Page 14 of Tempting Kat
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.
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.
