Page 5 of Tempting Kat (Lust & Luxury #2)

Katarina

F riday nights make my pussy tingle, and I'm not even sure if it's because of the tips or because of him.

I'm standing outside Euphoria, hands shoved in my pockets, trying to calm my nerves.

It's been a weird fucking week. That Infinity date a few days ago still has me feeling off-kilter.

Mr. Harrison was nice enough—silver fox in his sixties who just wanted company over a fancy dinner while he talked about his wife who passed last year.

Sweet, really. Paid me five grand to listen and nod sympathetically.

But it wasn't exactly what I signed up for.

I want what Frankie has with Alexander. The kind of arrangement where you get fucked six ways to Sunday by a man who looks at you like you're the only thing he'll ever need again. Not some lonely widower who just wants a stand-in therapist with tits. Nothing wrong with what he wants, but it’s not for me.

Pulling open the heavy door, the familiar rush of music, laughter, and liquor hits me like a warm wave. Friday night chaos—exactly what I need to get out of my head.

Santiago spots me from behind the bar and raises an eyebrow. I'm fifteen minutes early, which never happens.

“Did hell freeze over?” he calls as I shrug.

“Shut up.” I flip him off with a grin, ducking under the bar. “I was bored at home.”

“You're never bored at home.” Santiago narrows his eyes. “What's wrong?”

“Nothing's wrong. Can't a girl just show up early for once?”

“Not you.” He hands me a shot of tequila. “Pre-shift ritual. You look like you need it.”

I down it without hesitation, letting the burn chase away the jitters. “Thanks.”

“He's not here yet,” Santiago says casually, wiping down the bar top.

My stomach does a stupid little flip. “Who?”

Santiago just gives me a look that says he's not buying my bullshit for a second.

I busy myself by setting up my station, but my eyes keep drifting to the corner seat where he always sits.

The bar fills quickly—weekend rush starting early. I lose myself in the rhythm of pouring drinks, making change, flirting just enough to boost tips. But part of me stays alert, watching the door.

When he finally walks in, my heart does this pathetic little stutter-step. Fuck, he looks good tonight. Dark gray suit pants that fit him like a second skin, no tie, a black dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up.

I’ve never really thought about it, but why the fuck are men’s forearms so damn hot?

Our eyes meet across the crowded bar, and something shifts in his expression.

He doesn't smile—I've never actually seen him smile—but there's a slight softening around his eyes.

Then he does something that makes my brain short-circuit.

Instead of heading to his usual corner seat, he tips his head at me and walks toward a booth in the back of the bar.

What the fuck?

My brows furrow as I watch him slide into the booth, setting his phone on the table.

In six months, he's maybe sat in a booth twice. Once when the bar was packed to the walls, when St. Patrick’s Day fell on the weekend, and once when he was with some business associate.

Always the same corner seat at the bar where he can watch everything, typing away on his laptop while secretly eye-fucking me.

This is…different.

I'm about to pour his usual Michter’s and bring it over—maybe find out what's with the change in routine—when a shriek of laughter erupts from behind me.

“Excuse me! Hello? Bartender?”

I turn to find myself facing a pack of women in matching pink sashes, the leader sporting a plastic tiara with “brIDE TO BE” flashing in LED lights.

“We need a round of Blowjobs,” Tiara Girl announces, giggling as her friends whoop and holler behind her. “Ten of them.”

“Coming right up,” I say, tearing my eyes away from Mr. Mysterious to grab shot glasses.

“Make sure they're extra creamy,” one of the bridesmaids slurs, already three sheets to the wind.

“That's what she said!” another one shrieks, and they all dissolve into laughter like it's the funniest fucking joke they've ever heard.

I roll my eyes but keep my customer service smile plastered on as I start building the shots—Amaretto, Bailey’s, topped with whipped cream. The bride-to-be leans over the bar, her tiara tilting precariously.

“You have to do one with us,” she insists, waving a twenty-dollar bill. “It's my bachelorette party!”

“Sorry, I'm working,” I say, arranging the shots on a tray.

“Please? Just one? I'll tip you extra.” She waves the twenty in my face like I'm a fucking stripper.

Santiago catches my eye from down the bar and gives me a subtle nod. Fine. One shot won't kill me.

“Alright, one,” I agree, adding an eleventh shot to the tray. The bridesmaids cheer like I've just announced free drinks for life.

I carry the tray to their table, painfully aware that Mr. Mysterious has a perfect view of this shit show from his booth. The bridesmaids are already arranging themselves around the table, giggling and taking selfies with the shots.

“Okay ladies, hands behind your backs,” I instruct, setting down the tray. “No hands allowed.”

They squeal with delight as they position themselves, hands clasped behind their backs. I reluctantly join them, placing my shot in front of me.

They all bend down, hands behind their backs, to wrap their lips around the shots.

I join in, catching the shot glass between my lips and throwing my head back to down it in one smooth motion. The sweet liqueur slides down my throat as the women cheer.

I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand as I straighten up, and that's when I see her.

Krista, the new shot girl with the fake tits and even faker personality, is leaning over Mr. Mysterious' booth, one hand on the table, the other twirling a strand of bleached blonde hair around her finger.

She's laughing at something he's said, her tits practically falling out of her low-cut top as she leans closer.

What. The. Actual. Fuck.

My blood instantly boils, a wave of possessiveness crashing over me that I have absolutely no right to feel. But I feel it anyway, hot and demanding in my chest.

“You ladies have a good night, okay?” I tell the bride squad, barely looking at them. “Try not to break anything, including yourselves. Drink some water between shots.”

I don't wait for their response, already moving through the crowded bar toward the booth.

My heart's pounding in my ears, drowning out the music and chatter.

All I can focus on is the way Krista is practically purring at him, and how his eyes—those dark, intense eyes that usually follow my every move—are fixed on her face.

“Hey, Krista,” I say, bumping my hip against hers hard enough to make her stumble sideways. “I've got this. You don't need to take his order.”

She blinks at me, surprise and annoyance flashing across her face. “I was just?—”

“I've got him,” I repeat, my voice sharper. “Always. Go check on table twelve, they look thirsty.”

Krista's eyes narrow, darting between me and Mr. Mysterious. “Whatever,” she mutters, tossing her hair as she walks away.

I turn to face him, suddenly aware of how fucking territorial I just acted. His expression is unreadable, but there's something in his eyes—something dark and satisfied—that makes my stomach flip.

“Your usual?” I ask, trying to sound casual, like I didn't just stake a claim on him in front of the whole damn bar.

“Please.” His voice is deep, rougher than usual. “And maybe an explanation for what just happened.”

I shrug, fighting the heat rising to my cheeks. “Just doing my job. Taking care of my regular customers.”

“Is that what I am? A regular customer?” He leans forward slightly, those eyes pinning me in place. “Because that didn't look like customer service. That looked like jealousy, Katarina.”

The way he says my full name sends a shiver down my spine.

“Don't flatter yourself,” I scoff, but it sounds weak even to my own ears. “I'll be right back with your boring bourbon.”

I retreat to the bar, my hands slightly shaky. What the fuck am I doing?

I grab the bottle off the top shelf and pour a double, my mind racing faster than my heartbeat. What the hell is wrong with me? Six months of this cat-and-mouse bullshit, and I'm acting like a jealous girlfriend when some blonde talks to him. I don't even know his fucking name.

I take a deep breath, plaster on my best “I don't give a shit” expression, and head back to his booth with the drink. The amber liquid sloshes slightly as I set it down in front of him.

“So, what's with the change of scenery?” I ask, nodding at the booth. “Corner of the bar not good enough for you anymore?”

He just quirks an eyebrow at me, his blues gleaming with something that makes my thighs clench. “Because I can and I feel like it.” He takes a slow sip of bourbon, his eyes never leaving mine. “Is that okay with you, Katarina?”

The way my name rolls off his tongue makes my pussy clench. Like he's tasting each syllable, savoring it.

“If you're going to call me by my full name, then the least you can do is tell me yours,” I challenge, crossing my arms over my chest.

His lips curve into a smirk that's equal parts arrogant and sexy as fuck. “I'll tell you very soon...” He pauses, tilting his head slightly. “Maybe.”

“Whatever,” I mutter, rolling my eyes even as heat floods my core. “Enjoy your drink, Mr. Mysterious.”

I turn and walk away, feeling his eyes burning into my back—no, lower than my back—as I weave through the crowd. My blood thrums with awareness, every nerve ending alive and sparking. It's like he's touching me without laying a finger on me, and it's driving me fucking insane.

Back behind the bar, I try to focus on the customers three-deep, waiting for drinks. But my body is hyper aware of him sitting there, watching me. My nipples are hard against my shirt, and there's a persistent ache between my legs that makes me want to squeeze my thighs together for relief.