Page 23 of Tempting Kat
She startles slightly, then squares her shoulders. “That's me.”
“Your car, miss.” Henry opens the rear door with a slight bow. “Mr. Gallo asked me to see you safely home.”
“Of course he did,” she mutters, but she approaches the car, anyway. “Because, God forbid, I take the fucking bus like a normal person.”
Henry doesn't react to her language, maintaining his professional demeanor. “Where shall I take you this evening, miss?”
“You don't already know my address?” She arches an eyebrow. “I figured Mr. Money Bags would have a full dossier on me by now.”
“I was instructed to take you wherever you wish to go.”
I watch as the car pulls away and grab my phone.
Let me know when she’s safely inside.
My driver is discreet, professional, and loyal. He'll make sure my Kat gets home without incident, then report back without asking questions. It's why I pay him triple what most drivers make.
I slip back into the hotel and head for the private elevator that will take me to my penthouse suite. As the doors close, I finally allow myself to adjust my cock, hissing at the contact. Just that brief touch through my pants has me on edge.
The suite is dark when I enter, just how I left it. I shed my jacket, tossing it over a chair.
Walking toward the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city, I picture Katarina somewhere out there, pacing her apartment, cursing my name. Or maybe she’s lying in bed, thinking about my hands on her legs, wondering what they’d feel like elsewhere. Is she touching herself right now? Sliding her fingers between her thighs, imagining they're mine?
Soon enough they will be.
So very fucking soon, as I mark every part of her with me.
Chapter 7
Katarina
I'm so fucking turned on I could scream.
The door to my apartment slams behind me as I kick off my shoes, sending one flying into the wall with a satisfying thud. My entire body is humming, and I'm pissed off in ways I can't even explain.
Stomping through my tiny living room does little to appease me.
The ride home in that fancy-ass car was torture. The leather seats reminded me of his voice—rich, smooth, and expensive. I spent the whole ride trying to ignore the throbbing in my pussy. It’s like that bitch has her own heartbeat and we were not in sync.
Who the fuck pays six figures to rub someone's legs and bail? And why am I so fucking worked up about it?
I throw my phone and keys onto the kitchen counter and march straight to my bedroom, peeling off my top and flinging it across the room. My shorts follow, then my bra, until I'm standing in just my black thong, staring at myself in the full-length mirror hanging on my bedroom door.
My reflection stares back, cheeks flushed, pupils blown wide. I look exactly how I feel—frustrated, horny, and ready to combust.
Yeah, fuck this. Hooking my thumbs into my panties, I pull them off.
I climb onto my unmade bed, not bothering with straightening the sheets. The cool air hits my overheated skin, making my nipples harden instantly. I can already feel how wet I am, and I haven't even touched myself yet.
Reaching over to my nightstand, I yank open the drawer and grab my favorite vibrator. I flop back against the pillows, spreading my legs wide, making sure I can see everything in the mirror.
This is what that fucker is missing and it serves him fucking right.
I'm soaked already, embarrassingly so. All from some mysterious asshole with massive hands and a voice like aged liquor. I didn't even see his face, for fuck's sake.
But those hands. Jesus Christ, those hands.
I click the vibrator on, starting with the lowest setting, teasing myself as I circle it around my clit. My hips buck involuntarily, and I lock eyes with myself in the mirror.
