Page 53 of Tempting Kat
Katarina
Iwake up with a jolt, my heart hammering against my ribs as reality crashes over me like a bucket of ice water. Holy fucking shit. I just fucked Conrad Gallo. My boss. My Mr. Mysterious.
The expensive sheets pool around my waist as reality crashes over me like I just jumped into an ice bath. Sunlight streams through a gap in the curtains, casting a stripe of gold across the rumpled bedding.
Conrad's still asleep beside me, one muscular arm flung across the space where my body was moments ago. His face is softer in sleep, the perpetual scowl replaced by something almost peaceful.
My brain feels like it's short-circuiting as I try to process the last twenty-four hours. Conrad is Mr. Gloryhole from Infinity. He’s my fucking boss, owns the building I live in now, spanked me and then fucked me until I couldn't remember my own name. And then had the audacity to wash my hair and order room service like some kind of possessive sugar daddy from hell.
Reality crashes down even harder when I remember almost everything I own is gone. My clothes, my art supplies, my bed.The only thing I managed to save was my laptop, thank fuck, but everything else? Destroyed.
I run my hands through my tangled hair, trying to breathe through the panic rising in my chest.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck.”
What the hell am I supposed to do now? I have literally nothing but the clothes I wore to work yesterday, which are probably still damp and stinking of beer. I haven't been paid by Vivian yet, and all I have are my tips from last night.
I need to go shopping. I need underwear, clothes, a toothbrush—basic human necessities. I need to check my email and see if any of my clients have work for me. I need to?—
“Stop thinking so loudly,” Conrad's deep voice rumbles from beside me, making me jump.
I turn to find him watching me through heavy-lidded eyes, his dark gaze intense even though he's barely awake. He reaches out, his thumb smoothing over the wrinkle I didn't even realize had formed between my eyebrows.
“I'm not thinking loudly,” I snap, pulling away from his touch. “I'm having a completely justified panic attack because my entire life is in shambles.”
He props himself up on one elbow; the sheet sliding down to reveal his tattooed chest. I definitely did not notice that last night. “Explain.”
I huff out a breath, crossing my arms over my chest and belatedly realizing I'm still completely naked. I grab the sheet, yanking it up to cover myself.
“Stop huffing,” he says with a low chuckle that sends an unwelcome shiver down my spine.
“I'll huff if I want to, Conrad! My apartment is flooded, all my stuff is ruined, I haven't been paid yet, and all I have is my laptop, and I just fucking feel defeated.”
Conrad sighs, running a hand through his sleep-mussed hair. The movement makes his muscles flex, and I hate that I notice.
“Hold that thought,” he says, swinging his legs over the side of the bed and standing up in one fluid motion.
Holy shit. He's completely naked, and in the morning light, I can see every inch of him. His broad shoulders taper down to a narrow waist. His ass is firm and tight, and his cock—Jesus Christ, even soft it hangs thick and heavy against his thigh. Last night wasn't just some sex-drunk hallucination. The man is well-endowed.
I can't tear my eyes away as he walks across the room, completely comfortable in his nudity. The tattoos I glimpsed extend across his back and down one arm—intricate designs in black ink that somehow make him look even more intimidating.
He picks up his phone from the nightstand, taps at the screen for a few seconds, then tosses it back down. Without a word, he walks to the table where his discarded pants are draped over a chair. He digs in the pocket and pulls out a sleek leather wallet.
My brain is still short-circuiting at the casual display of his naked body when he turns and walks back toward me. His cock sways slightly with each step, and I force myself to look up at his face instead.
Conrad squats down next to the bed, bringing himself to my eye level. His forearms rest on the mattress, and between two fingers, he holds out a black credit card. It catches the morning light, gleaming like some kind of forbidden temptation.
“I just texted Vivian,” he says, his voice still rough with sleep. “I told her to release your money today. But you don't need it.”
I stare at the card, then back at his face. “What?”
“Take it.” He pushes the card closer to me. “Buy whatever you need. Clothes, shoes, art supplies—everything. I don't care how much you spend.”
I don't reach for the card. “I can't accept that.”
“You can, and you will.” His tone leaves no room for argument. “You need things, Katarina. I have money, you’re my girl. It’s simple.”
“Nothing about this is simple,” I mutter, but my eyes keep drifting back to the card.
