Page 35 of Tempting Kat (Lust & Luxury #2)

Conrad

I watch her stomp away, her perfect ass swaying beneath my shirt, and laugh to myself. Fucking adorable when she's pissed.

The smirk on my face is damn near splitting my skin as I walk back to the kitchen.

My marinara sauce is simmering perfectly, the rich scent filling the air. I give it a slow stir, tasting a small spoonful. Needs more basil. I add a pinch, my mind still on Katarina and what might be growing inside her.

I'm almost positive she's pregnant. The signs are all there—the fatigue, the way she's been avoiding certain foods, how her tits seem fuller in my hands.

The way she's been emotional as fuck lately.

My girl thinks she's been taking her birth control religiously, but she hasn't noticed the switch I made three weeks ago.

Yeah, I know. It's fucked up. Replacing her pills with sugar pills crosses a line even I recognize. But I don't regret it. Not for a fucking second.

By any means necessary.

That's been my code since I laid eyes on her. The moment I saw her behind that bar, pouring drinks with that fuck-you attitude and those curves that made my mouth water, I knew she was mine. I just had to make her see it too.

I take another taste of the sauce. Perfect now. I lower the heat and put the lid on, letting it simmer while I pour myself a glass of whiskey.

The first sip burns pleasantly down my throat as I lean against the counter. I wonder if she's counting her pills right now, trying to figure out if she missed any. She hasn't. I was meticulous when I switched them, making sure the count was exactly right. I even matched the color and size.

Is it manipulative? Absolutely. Do I give a fuck? Not even slightly.

Because here's the thing about Katarina—she wants this life. Wants me. Wants a family. She's just too fucking stubborn to admit it, too wrapped up in her fear that she doesn't deserve good things. Too worried that I'll eventually see what she thinks are her flaws and walk away.

As if I could ever leave her. As if there's any version of my future that doesn't have her in it.

Maybe I should feel guilty for the pill switch, but I don't. What I feel is anticipation. Excitement. The thought of her belly swelling with my child makes me fucking feral. The idea that part of me is growing inside her right now sets something primal loose in my chest.

I've seen the way her pupils dilate when I talk about breeding her. The way her pussy gets wetter, tighter. She wants it too, even if she's too stubborn to admit it.

I check the pasta, testing a piece between my teeth. Al dente. Perfect. As I drain the water, I hear Kat's footsteps coming back down the hall. Lighter now, less stomping. She's calmed down.

Or she's planning my murder. Either way, I'm fucking hard for her.

“Dinner's ready,” I call out, plating the pasta and ladling the sauce over it.

She enters the dining room looking paler than usual, her lips pressed into a tight line. She's wearing my shirt still, and I can see her nipples poking through the fabric. Fuck, she's gorgeous when she's pissed at me.

“Sit,” I say, pulling out her chair. “Food's getting cold.”

She hesitates, eyeing me suspiciously, but hunger wins out.

I take my place across from her, enjoying the view as she twirls pasta onto her fork. Her first bite is tentative, and I see the moment the flavor hits her—her eyes closing briefly in pleasure. Despite her anger, my cooking still gets to her. Good.

“It's good,” she admits grudgingly, taking another bite.

I smirk. “I know.”

We eat in relative silence for a few minutes, the tension between us thick enough to cut.

Halfway through her plate, something changes. I see it happen—her face suddenly drains of color.

“What's wrong?” I ask, though I already know.

“Nothing,” she says, but her fork is suspended halfway to her mouth, and she's swallowing hard. “I just...something tastes off.”

I frown, taking another bite of my pasta. “Off? The sauce is perfect.”

She shakes her head, setting her fork down. “No, there's something...it tastes...wrong.”

“That's impossible,” I say, genuinely offended. “I wouldn't use rancid produce if my life depended on it. Every ingredient is fresh.”

Her hand flies to her mouth, and I can see the moment the nausea hits her full force. She shoves back from the table, knocking her chair over in her haste.

“Fuck,” she chokes out, then bolts from the room.

There's absolutely nothing wrong with my sauce. This is morning sickness hitting her at dinnertime.

I find her on her knees in front of the toilet, her body heaving as she empties her stomach. Her hair is falling around her face, and she's trying to hold it back with one shaking hand while the other grips the toilet bowl.

I kneel behind her, gathering her hair in my fist and pulling it away from her face. My other hand rubs slow circles on her lower back.

“Get out,” she gasps between heaves, trying to shrug me off.

“Not a chance,” I murmur, tightening my grip on her hair.

She retches again, her body trembling against mine. I hold her steady, my chest pressed against her back.

She's definitely pregnant. There's no fucking way something's wrong with my sauce. I've been cooking that recipe for twenty years, and it's never made anyone sick.

After a few more heaves, Kat's body finally stills, her breathing ragged but steadying. I keep holding her hair back, my other hand never stopping its soothing circles on her lower back.

“It's over,” she whispers, her voice raw.

Without a word, I slide my arms under her, one behind her knees and the other supporting her back, and lift her like she weighs nothing. She doesn't protest, just lets her head fall against my shoulder as I carry her to the bathroom counter and set her down gently.

“Stay,” I command softly, turning to wet a washcloth with cool water.

I press the cloth to her face, wiping away the remnants of her sickness, then the tears that followed. Her skin is clammy; her eyes glassy. Still so fucking beautiful.

“That was disgusting,” she mutters, avoiding my gaze. “Why did you stay?”

I set the washcloth aside and cup her face in my hands, forcing her to look at me. I press my forehead against hers, our breath mingling.

“That was something that happens,” I say firmly. “And I stayed and was here for you because I fucking love you. What kind of man would I be if I left you to throw up by yourself, when I can be here even if only to hold your hair?”

Her eyes widen slightly at my words, that vulnerability she tries so hard to hide peeking through.

She sighs, some of the tension leaving her body. “I'm mad your stupid sauce is bad, and I'm the only one that got sick. Why don't you ever get sick?”

I pause, studying her face. This is it. The moment of truth.

“I don't think this is the kind of sick I can get, baby.”

Her brow furrows in confusion. “What are you talking about?”

I take a deep breath, bracing myself for the explosion I know is coming. “Before you bite my head off—which you no doubt will do, and then I'll need to spank you for it—I think you should take a test.”

“What the fuck are you even talking about?” She tries to push me away, but I hold firm.

“A pregnancy test, Katarina.”

The color drains from her face, then rushes back in a hot flush. “You're out of your fucking mind.”

“Am I?” I challenge, my hands sliding to her waist. “The nausea, the fatigue, your tits getting fuller?—”

“Stop looking at my tits!” she snaps, crossing her arms over her chest.

“Never going to happen,” I reply, my lips quirking up. “But seriously, Katarina. Think about it. When was your last period?”

She opens her mouth to answer, then stops, her eyes widening as she mentally counts back.

“That's—that's impossible,” she stammers.

“Your body's telling you something, Katarina,” I say, my voice firm.

She shakes her head violently. “No. It's your sauce. Something in it made me sick.”

“There is nothing wrong with my sauce,” I say for what feels like the tenth time.

“It's the sauce,” she insists, her voice rising. “Not a fucking baby!”

I look at her flushed face, the way her hands are trembling slightly, and make a decision.

“Wait here,” I tell her, pressing a kiss to her forehead before she can dodge it.

“Where are you going?” she calls after me, but I'm already striding down the hallway.

In my office, I unlock the bottom drawer of my desk and pull out the small paper bag I stashed there weeks ago. I knew this moment would come eventually. I've been prepared for it since the day I switched her pills.

When I return to the bathroom, Kat's still sitting on the counter, her legs swinging nervously. Her eyes widen when she sees what I'm holding.

“Why the fuck do you just have that?” she demands, staring at the pregnancy test box in my hand.

I smirk, tearing open the box and pulling out the plastic stick. “Because I was quite literally expecting this moment to happen. I meant what I said a month ago.”

Her mouth drops open. “You—you planned this?”

“I told you I wanted to get you pregnant,” I say simply, handing her the test. “I meant it.”

She takes the test from me like it might bite her. “You're such an arrogant asshole.”

“An arrogant asshole who's about to be proven right,” I counter, crossing my arms over my chest. “Take the test, Katarina.”

For a moment, I think she might throw it at my head. But then she sighs, her shoulders slumping slightly.

“Fine. Just to prove you wrong and that your sauce is bad.” She hops down from the counter and shoves at my chest. “Get out. I'm not peeing while you watch.”

I lean against the doorway, making no move to leave. “I've had my tongue in your pussy and ass more times than I can count, baby. I think we're past modesty.”

Her cheeks flush a beautiful shade of pink. “Out!”