Page 28 of Tempting Kat (Lust & Luxury #2)
Katarina
I hit send on the email to Tessa with the final Contessa designs attached and lean back in my chair, stretching my arms overhead until my spine cracks.
Fucking finally. After two weeks of revisions and feedback loops, the branding package is done, and I'm pretty damn proud of it.
Not that I'd ever admit it to Conrad, but having this dedicated office space has made a world of difference.
The north-facing windows cast perfect light over my drafting table, and I've never had this much room to spread out my work before.
My stomach growls, reminding me I haven't eaten since the coffee and bagel Conrad shoved into my hands this morning before I locked myself in my office. I stretch, feeling the satisfying pop in my spine, and head toward the kitchen where I can already smell something amazing cooking.
The past month has been…weird. Not bad-weird, just fucking strange.
Like I've stepped into some alternate reality where I live in a mansion with a hot billionaire who cooks for me, fucks me senseless on the regular, and lets me do whatever the hell I want.
It's domestic as fuck, and the scariest part is how not-terrible I find it.
I pause in the doorway, watching Conrad at the stove.
His back is to me, broad shoulders moving as he stirs something that smells like garlic and butter and sex.
He's wearing dark jeans that hug his ass perfectly and a black henley with the sleeves pushed up, showing off those forearms with the tattoos I love to trace with my tongue when he's pinning me down.
“If you keep staring at my ass like that, dinner's going to burn,” he says without turning around.
I roll my eyes even though he can't see me. “Don't flatter yourself. I'm just here for the food.”
He chuckles, the sound rumbling deep in his chest. “Of course you are.”
I walk over to the massive kitchen island and hop up on one of the barstools, leaning my elbows on the cool marble counter. “So, when's the move-in date?”
Conrad doesn't look up from the pan he's stirring. “What move-in date?”
“For me to go back to my apartment,” I say, watching his shoulders tense slightly. “After the burst pipe debacle and then you buying the entire freaking complex, you said it would take a month to have it all redone. Month is here, Mr. Money Bags, so I'm just wondering when I'm moving back in.”
His shoulders tense slightly, but he keeps stirring. “You're not.”
“Excuse me?” I straighten up, crossing my arms over my chest. “What do you mean I'm not?”
Conrad finally turns to face me, his expression calm but his eyes intense. “You're not moving back in. You belong here.”
“I belong here?” I scoff, sliding off the barstool. “Since when do you get to decide where I belong?”
“Our deal is evolving,” he says, so fucking calmly it makes me want to scream. “You're comfortable here. Your work is thriving. Why would you go back to that shoebox?”
“Because it's my shoebox, Conrad,” I lean across the counter. “You can't just decide where I live. What about just asking me what I want? You’ve been doing a good job of doing that for the last month, so what changed?”
“Fine.” He turns off the burner with a sharp twist of his wrist. “What do you want, Katarina?”
The question hangs between us, and I open my mouth to tell him exactly what I want—my independence, my own space, my life back—but the words stick in my throat.
“I want...” I falter, hating how uncertain I sound. “I want to be asked, not told.”
Conrad moves around the island so quickly I barely have time to step back. He crowds me against the counter, his hands coming down on either side of me, caging me in with his body. His face is inches from mine, his eyes dark and intense.
He looks like he wants to stitch me to his skin and first, ew gross, but secondly, that’s kind of romantic in a horror movie kind of way.
“I'm not ready to let you go,” he says, his voice low and rough. “Now that I've had you here for the month, I want you here for the entire rest of our deal. Look me in my face and tell me it's been horrible being here with me, and I'll let you go.”
I open my mouth to tell him exactly that, but the words stick in my throat.
Because it hasn't been horrible. It's been…
fuck. It's been good. Really good. The sex is mind-blowing, sure, but it's more than that.
It's waking up to fresh coffee. It's working in that beautiful office he created just for me.
It's falling asleep with his arms around me, feeling safe for the first time in forever.
I'm a lot of things. Stubborn, impulsive, and reckless, but I'm not a fucking liar.
“That's not the point,” I manage to say, my voice weaker than I want it to be. “You can't just decide things for me. You could have asked me, Conrad. Asked if I wanted to stay longer instead of telling me I'm not moving back.”
Something shifts in his expression—a flicker of understanding, maybe even regret. His hands move from the counter to cup my face, thumbs stroking my cheekbones.
“You're right,” he says, surprising the hell out of me. “I should have asked. I'm not used to…this. Having someone I need to consult. I see what I want, and I take it.”
“And what you want is me. Here.”