Page 6 of Tempting Kat (Lust & Luxury #2)

I hope whatever Vivian has set me up for tomorrow is less of a clit-tease than Mr. Tall, Rude, and Handsome is.

“You okay?” Santiago asks, sliding past me to grab a bottle of tequila. “You look flushed.”

“I'm fine,” I snap, more aggressively than intended. “Just busy.”

Santiago glances toward the booth, then back at me with a knowing look. “Right. Busy.”

I ignore him, focusing on mixing a cosmopolitan for some college girl who keeps checking her phone every five seconds. But my eyes betray me, darting over to the booth where he sits, nursing his drink, watching me with a predatory gaze.

Time passes in a blur of drinks, tips, and stolen glances.

The bachelorette party gets progressively louder, demanding more shots with increasingly dirty names.

I'm pouring a round of “Screaming Orgasms” now and finally glance at the time and see that it’s been hours since my shift started and we’re five minutes until last call.

“I need these to be extra strong,” the maid of honor slurs, leaning so far over the bar I think she might topple headfirst.

“Sure thing,” I lie, making them exactly the same strength as every other round I've served them. These chicks are already messy enough—the bride's tiara is hanging off one ear, and someone's pink sash is now being worn as a headband.

I load the shots onto a tray and deliver them to their table, dodging wandering hands and drunk-girl hugs. “Last call in five minutes, ladies. Drink up.”

They groan in protest but grab their shots eagerly. I use the moment to scan the bar, my eyes automatically seeking out his booth.

My stomach drops when I realize it’s empty.

Whipping my head around, I search the crowded bar. Did he leave? When? I didn't even see him go. Something like disappointment twists in my gut, which is fucking ridiculous because what did I expect? That he'd wait around until closing just to say goodnight?

“LAST CALL!” Santiago bellows over the music, which he simultaneously turns down. “Finish your drinks, folks!”

The usual groans and protests follow as the crowd begins to thin. I start clearing empties and wiping down the bar.

Twenty minutes later, Santiago is physically herding the last stragglers toward the door. The bachelorette party finally stumbles out in a cloud of perfume and giggles, leaving behind a war zone of empty glasses and pink glitter.

“I'll get the booth section,” I tell Santiago, my voice casual even as my heart pounds. I grab a rag and bus tub, making my way through the now-empty bar toward the back booth.

I slide into the seat he occupied, feeling the lingering warmth.

I start gathering the glass when I notice a bar napkin tucked halfway underneath. There's something drawn on it. I pull it closer, my breath catching.

It's a doodle of a peach, surprisingly detailed for a sketch on a napkin. And on one side of the booty-shaped fruit, in bold, masculine handwriting is the name Conrad.

“Conrad,” I whisper, testing the name on my tongue. It fits him—strong, old-fashioned, a little severe.

I flip the napkin over, searching for more—a phone number, a message, anything. Nothing. Just the peach and his name. What the fuck does that mean? Is it some kind of message? A joke? His phone number would have been a hell of a lot more useful.

I crumple the napkin in my fist, then smooth it out again. Finally, a name to the face that's been haunting me.

That man infuriates me with his cryptic bullshit and bedroom eyes.

I finish wiping down his booth with more force than necessary, practically scrubbing the surface raw.

My pussy's still throbbing, and I hate myself for it.

I hate that he can get me wet with just a look.

I hate that I chased off Krista like some territorial bitch and that I'm disappointed he left without saying goodbye.

“You good over there?” Santiago calls from behind the bar. “That table insult your sister or something?”

“I'm fine,” I snap, tossing the rag into my bus tub. “Just making sure it's clean.”

Santiago gives me that knowing look that makes me want to throw something at his head. “Whatever you say, Kat.”

I finish closing down my section, counting my tips while my mind keeps circling back to that stupid napkin.

“Five hundred and twenty-three,” I announce, stuffing the cash into my wallet. “Thank you bridal party.”

Walking to the bus stop, I pull the napkin out of my pocket and study it because I can’t help myself.

The peach is detailed, almost sensual in the way it's drawn. Round, juicy, with a little cleft down the middle. Like an ass.

“Is this supposed to be my ass?”

But my body betrays me, a fresh wave of heat pooling between my legs at the thought of him studying my ass enough to draw it. Imagining his eyes on me when I bend over to grab bottles, watching the way my shorts ride up.

And he had the nerve to write his name on one peachy booty cheek.

My phone buzzes in my pocket as I'm still staring at Conrad's stupid drawing.

Vivian the Viper

Tomorrow, 7 PM. Meet me at Lovelace Hotel lobby. I'll walk you through what to expect before your client arrives. Wear jean shorts, a t-shirt, and sandals.

I stare at the screen, brows furrowed. Is she fucking serious?

So you want me to wear…exactly what I wear every day? That doesn't sound very high profile.

That's what the client requested specifically. And he's paying 6 figures for the arrangement, so I'd say wear whatever the fuck he wants.

My jaw drops. Six figures? For what, exactly?

Six FIGURES? As in $100k+? What the hell am I expected to do for that kind of money?

Relax. It's an exclusive arrangement. He doesn't want you seeing other clients. That's what the premium is for. And don't worry—all boundaries discussed in your application will be respected.

Jesus. Some rich fuck is willing to drop that kind of cash just to have me all to himself? My stomach flips with a mixture of excitement and apprehension.

So jean shorts, t-shirt, and sandals. Like I'm going to a backyard BBQ, not meeting a millionaire?

Exactly. He was VERY specific about wanting you casual. And honestly? If a man is willing to pay that much, I'd show up in a garbage bag if that's what he requested.

I can't help but laugh at that. She's got a point.

Fine. Casual it is. But he better not be some creepy old fucker with weird fetishes.

Although for that kind of money, I’ll fucking put on cat ears and crawl around the floor.

Wait, that sounds kind of fucking hot. Maybe he will want that.