Page 25 of Tempting Kat
My phone buzzes again.
No, I'm not secretly watching you. I'm just a very good judge of what someone is doing. A man in my position develops certain…intuitions.
I let out a breath I didn't realize I was holding, still skeptical but slightly relieved. Another message appears before I can respond.
Now I hope you sleep well. I know I will knowing I got to touch you and even if only in your imagination tonight, I got to fuck you and make you cum.
Oh, I am so fucked. I drop my phone like it's suddenly burning my hand.
Not just physically fucked—though I definitely just had one of the most intense orgasms of my life—but mentally fucked. This guy has crawled into my head after touching nothing butmy legs, and now I'm masturbating to the thought of him while he somehow psychically tunes into my horniness from across the city.
I roll off the bed, grimacing at the wet spot I've left on my sheets. Great, I wasn’t planning on having to go to the laundromat this weekend.
Stripping the bedding with angry yanks, I ball it up and toss it by the hamper. The dildo and vibrator get unceremoniously dumped into the sink for cleaning later. Right now, I need a shower to wash away the sweat and arousal and confusion coating my skin.
Under the hot spray, I scrub myself roughly, as if I could somehow erase the phantom touch of hands that never actually explored my body. The water sluices down my body, and I can't help but imagine Mr. Gallo watching me, his eyes taking in every drop caressing my skin.
By the time I step out of the shower, my skin is pink from the heat and scrubbing. I wrap a towel around myself and pad back to my bedroom, leaving wet footprints on the hardwood.
My phone glows with another notification.
Sweet dreams, kitten. Until Saturday.
I stare at the message, my heart doing a weird little flip in my chest. This is just business, I remind myself. He's paying for my time, not my feelings. The fact that I got off thinking about him is just…biological. Chemistry. Nothing more.
And then there’s Conrad who snuck into my head, into my fantasy just to play mental yo-yo with me because being mentally fucked by one man isn’t enough. Just add to the roster. Bounce me back and forth like a damn ping-pong ball.
After pulling on a clean tank top and panties, I grab my extra sheets and make my bed. I can’t shake the feeling that I’m sliding down a dangerous slope.
One where the line between fantasy and reality blurs.
Chapter 8
Katarina
My clit is still tingling from last night's fantasy fuck fest when I drag myself out of bed.
It’s been a week of non-stop masturbation, and I think I might have broken my vagina.
I'm hunched over my laptop at my kitchen table, nursing my third coffee while scrolling through the clusterfuck that is my inbox. The light from my window hits my screen at the perfect angle to highlight just how many unread messages I have. Ninety-seven. Jesus Christ.
This is the life of a freelance graphic designer—drowning in emails while wearing yesterday's tank top and a pair of underwear with a cartoon avocado on the ass. No pants necessary when you work for yourself.
“Fuck off, fuck off, definitely fuck off,” I mutter, deleting spam and lowball offers from people who think my time is worth about as much as a Happy Meal.
Then I pause, cursor hovering over an email with the subject line: “High-end branding project - urgent and well-compensated.”
My interest perks up at “well-compensated.” Those are magic words when you’re a foster kid turned adult who’s never had actual money.
Miss DeLuca,
I require sophisticated branding assets for a new luxury venture. Your portfolio demonstrates exactly the aesthetic I'm seeking. My budget is substantial, and I'm prepared to meet your rate without negotiation. I would prefer to discuss details in person rather than email. Are you available this afternoon?
Regards,
Tessa G.
Short, direct, and with a name that sounds a little bit waspy. I sit up straighter, suddenly aware of my nipples poking through my thin tank top.
