Page 34 of Tempting Kat (Lust & Luxury #2)

Katarina

I fucking hate how good domesticity looks on us.

Another month living with Conrad, and I'm folding his ridiculously expensive boxer briefs like it's the most natural thing in the world.

The laundry room smells like fabric softener and his cologne, and I'm drowning in one of his dress shirts that barely covers my ass while I sort through our mingled clothes.

Our clothes. Jesus Christ.

I never thought I'd be this person—the girl wearing her man's shirt, doing laundry on a Sunday while he cooks in the kitchen. Yet here I am, and the scariest part is how right it feels.

I haven't told Conrad about the birth control pills I've been taking. After that whole gloryhole breeding kink session, I filled my prescription anyway. Not because I don't want his baby—which is a terrifying thought all on its own—but because I need it to be my choice, not his executive decision.

“Fuck,” I mutter, realizing I've been folding the same pair of socks for two minutes while lost in thought.

The marinara sauce he's making smells incredible, wafting through the entire house. My stomach growls in response. Conrad cooks like he fucks—with intense focus and skilled hands. The thought makes my pussy clench involuntarily.

I'm shoving a stack of t-shirts into a basket when I feel him before I hear him—that shift in the air that happens when Conrad enters a room. Then his arms are around me, wrapping me in his heat and strength. His face burrows in my hair, inhaling deeply like I'm some kind of drug he needs.

“You smell like me,” he rumbles against my neck, his lips brushing my skin.

“That's what happens when I steal your shirts,” I say, trying to sound annoyed but failing miserably.

His hand slides down to my belly, settling just above my pubic bone. His fingers tap rhythmically against me through the thin fabric of his shirt.

“What are you doing?” I ask, stilling under his touch.

“Imagining,” he says simply, his voice dropping to that dangerous register that makes my thighs clench. “You'd be showing by now if you weren't still on those pills you think I don't know about.”

My body goes rigid. Fuck. How does he know everything?

“I don't know what you're talking about,” I lie, even though it's pointless.

His laugh is dark and knowing against my ear. “You're a terrible liar, Katarina.” His fingers continue their tapping, almost like he's counting. “I know exactly how many pills you've taken from that pack. Exactly how many you have left.”

My blood runs cold, then hot. “You went through my things?”

“I protect what's mine.” His hand presses more firmly against my lower belly. “And this is mine too.”

I should be furious. I should elbow him in his stupid ego-filled gut, but instead I just shrug him off and shove the basket at him.

I shove past him, my face burning with a mix of anger and something else I don't want to name. “Well, since you like going through my shit so much, you can put the laundry away too,” I snap, pushing the basket hard against his chest.

Conrad catches it effortlessly, his mouth curling into that infuriating smirk that makes me want to slap him and fuck him in equal measure.

“That's not the punishment you think it is, Kitty Kat,” he says, his voice like warm whiskey. “I enjoy handling things that touch your body.”

“You're such a fucking creep,” I mutter, but there's no real heat behind it.

He sets the basket down on the dryer and steps closer, crowding me against the washing machine. His hands bracket my hips, fingers digging in just enough to make me gasp.

“Besides,” he murmurs, his lips brushing my ear, “those pills might not be working as well as you think. You've been sleeping more. Getting nauseous in the mornings. Your tits are more sensitive when I suck them.”

My heart hammers against my ribs. “That's—that's not?—”

“Not what?” His hand slides under the shirt I'm wearing, cupping my breast. His thumb brushes over my nipple, and I can't help the whimper that escapes me. “Not possible? Birth control fails, baby. “

I push his hand away and walk away from him and toward my office to look at my pills.

My stomach flips at his words repeating over and over in my head.

Could he be right?