Page 41 of Tempting Kat
Call it whatever you want, but again, I am a man, not a boy. I take care of what’s mine.
The possessiveness in those words shouldn’t make me swoon like a cartoon character, but it does, and I hate that for me.
I’m not yours. Independently owned and operated, remember?
I’m just gonna ignore the way my body betrays me. Delulu is the solulu after all.
The mark on your thigh says otherwise. Well, among other things.
My hand instinctively goes to my inner thigh, pressing against the bite mark he left. It throbs under my touch, a reminder of him.
I toss my phone onto the couch cushion and groan. This fucking guy. Acting like he owns me after one night of mind-blowing orgasms. I mean, sure, I called him Daddy, but that doesn't mean he gets to just—do whatever he wants.
Ugh, I need a shower. Maybe I can wash away the memory of him and everything he did.
Walking into the bathroom, I turn on the shower and step in. The hot water feels so good as it cascades over my aching body. I scrub myself with extra vigor, like I can somehow erase his touch from my skin.
“Fucking Conrad Gallo,” I mutter, squeezing body wash onto my sponge.
Scrubbing at my skin, a steady stream of internal cussing Mr. Not-so-fucking-mysterious out just loops over and over.
The soap runs down my body in rivulets, taking with it the scent of Conrad that somehow still clings to me.
A loud banging on my front door makes me jump so hard I nearly slip and crack my skull open.
“What the fuck?” I shut off the water, heart pounding. The banging continues, insistent and impatient.
I grab a towel, hastily wrapping it around my dripping body. Water pools at my feet as I hurry across my apartment, leaving wet footprints on the hardwood.
“I'm coming, Jesus Christ!” I yell, clutching the towel tightly around me. It barely covers my ass, but whoever's trying to break down my door at midnight doesn't seem like they're going to wait for me to get dressed.
I swing the door open, ready to tell off whoever's on the other side, only to find a delivery guy holding several bags that smell absolutely fucking divine.
“Uh, delivery for Katarina?” He looks uncomfortable, his eyes darting everywhere but at me.
“I didn't order anything,” I say, even as my stomach growls loudly enough for both of us to hear.
“Guy said you'd say that.” The delivery guy shifts awkwardly. “It's, uh, from Taqueria El Gallito. Best asada tacos in the city.”
I've never even heard of this place, but the smell is making my mouth water embarrassingly. “How much do I owe you?”
The guy's eyes widen, and he takes a small step back. “Nothing, ma'am. It's all paid for. Like, really paid for.”
“Well, let me at least give you a tip,” I say, reaching for my purse that's hanging on a hook by the door.
“No!” His response is so forceful I freeze. “I mean, uh, no thank you. The guy who ordered this—he, uh, he paid me reallywell. And also maybe threatened me a little bit if I took anything from you.”
I narrow my eyes. “Threatened you how?”
The delivery guy swallows hard. “He said, and I quote, 'If you so much as look at her inappropriately or accept a single dollar from her, I'll know, and I'll ensure you never deliver food in this city again.' Then he gave me a hundred-dollar tip, so...” He trails off, still carefully avoiding looking at my towel-clad body.
“I'm pretty sure I shouldn't, uh, be seeing you in a towel.” He stares fixedly at a point above my head.
I smirk, a wicked idea popping into my head. “Wait right here,” I tell him, holding up a finger.
I dart back to the couch, water still dripping down my legs, and grab my phone. When I return to the door, the delivery guy is shifting his weight from foot to foot, looking like he'd rather be anywhere else.
“Hey,” I say, making him look up. “Just one quick pic for the guy who sent this.”
