Page 17 of Tempting Kat (Lust & Luxury #2)

Katarina

T he leather seat of Conrad's fancy car feels like it's mocking me. Everything about this night is so fucked up I can barely wrap my head around it.

I shift uncomfortably, my thighs still sticky and my pussy throbbing from the most intense orgasms of my life. And no underwear. Because Conrad fucking Gallo ripped them off me and pocketed them like some kind of trophy.

Henry, Conrad's driver, keeps his eyes firmly on the road. Does he know what happened back there? Does he know his boss just tongue-fucked me into oblivion in a glorified gloryhole?

God, I hope not.

“We're almost there, Miss DeLuca,” Henry says, his voice perfectly professional, giving nothing away.

“Thanks,” I mutter, staring out the window at the passing streetlights. My reflection stares back at me. I’ve looked worse, but I’m definitely looking thoroughly fucked even though I technically wasn't.

My mind keeps replaying everything. The way Conrad's voice dropped an octave when he called me kitten. The feeling of his fingers stretching me open. The way he’s the first man to make me squirt.

And then finding out he's my fucking boss is like the damn icing on the cake. How the fuck did Santiago never tell me that? Not how, but why actually.

I should be furious. I should be planning to quit my job tomorrow and file a sexual harassment lawsuit. But instead, I'm sitting here with my thighs pressed together, trying to ignore the ache between them that's begging for more.

What the fuck is wrong with me?

The car rolls to a stop in front of my apartment building. The dingy four-story walkup looks even shittier from the backseat of a luxury car.

Henry gets out and walks around to my door, opening it with a flourish that makes me feel like I'm playing dress-up in someone else's life.

“Have a good night, Miss DeLuca,” he says, his face carefully blank.

“Thanks, Henry,” I manage, forcing a polite smile despite the turmoil inside me. “For the ride.”

I slide out of the car, painfully aware of the cool night air against my bare pussy under my skirt. The bite mark on my inner thigh throbs with each step as I stomp toward my building's entrance.

The elevator's broken—again—so I trudge up the stairs, my legs still wobbly from being strapped to that wall while Conrad worked his magic between them.

By the time I reach my apartment door, I'm a sweaty, hungry, sexually frustrated mess. Three orgasms and still being sexually frustrated is a fuck-ass position to be in. I jam my key into the lock, twist it with more force than necessary, and push inside.

Inside my apartment, I kick off my shoes and head straight for the kitchen. I yank open the fridge door and stare at the pathetic contents: half a pizza from two days ago, some questionable Chinese takeout, and a sad-looking half-eaten pint of blueberries. The pizza wins by default.

I grab the box and flop onto my couch, wincing as my sore body makes contact with the cushion. My phone buzzes, and I pull it out with a grimace.

Conrad Gallo

Did you make it home safely?

Oh, he can fuck off. I toss my phone aside and take a bite of cold pizza. The cheese is rubbery, and the crust has gone stale, but I'm too lazy to heat it up.

My phone buzzes again. I try to ignore it, but curiosity wins out. I grab it, reading his next message.

You need to eat something and drink some water. Take a hot bath and get some sleep.

Who the fuck does he think he is? My dad? The irony of that thought after I called him Daddy multiple times tonight isn't lost on me. I toss the phone back onto the couch cushion and continue chewing my sad dinner.

The phone lights up again. And again. And again.

“For fuck's sake,” I groan, snatching it up.

Katarina. Respond.

I need confirmation that you’re taking care of yourself.

This isn’t a request; it’s non-negotiable. If you won’t take care of yourself, I’ll be forced to show up there and force you.

I roll my eyes so hard I nearly strain something. The audacity of this man. I snap a quick picture of my pathetic slice and send it.

I'm eating. I don't have a bathtub, but I have wine and beer, a shower and my bed. Happy now?

No. That looks like shit. Order something fresh.

It’s midnight. Nothing is open except maybe McDonald’s, and I’m not putting pants on and going there

Three dots appear as he types. I wait, watching as they start and stop multiple times, taking another bite of this shitty food just to spite him.

Next thing I know I have money sent to my phone.

You’ve received $500 from Conrad Gallo.

What the fuck.

Put in a grocery order and use it all on that. I’m having something delivered to you tonight, and it will be there in thirty minutes.

I don’t need your fucking charity.

My stomach growls, reminding me that I do in fact want to eat something other than this.

Call it whatever you want, but again, I am a man, not a boy. I take care of what’s mine.

The possessiveness in those words shouldn’t make me swoon like a cartoon character, but it does, and I hate that for me.

I’m not yours. Independently owned and operated, remember?

I’m just gonna ignore the way my body betrays me. Delulu is the solulu after all.

The mark on your thigh says otherwise. Well, among other things.

My hand instinctively goes to my inner thigh, pressing against the bite mark he left. It throbs under my touch, a reminder of him.

I toss my phone onto the couch cushion and groan. This fucking guy. Acting like he owns me after one night of mind-blowing orgasms. I mean, sure, I called him Daddy, but that doesn't mean he gets to just—do whatever he wants.

Ugh, I need a shower. Maybe I can wash away the memory of him and everything he did.

Walking into the bathroom, I turn on the shower and step in. The hot water feels so good as it cascades over my aching body. I scrub myself with extra vigor, like I can somehow erase his touch from my skin.

“Fucking Conrad Gallo,” I mutter, squeezing body wash onto my sponge.

Scrubbing at my skin, a steady stream of internal cussing Mr. Not-so-fucking-mysterious out just loops over and over.

The soap runs down my body in rivulets, taking with it the scent of Conrad that somehow still clings to me.

A loud banging on my front door makes me jump so hard I nearly slip and crack my skull open.

“What the fuck?” I shut off the water, heart pounding. The banging continues, insistent and impatient.

I grab a towel, hastily wrapping it around my dripping body. Water pools at my feet as I hurry across my apartment, leaving wet footprints on the hardwood.

“I'm coming, Jesus Christ!” I yell, clutching the towel tightly around me. It barely covers my ass, but whoever's trying to break down my door at midnight doesn't seem like they're going to wait for me to get dressed.

I swing the door open, ready to tell off whoever's on the other side, only to find a delivery guy holding several bags that smell absolutely fucking divine.

“Uh, delivery for Katarina?” He looks uncomfortable, his eyes darting everywhere but at me.

“I didn't order anything,” I say, even as my stomach growls loudly enough for both of us to hear.

“Guy said you'd say that.” The delivery guy shifts awkwardly. “It's, uh, from Taqueria El Gallito. Best asada tacos in the city.”

I've never even heard of this place, but the smell is making my mouth water embarrassingly. “How much do I owe you?”

The guy's eyes widen, and he takes a small step back. “Nothing, ma'am. It's all paid for. Like, really paid for.”

“Well, let me at least give you a tip,” I say, reaching for my purse that's hanging on a hook by the door.

“No!” His response is so forceful I freeze. “I mean, uh, no thank you. The guy who ordered this—he, uh, he paid me really well. And also maybe threatened me a little bit if I took anything from you.”

I narrow my eyes. “Threatened you how?”

The delivery guy swallows hard. “He said, and I quote, 'If you so much as look at her inappropriately or accept a single dollar from her, I'll know, and I'll ensure you never deliver food in this city again.

' Then he gave me a hundred-dollar tip, so...” He trails off, still carefully avoiding looking at my towel-clad body.

“I'm pretty sure I shouldn't, uh, be seeing you in a towel.” He stares fixedly at a point above my head.

I smirk, a wicked idea popping into my head. “Wait right here,” I tell him, holding up a finger.

I dart back to the couch, water still dripping down my legs, and grab my phone. When I return to the door, the delivery guy is shifting his weight from foot to foot, looking like he'd rather be anywhere else.

“Hey,” I say, making him look up. “Just one quick pic for the guy who sent this.”

Before he can protest, I turn around and hold my phone up, angling it to capture both of us in the frame—me in my tiny towel, ends of my hair wet and clinging to my shoulders, and him behind me looking absolutely terrified, the bags of food clutched in his hands.

“Smile!” I snap the selfie, checking it quickly. Perfect. My towel's riding dangerously low, and the poor delivery guy looks like he's about to have a heart attack.

I take the bags from his hands and shoot him a wink. “Thanks for the food. Have a good night!”

I set the bags down on my kitchen counter and open my messages to Conrad and send him the photo.

Thanks for the delivery. Of the food AND the boy.

I hit send and set my phone down, unpacking the mouthwatering spread. There are at least half a dozen tacos, rice, beans, chips, guacamole, and what looks like flan for dessert. My stomach growls again, reminding me how fucking hungry I am.

I've barely taken my first bite when my phone starts ringing. I glance at it, see Conrad's name flashing on the screen, and let it go to voicemail. It immediately rings again. And again.

Taking another bite, I savor the explosion of flavors. Holy shit, these might be the best tacos I've ever had. My phone keeps ringing persistently, vibrating across the counter like an angry bee.

“Jesus Christ,” I mutter through a mouthful of food, letting it ring out again.

After the fifth call, my phone buzzes with a different notification. A video request from Conrad. I roll my eyes but can't deny the little thrill that runs through me at the idea of seeing his face again.

I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand and accept the call, making sure to angle the camera so he can see I'm still in just the towel.

Conrad's face fills my screen, and fuck if he doesn't look even better than I remember. His jaw is tight, eyes dark and intense. He's sitting in what looks like his car, the leather interior visible behind him.

“Having fun?” His voice is deceptively calm, but I can see the muscle ticking in his jaw.

I take another bite of my taco, chewing slowly while holding his gaze. “Mmm, these are amazing. Thanks for dinner.”

“Put some fucking clothes on, Katarina.” He's using that commanding tone that made me call him Daddy earlier.

I lick some salsa from my finger, making sure to do it as suggestively as possible. “Why? It's my apartment.”

His nostrils flare, and his eyes darken to almost black. “That fucking delivery boy better not be in your apartment. He better not have touched you, and you better not have fucking showed him anything.”

I bite my lip to stop from laughing at how quickly I've gotten under his skin. I make a show of glancing around my tiny apartment, even leaning out of frame for a second.

“Delivery boy?” I call out in a singsong voice. “Are you in here?”

I pause, tilting my head like I'm listening for something.

“What was that?” I ask the empty air before turning back to Conrad with wide, innocent eyes. “Oh, sorry, I didn't hear anything. So unfortunately, no delivery boy is in my apartment.”

Conrad's jaw clenches so hard I'm surprised his teeth don't shatter. “Don't fuck with me, Katarina.”

“Wouldn't dream of it,” I say, adjusting my towel to give him a flash of side boob. “Yet.”

He runs a hand through his hair, messing up the perfect styling. “You're playing a dangerous game.”

“Am I?” I take another bite of my taco, making sure to moan a little as I chew. “These really are delicious. How did you even find a place that delivers this late?”

“When you have enough money, everything delivers,” he says dismissively. “And stop changing the subject. Put some fucking clothes on.”

I lick sauce from my fingers again, deliberately slow. “Why? Does it bother you?”

“What bothers me is thinking about that fucking delivery boy seeing what's mine.”

There it is again—that jealousy that should piss me off but instead sends heat pooling between my legs.

“I told you, I'm not yours,” I remind him, even as my body betrays me with a shiver.

“Your pussy seemed to disagree earlier,” he growls, and the crude reminder of how I came apart for him makes my thighs clench. “The way it gushed all over my hand.”

I feel my cheeks heat up. “That was...in the moment.”

“Was it?” His voice drops lower, into that dangerous register that makes my nipples tighten beneath the towel. “Because I think you're still wet for me right now.”

I hate how right he is. Despite three earth-shattering orgasms, my body is already aching for him again.

“Where are you?” I ask, changing the subject.

His eyes narrow at my obvious deflection. “Outside your building.”

My heart skips a beat. “What? Why?”

“Because you fucking wouldn’t answer my goddamn calls,” he says, gesturing at my towel-clad body. “You provoke me.”

“You can't just show up at my apartment in the middle of the night,” I protest, even as a thrill runs through me at the thought of him sitting outside right now.

“I absolutely fucking can,” Conrad says. “Don't test me, or I'll have to tame that bratty little mouth of yours.”

I open my mouth to fire back, but he cuts me off.

“Finish eating and buy the fucking groceries tomorrow and answer me when I call or text you.”

The screen goes black. The asshole hung up on me.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” I shout at my phone, like it might transmit my rage telepathically.

Grabbing another taco, I bite into it with unnecessary aggression. The food is still amazing, which only pisses me off more because I can't even properly hate the gesture.

I finish my meal in stubborn silence before turning off my phone. If he calls or texts, then he can get no response and my voicemail.

I’m going to bed and ending this crazy, fuckey day.