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

Katarina

M y feet are fucking killing me, and I've got beer in places beer should never be.

Friday nights are absolute chaos, but the tips make it worth slinging drinks for thirsty assholes.

I've been running my ass off for six straight hours, barely time to breathe between orders, let alone think about the dark-eyed mystery man who's been eye-fucking me all night.

I glance over at his usual spot at the corner of the bar, but he's gone. His bourbon glass sits empty, laptop and sexy brooding presence nowhere to be seen. Something like disappointment twists in my gut.

“Shit,” I mutter, wiping down a sticky patch of bar top with more force than necessary. I shouldn't care that he left without saying goodbye. I shouldn't care at all.

But I do. And it pisses me off.

Santiago's counting bills at the register when I sidle up next to him, hip-checking him gently.

“Your friend bailed early tonight,” I say, trying to sound casual. “Mr. Mysterious finally get bored watching me work?”

Santiago snorts, not looking up from his counting. “He doesn't get bored watching you. Trust me.”

“Yeah, I noticed.” I start organizing the clean glasses, stacking them in neat rows. “He stares at me like he wants to eat me alive. What's his deal, anyway? Who is he really?”

“A regular customer.” Santiago's face gives nothing away.

“Bullshit. You two are tight. He's not just some random guy who likes our bourbon selection.” I lean against the bar, crossing my arms over my chest. “Come on, Santi. Throw me a bone here.”

Santiago finally looks up, his expression somewhere between amused and exasperated. “Why don't you ask him yourself? He'll be back.”

“That's not an answer,” I huff.

“It's the only one you're getting from me.” He tucks the counted bills into the safe, then grabs a rag and bottle of cleaner. “Now make yourself useful and wipe down the tables if you want to get out of here before sunrise.”

I flip him off, but grab the cleaning supplies. “Fine. Keep your secrets, old man.”

“Younger than your admirer,” he calls after me, chuckling.

I roll my eyes and get to work on the tables, but my mind keeps circling back to Mr. Mysterious. The way his eyes follow me when I move. How his voice drops an octave when he talks directly to me. He looks at me like he already knows every filthy thought in my head, and maybe he does.

He's older—maybe mid-forties—with salt and pepper at his temples that shouldn't be sexy but absolutely fucking is.

His hands are big, fingers long and elegant despite their thickness.

I've caught myself staring at those hands more than once, wondering what they'd feel like against my skin, wrapped around my throat, between my thighs, inside me.

I bet he'd know exactly how to curl those thick fingers to hit that spot that makes my toes curl, the one I can never quite reach myself.

He'd probably start with just one, testing how wet I am, before adding another, stretching me open while I squirm.

I realize I've been wiping the same table for two minutes, my thighs clenched together. The worst part isn’t how much I want him. It’s how badly I want him to want me back.

Moving to the next table, I try to tell myself I need to get it together and stop daydreaming.

But my brain won't shut up. I keep thinking about earlier tonight when I called him Daddy as a joke while eating his food.

The way his eyes darkened, pupils blown wide.

The slight clench of his jaw. How he didn't laugh it off or look uncomfortable—he looked hungry.

And fuck me if that didn't make something liquid and hot pool between my legs.

I remember how he watched me eat, like he was memorizing every movement of my mouth around his fork. The way he pushed his plate toward me without hesitation, letting me devour his food while he just…watched. God, his fucking intensity. Like nothing else in the world existed except me eating.

A laugh escapes me before I can stop it.

Here I am, fantasizing about some older guy feeding me asada while my sister Frankie's got herself an actual sugar daddy.

Not that she calls him that—he's her boyfriend who just happens to pay our rent, buys her designer everything, and treats her like she fucking touches the moon. But same difference.

Well, except that he’s her ex-boyfriend’s dad and you know he bought her time out for three months from Infinity.

Maybe I deserve my own Mr. Moneybags. A matching set of DeLuca sisters with their matching Daddies. The thought makes me snort-laugh again.

“Something funny?” Santiago calls from behind the bar.

“Just thinking about how Frankie would shit herself if she knew what kind of thoughts I was having about your friend,” I call back, not bothering to filter myself.

Santiago's eyebrows shoot up. “Trust me, you really don't want to go there, nina.”

“Why not?” I move to the last table, spraying it down with cleaner. “Too old for me? Too grumpy? Too rich?”

“Too dangerous,” Santiago mutters, but I catch it anyway.

That sends a fresh wave of heat between my legs. Dangerous how? Like, mob dangerous? CEO dangerous? Sexual deviant dangerous? All of the above sounds pretty fucking appealing right now.

“I like dangerous,” I say, tossing the rag into the dirty bin. “Dangerous is interesting.”

Santiago shakes his head. “Not this kind of dangerous. He's not…he doesn't do casual.”

“Who says I want casual?” The words slip out before I can stop them, surprising even me.

Santiago gives me a long look. “You want a man who'll own you, Katarina? Because that's what he does. He doesn't share. He doesn't play games. And he sure as shit isn’t going to take your smart-ass mouth twenty-four-seven.”

“Well damn, I don't know if I can contain my smart ass, so you're probably right.” I grin at Santiago, but there's something about his warning that makes my stomach flip in the best way. A man who wouldn't take my shit? Who'd want to own me? My thighs clench involuntarily.

Santiago just shakes his head and tosses me a rag. “Help me close up so we can get the hell out of here.”

Twenty minutes later, we're shooing the last drunk fucks out the door. Some college boy with too much gel in his hair tries to slip me his number as Santiago practically pushes him outside.

“Call me, sexy,” he slurs before Santiago slams the door in his face.

“Not if you were the last dick on earth,” I mutter, flipping the lock.

After counting out my tips—three hundred and twelve dollars, not bad for a Friday—I grab my jacket and bag.

“You walking to the bus stop again?” Santiago asks, jingling his car keys. “It's late, Kat. Let me drive you.”

“I'm good.” Same answer, every night. “Bus'll be here in ten minutes.”

Santiago sighs. “One of these days, you're gonna let someone help you without acting like it's a personal insult.”

“Today is not that day.” I blow him a kiss as I walk backward toward the door. “Lock up behind me, old man.”

The night air hits me, cold enough to make my nipples harden under my thin shirt. I zip my jacket all the way up and start the four-block walk to the bus stop.

My phone buzzes in my pocket as I turn the corner. I dig it out, half hoping it's a text from Frankie because I went from living with my sister to not and I miss her.

But it's not her, it's Vivian.

So are you actually serious about working for Infinity or was that the tequila talking? I need to know before I put your application through.

I snort, remembering our drunken conversation last weekend. Vivian runs Infinity—that bougie app where rich fucks pay for “companionship.” The same app Frankie used before she landed her whale, Alexander Steele. Now she's living in his mansion, leaving me with an extra bedroom and too much quiet.

Fuck it. Why not?

Dead serious. Send me the details.

Then I switch over to text Frankie.

You alive, bitch? Or has daddy dearest fucked you into a coma?

My phone buzzes almost immediately. Three dots appear, disappear, then reappear. As usual she’s overthinking her response.

Still alive. Just busy. Alexander keeps me…occupied.

I snort.

Occupied = bent over every surface in that mansion?

Not EVERY surface. Just most of them.

I can't help but grin. At least someone's getting laid regularly. My vibrator's been working overtime since she moved out.

So when are you visiting? Our apartment is sad and empty without your loud ass slamming the front door and bitching about rich caviar fucks.

I’ll be moving back soon. The three months are almost up.

I stop walking, staring at my phone. Is she serious?

Bullshit. No fucking way Daddy Steele is letting you go.

Three dots again. I kick a pebble while waiting, listening to the distant sound of traffic. The night's gotten colder, and I shiver despite my power walking.

It was always temporary, Kat. We agreed on three months.

Yeah but did his dick agree?

The bus stop's just ahead, thank fuck. My feet are killing me.

I check the time—midnight. The bus should be here in five minutes if it's running on schedule, which it never fucking is.

A car slows down as it passes, and I tense, ready to flip off whatever creep is about to catcall me. But it keeps going, and I exhale slowly.

Don't be a bitch. I miss you too

The bus is nowhere in sight, and my toes are starting to go numb in my boots. I bounce on my heels, trying to keep warm as another text comes through.

The thought of having my own Alexander Steele isn't entirely unappealing. Some older guy with cash to burn who'd worship my body and take care of shit without trying to change me. Maybe someone like Mr. Mysterious from the bar, with his intense stares and big hands.

The fantasy dissolves as headlights sweep over me. The bus finally rolls up, ten minutes late. I climb aboard, flash my pass at the driver, and sink into an empty seat near the back.

Vivian the Viper

I have the perfect match for you. Free tomorrow?

My fingers hover over the keyboard. Am I really doing this? Setting myself up to be some rich asshole's plaything?

But then I think about my bank account, perpetually hovering just above empty. The fact that without Frankie's sugar daddy paying our rent, I'd be completely fucked.

Yes. Text me when and where.

I lean my head against the cold window, watching the city lights blur as the bus rumbles through empty streets.

What the fuck am I getting myself into? Vivian's idea of perfect could mean anything from a tech bro with a foot fetish to some geriatric Wall Street type who can only get it up if I call him grandpa.

Well, I guess either way I won’t be fucking bored anymore. I’ll make some cash, and I’ll have stories for days to entertain people with.