Page 64 of Tempting Kat
“Fuck, fuck, FUCK!” she screams, her body convulsing as a third orgasm tears through her. This one's even more intense than the last, her pussy clamping down so hard on my fingers I can barely move them.
Her thighs give out completely, her full weight collapsing onto my face. I fucking love it—the feeling of her surrender, of her body giving in completely to the pleasure I'm giving her. I can barely breathe with her pussy pressed against my mouth, but I don't care. I want to drown in her.
I slide my hands up to grip her ass, kneading the soft flesh as I continue to lick and suck at her skin.
I drag her pussy down until it's right below my mouth and growl, “Your shirt was right. You're a fucking handful, but so is this perfect fucking ass,” I growl against her slick flesh, squeezing the globes of her ass hard enough to leave marks.
I pull her limp body upward, savoring the weight of her against me as she collapses on my chest. Her skin is slick with sweat, her breathing ragged as she shudders through the aftershocks of multiple orgasms. I drag my hands up her back, feeling each vertebra, each muscle trembling beneath my touch.
“Holy shit,” she pants against my neck, her voice hoarse from screaming. “I think you broke me.”
I chuckle, running my hands up and down her back. My cock is painfully hard between us, pressed against her stomach, but I don't make a move to do anything about it. I want to just savor this moment where Katarina DeLuca is completely wrecked and boneless on top of me.
She shifts against me, and her movement drags her stomach across my rock-hard cock. The friction pulls a low groan from my throat.
Katarina lifts her head, those green eyes still hazy with pleasure as she glances down between our bodies. “Are you gonna take care of that?” she asks, her voice slurred with exhaustion as she gestures vaguely at my erection.
I smirk, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “Yeah, later. Take a fucking nap, brat.”
She huffs indignantly, but I can see how her eyelids are already drooping. A yawn escapes her, undermining any protest she might have made. “Bossy dick,” she mutters, but there's no heat in it.
I shift us both until we're lying properly on the bed, her body draped across mine like a blanket. Her head nestles into the crook of my neck, her breath warm against my skin. My cock is still throbbing between us, demanding attention, but I ignore it. This—having her soft and pliant in my arms—is worth the discomfort.
Her breathing starts to even out, her body growing heavier against mine as sleep begins to claim her. Just as I think she's drifted off, she stirs slightly.
“Thank you,” she whispers, so faintly I almost miss it, “for showing me what a man is. I think I can kind of tolerate you, Mr. Gallo. As long as you never do that shit from earlier again.”
My chest tightens at her words; a possessiveness flows through me that makes me want to tattoo my name on her ass.
I'll be the only man to show her what a real man is. I'm not fucking letting her go. I'm going to fucking marry her and put a goddamn baby in her, tying her to me forever.
No matter what it takes, I’ll fucking do it.
Chapter 19
Katarina
Ihit send on the email to Tessa with the final Contessa designs attached and lean back in my chair, stretching my arms overhead until my spine cracks. Fucking finally. After two weeks of revisions and feedback loops, the branding package is done, and I'm pretty damn proud of it. Not that I'd ever admit it to Conrad, but having this dedicated office space has made a world of difference. The north-facing windows cast perfect light over my drafting table, and I've never had this much room to spread out my work before.
My stomach growls, reminding me I haven't eaten since the coffee and bagel Conrad shoved into my hands this morning before I locked myself in my office. I stretch, feeling the satisfying pop in my spine, and head toward the kitchen where I can already smell something amazing cooking.
The past month has been…weird. Not bad-weird, just fucking strange. Like I've stepped into some alternate reality where I live in a mansion with a hot billionaire who cooks for me, fucks me senseless on the regular, and lets me do whatever the hell I want. It's domestic as fuck, and the scariest part is how not-terrible I find it.
I pause in the doorway, watching Conrad at the stove. His back is to me, broad shoulders moving as he stirs something that smells like garlic and butter and sex. He's wearing dark jeans that hug his ass perfectly and a black henley with the sleeves pushed up, showing off those forearms with the tattoos I love to trace with my tongue when he's pinning me down.
“If you keep staring at my ass like that, dinner's going to burn,” he says without turning around.
I roll my eyes even though he can't see me. “Don't flatter yourself. I'm just here for the food.”
He chuckles, the sound rumbling deep in his chest. “Of course you are.”
I walk over to the massive kitchen island and hop up on one of the barstools, leaning my elbows on the cool marble counter. “So, when's the move-in date?”
Conrad doesn't look up from the pan he's stirring. “What move-in date?”
“For me to go back to my apartment,” I say, watching his shoulders tense slightly. “After the burst pipe debacle and then you buying the entire freaking complex, you said it would take a month to have it all redone. Month is here, Mr. Money Bags, so I'm just wondering when I'm moving back in.”
His shoulders tense slightly, but he keeps stirring. “You're not.”
