Page 78 of Tempting Kat
Is it manipulative? Absolutely. Do I give a fuck? Not even slightly.
Because here's the thing about Katarina—she wants this life. Wants me. Wants a family. She's just too fucking stubborn to admit it, too wrapped up in her fear that she doesn't deserve good things. Too worried that I'll eventually see what she thinks are her flaws and walk away.
As if I could ever leave her. As if there's any version of my future that doesn't have her in it.
Maybe I should feel guilty for the pill switch, but I don't. What I feel is anticipation. Excitement. The thought of her belly swelling with my child makes me fucking feral. The idea that part of me is growing inside her right now sets something primal loose in my chest.
I've seen the way her pupils dilate when I talk about breeding her. The way her pussy gets wetter, tighter. She wants it too, even if she's too stubborn to admit it.
I check the pasta, testing a piece between my teeth. Al dente. Perfect. As I drain the water, I hear Kat's footsteps coming back down the hall. Lighter now, less stomping. She's calmed down.
Or she's planning my murder. Either way, I'm fucking hard for her.
“Dinner's ready,” I call out, plating the pasta and ladling the sauce over it.
She enters the dining room looking paler than usual, her lips pressed into a tight line. She's wearing my shirt still, and I can see her nipples poking through the fabric. Fuck, she's gorgeous when she's pissed at me.
“Sit,” I say, pulling out her chair. “Food's getting cold.”
She hesitates, eyeing me suspiciously, but hunger wins out.
I take my place across from her, enjoying the view as she twirls pasta onto her fork. Her first bite is tentative, and I see the moment the flavor hits her—her eyes closing briefly in pleasure. Despite her anger, my cooking still gets to her. Good.
“It's good,” she admits grudgingly, taking another bite.
I smirk. “I know.”
We eat in relative silence for a few minutes, the tension between us thick enough to cut.
Halfway through her plate, something changes. I see it happen—her face suddenly drains of color.
“What's wrong?” I ask, though I already know.
“Nothing,” she says, but her fork is suspended halfway to her mouth, and she's swallowing hard. “I just...something tastes off.”
I frown, taking another bite of my pasta. “Off? The sauce is perfect.”
She shakes her head, setting her fork down. “No, there's something...it tastes...wrong.”
“That's impossible,” I say, genuinely offended. “I wouldn't use rancid produce if my life depended on it. Every ingredient is fresh.”
Her hand flies to her mouth, and I can see the moment the nausea hits her full force. She shoves back from the table, knocking her chair over in her haste.
“Fuck,” she chokes out, then bolts from the room.
There's absolutely nothing wrong with my sauce. This is morning sickness hitting her at dinnertime.
I find her on her knees in front of the toilet, her body heaving as she empties her stomach. Her hair is falling around her face, and she's trying to hold it back with one shaking hand while the other grips the toilet bowl.
I kneel behind her, gathering her hair in my fist and pulling it away from her face. My other hand rubs slow circles on her lower back.
“Get out,” she gasps between heaves, trying to shrug me off.
“Not a chance,” I murmur, tightening my grip on her hair.
She retches again, her body trembling against mine. I hold her steady, my chest pressed against her back.
She's definitely pregnant. There's no fucking way something's wrong with my sauce. I've been cooking that recipe for twenty years, and it's never made anyone sick.
