Page 76 of Tempting Kat
“Motherfucker,” I mutter, gripping the steering wheel tighter.
Why does he have to be sweet right now? It's so much easier to be mad at him when he's being an arrogant, controlling asshole. This considerate shit is throwing me off my game.
I pull into the pharmacy parking lot, still fuming. How dare he tell me to spend his money? Like I'm some kept woman who needs his permission to use his credit card. The fact that I actually do have his credit card in my wallet is completely beside the point.
I slam the car door harder than necessary, earning a worried look from an old lady loading groceries into her Honda. Whatever. Let her judge. I'm having a crisis here.
The pharmacy is blissfully empty except for a bored-looking cashier scrolling through her phone. I march straight to the prescription counter, where a middle-aged pharmacist with kind eyes greets me.
“Picking up?” she asks.
“Yes, Katarina DeLuca.”
She nods and disappears into the back. My phone buzzes again.
Get something nice for yourself while you're out.
I roll my eyes so hard I nearly strain something. I type back furiously:
Stop telling me what to do with your money. I don't need your permission to spend it or not spend it.
His reply comes almost instantly.
Not permission. Encouragement. There's a difference, brat.
The pharmacist returns before I can respond, holding a small white bag. “That'll be $35.99.”
I dig through my wallet, purposely bypassing Conrad's black card to pull out my own debit card. It's petty, I know, but it feels like a tiny victory.
The pharmacist swipes it and hands me the bag with a smile. “All set! Have a nice day.”
Oh, I will because I’m about to take this car on a coastal drive now that I’ve secured the goods.
Chapter 23
Katarina
Ifucking hate how good domesticity looks on us.
Another month living with Conrad, and I'm folding his ridiculously expensive boxer briefs like it's the most natural thing in the world. The laundry room smells like fabric softener and his cologne, and I'm drowning in one of his dress shirts that barely covers my ass while I sort through our mingled clothes.
Our clothes. Jesus Christ.
I never thought I'd be this person—the girl wearing her man's shirt, doing laundry on a Sunday while he cooks in the kitchen. Yet here I am, and the scariest part is how right it feels.
I haven't told Conrad about the birth control pills I've been taking. After that whole gloryhole breeding kink session, I filled my prescription anyway. Not because I don't want his baby—which is a terrifying thought all on its own—but because I need it to be my choice, not his executive decision.
“Fuck,” I mutter, realizing I've been folding the same pair of socks for two minutes while lost in thought.
The marinara sauce he's making smells incredible, wafting through the entire house. My stomach growls in response.Conrad cooks like he fucks—with intense focus and skilled hands. The thought makes my pussy clench involuntarily.
I'm shoving a stack of t-shirts into a basket when I feel him before I hear him—that shift in the air that happens when Conrad enters a room. Then his arms are around me, wrapping me in his heat and strength. His face burrows in my hair, inhaling deeply like I'm some kind of drug he needs.
“You smell like me,” he rumbles against my neck, his lips brushing my skin.
“That's what happens when I steal your shirts,” I say, trying to sound annoyed but failing miserably.
His hand slides down to my belly, settling just above my pubic bone. His fingers tap rhythmically against me through the thin fabric of his shirt.
