stiffens at the display.

“That's what you think,” I mutter, tracking her movements as she works her way down the bar, starting to serve drinks to the other patrons.

For the next few hours, I nurse my glass, watching her like a hawk.

Every smile she gives some other bastard feels like a personal affront.

Every time she laughs at someone else's joke, my grip tightens on my glass.

But she's deliberately avoiding me, making sure to serve everyone else first, only glancing my way when she thinks I'm not looking.

The bar gets busier as the night wears on. A group of college kids stumbles in, already half-drunk, demanding shots. Katarina handles them with ease. Her hands are small but confident, dexterous in a way that has me imagining them wrapped around my cock.

It's almost closing time when she finally approaches, wiping her hands on a bar rag. The place has thinned out, just a few stragglers and me.

“You planning on sitting there all night?” she asks, leaning her hip against the bar.

“Until you decide to acknowledge me, yes.” I take a slow perusal of her as she stands in front of me. “You've been avoiding me.”

“I've been working,” she corrects, but the flush on her cheeks tells me I'm right. “Some of us have jobs that don't involve brooding in corners. Another?”

“Please.” I slide my glass toward her, our fingers brushing.

She pours the bourbon, her eyes never meeting mine. “You know, most people would take the hint when someone's avoiding them.”

“I'm not most people.”

“Yeah, I'm getting that impression.” She caps the bottle and sets it back on the shelf. “So, are we going to talk about it?”

“About what?” I play dumb, enjoying the flash of irritation that crosses her face.

“About this.” She reaches into her back pocket and pulls out a folded napkin—my napkin—flattening it on the bar between us. My name stares up at me, the ink slightly smudged from being handled.

“Conrad,” she says, tapping the napkin. “Is that even your real name? Or just what you're trying to brand on my ass?”

The corner of my mouth twitches. “It's my real name.”

She snorts. “What's the deal with leaving me napkin art? You couldn't just ask for my number like a normal person?”

“Nothing about what I want from you is normal, Katarina.”

Her cheeks flush slightly, but she doesn't back down.

“And what exactly do you want from me, Conrad?” The way she says my name—like she's testing it out, rolling it around her tongue—makes my cock throb. I have to bite my tongue so I don’t make a reference that she did the same thing when she called me Mr. Gallo last week.

“Everything,” I say simply.

She laughs, but it's edged with nervousness. “Wow, not setting the bar too high or anything.”

“I never do things halfway.”

“So, I see.” She tucks the napkin back into her pocket. “Well, Conrad, I hate to break it to you, but I'm not for sale.”

“Are you sure about that?” I lean forward, invading her space just enough to make her stiffen. “Everything has a price, Katarina. Everyone does. The only question is whether the buyer can afford it.”

Her eyes widen, her confident smirk faltering for just a moment. She swallows hard, and I track the movement of her throat, imagining my teeth there.

“That's—that's not true,” she stammers, backing up half a step. “Some things aren't for sale.”

“Name one thing,” I challenge, holding her gaze. “One thing that couldn't be bought for the right price.”

She opens her mouth, then closes it, clearly struggling to find an answer that doesn't sound na?ve.

“That's what I thought.”

The next night, I'm already seated in the plush wingback chair, waiting. The room is exactly as I specified—dim lighting, temperature precisely seventy-two degrees, and a small table with chilled water.

I check my watch. She's five minutes late. My knee bounces impatiently as I stare at the ornate opening in the wall. Will she show up? Has my little game at the bar scared her off?

The thought of her not coming makes something dangerous rise in my chest.

Just as I'm about to pull out my phone and make some calls, I hear movement on the other side of the wall. My body instantly goes rigid with anticipation.

The intercom crackles to life.

“Hello?” Her voice fills the room, slightly breathless like she rushed to get here.

“Hello, Katarina.” I keep my voice low, controlled, though my heart is racing like a fucking teenager's.

She scoffs, the sound crackling through the speaker. “I see we're still using my full name even though no one does.”

“I'm not no one.” The words come out harder than I intended, an edge of possession I can't quite hide.

“Right,” she drawls. “You're Mr. Six-Figure-Peepshow. How could I forget?”

I watch as her legs appear through the opening, today clad in fishnet stockings beneath a short black skirt that barely covers her ass. My mouth goes dry at the sight.

“I told you to wear the shorts again,” I say, keeping my voice neutral despite the fire raging through my veins.

“And I decided I didn't feel like it.” She shifts, crossing one ankle over the other. “What are you going to do, fire me?”

I lean forward, elbows on my knees. “I could.”

“But you won't.” There's a smugness in her voice that makes my cock throb painfully. “You want me too much.”

“Don't test me, kitten.” I keep my voice dangerously soft. “You have no idea what I'm capable of.”

“Ooh, scary,” she mocks, but I can hear the slight hitch in her breath. “What's on the agenda tonight? More leg massages?”

“What do you want?” I ask, keeping my voice deliberately neutral.

She lets out a sharp laugh. “Oh, I get a choice? That's surprising. I figured for the money you're paying me I'm supposed to shut up and look pretty.”

I lean forward; my eyes fixed on those fishnet-covered legs. “You'd never do that. And I'd never ask you to.” The thought of Katarina silent and docile is as wrong as water flowing uphill. “Now tell me what you want, Katarina.”

The intercom goes silent. I can almost picture her on the other side, those full lips pressed together as she considers her answer. The seconds stretch into minutes, the only sound in the room is my own measured breathing.

Finally, her voice comes through, softer than before. “I want to know who you are.”

I run my thumb along my lower lip, considering her request. “Will it change anything?”

Another pause. “No.” Then, “Yes.” She sighs. “I don't know.”