“Well, that went better than expected,” Jameson commented in a dry voice, once they were in the car. She let out a frustrated yell.
“I can’t believe he did that!”
“He’s jealous.”
“But why!? I have literally fucked guys in front of him. He has been there during boyfriends and break ups and quickies and coyote-uglies …,” her voice trailed off.
“Because I’m the first guy that’s actually threatened him,” Jameson explained. She turned to face him.
“Is that why you’re not more upset? He said you treated me like shit,” she pointed out. Jameson laughed.
“I do treat you like shit, about half the time. I’m not upset because you’re in the car with me, and he’s in that apartment, alone. Winning,” he said, running his fingers through her hair.
“You’re winning all kinds of things tonight,” Tate said. He pulled her close.
“I told you, I always win.”
She pressed him back in to the seat and straddled his lap. It was like she was suddenly starving for him. She kissed and licked at his mouth, made fast work of getting his jacket off. But when she started to undo his belt, he grabbed her wrists and pinned her hands behind her back. She mewled in protest.
“I don’t want to wait till Weston,” she breathed, leaning against him and running her teeth down his neck.
“Ms. O’Shea’s apartment, Sanders,” he said in a loud voice.
She was surprised. He never wanted to go to her apartment. He hated where she lived, hated that part of town. She almost thought he was going to just drop her off, prolong her punishment. When they got there, though, he climbed out of the car with her and followed her up the stairs.
“Are you staying the night?” she asked, feeling giddy as she undid all the locks on the door.
“For as long as I want,” was all he replied, pushing the door open and brushing past her.
He moved ahead of her in to the room. Her apartment was tiny, two bedrooms and one bathroom – no tub, even. The kitchen was big enough for maybe one person to comfortably cook in; a small person. But it was clean, and it was cute, and she could afford her share.
Sometimes.
“I don’t usually bring people here,” Tate said, running her tongue across her bottom lip as she shut the door. She felt like she had cotton mouth. Even after all the time they’d spent together, he still had the ability to make her nervous.
“No?” he asked, stopping in the middle of the living room. She shook her head, dropping her purse onto a chair.
“No. It’s like …, my space. Me. I’ve never slept with a guy here. Not even Ang,” she blurted out.
“That’s a surprise.”
“We did it in the hallway once, outside the door. He threw -,”
“Jesus, Tate, as often as you talk about this guy, I’m beginning to think maybe I should fuck him, see what the big goddamn deal is,” Jameson snapped. She laughed.
“Maybe you should. He’d probably like it,” she told him.
“Oh, I’m sure he would.”
“Can I watch?”
“Tatum. Come here.”
It was a command and she heeded it. When she got to his side, he ran his hand up her arm, past her neck, in to her hair. When he got to the back of her head, he made a fist, bunching up her hair. But he didn’t pull. She stared at him.
“What are you waiting for?” she asked.
“If I hear his name, one more time tonight, I swear to god, I will make you regret it,” Jameson told her in a quiet voice.
Looks like someone else is jealous. New game?
“What if I don’t say his name, and just refer to him?” Tate asked. The grip on her hair tightened, pulling a little.
“Tate.”
“You said ‘hear his name’, so technically, I could just -,”
He used the fist in her hair to shove her forward. She stumbled in to the hall and didn’t need anymore prompting. She pushed open her bedroom door, barely sliding her skirt off before he grabbed her from behind. They crashed in to her dresser and she threw her arms out, catching their weight.
“Why do you like to push me?” he groaned, lifting her hair so he could bite at the back of her neck.
“Because I like it when you push back,” she whispered.
He turned her around and yanked her tank top over her head. It was all push and pull after that. She unbuckled his belt and shoved his pants to the floor. He shrugged out of his shirt and she pushed him back, onto the bed. She quickly slid her panties off and then straddled his lap, letting her shoes fall to the floor. She didn’t waste any time, just grabbed the base of his dick and sat down on it. She let out a shriek, holding herself still on him.
“Sometimes I think you don’t even need me to be mean to you – you do a good job all on your own,” Jameson chuckled in her ear. She reached for the back of his head and grabbed a handful of hair, pulling.
“Shut. Up.”
“I get what you’re doing, you know. I know when you’re baiting me,” he informed her. She rocked her hips against his, and was rewarded with a fluttering of his eyelids.
“Really? Then why do you usually take it?” she asked, her voice a little breathless as she moved her hips faster.
“Because this is all on my terms, and sometimes I like to indulge you,” he replied.
She couldn’t respond. When she was on top with him, he hit spots inside of her that might have actually been portals to other dimensions. She couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe. Just gasped and pushed and pulled. But after a couple minutes, something wasn’t right. She was perilously close to coming, but he was still sitting very still. Hands on her hips, silent. Jameson was never silent.
“What are you waiting for?” she gasped against his mouth.
“You’re upset. I’m angry. It’s too easy,” he replied, trailing his lips down her shoulder. She laughed.
“You’re too easy, Mr. Kane.”
He playfully glared at her.
“That fucking mouth. Sometimes, I swear, you’re just seeing if I’ll ever actually hit you,” he chuckled.
“Do it.”
She didn’t know who was more surprised, him or her. But she had said it. She stopped moving, looking in to his eyes. He had said it as a joke. Did she really want him to hit her? It was like another challenge to her. He didn’t think she could handle him, didn’t think she could take it. She didn’t think he’d ever actually go for it, ever stop restraining himself.
“Baby girl, I don’t want to hit you,” Jameson murmured.
Tate slapped him.
Once again, shock on both their faces. She hadn’t hit him hard, it was more noise than anything else. But his eyes were like fire when they came back to hers. She would have laughed, if she hadn’t been so nervous.
What is wrong with me?
“At least one of us isn’t scared,” she tried to cover up her nerves. He gave an evil, dark laugh. Satan was in the room.
“Now that is a fucking lie,” he hissed.
She slapped him again.
I’m suicidal.
“It feels good to be the one in charge for once, Kane. At least one of us isn’t a pussy,” she snapped at him.
“Tatum, I’m not fucking around, don’t -,”
She slapped him hard, and without hesitation he slapped her back. Before her head could even fully snap to the side, he had a hand cupping her jaw, pulling her back to stare at him. His eyes blazed in to hers. He hadn’t slapped her hard, not really. But still. Her heart rate doubled.
“Do not ever fucking hit me again, got it?” he said in a slow, even voice. She looked down at him, her eyes hooded. She felt high.
“I can’t make any promises.”
He swung her around, slamming her in to her mattress. She cried out as he pushed in to her, one of his hands immediately holding her down by the throat, the other grabbing onto her thigh. She gasped in time to his thrusts.
“Fucking Tatum. Goddamn. Fuck y
ou. Fucking tried to hit me in the car. Fucking hit me in here. Who the fuck do you think you are? Who the fuck do you think you’re dealing with?” Jameson demanded.
“You. Only you,” she moaned, raking her nails across her breasts.
“Stupid fucking bitch, I can’t believe you made me hit you,” he hissed.
If she would have been able to comprehend what he was saying, she probably would have slapped him right then. Just for emphasis. But she couldn’t comprehend anything – she was being pounded in to one of those other dimensions she had thought about earlier.
“I think …, you liked it,” she breathed, arching her back away from the bed. His hand moved from her throat to her breast bone, pressing her down hard in to the mattress.
“No shit. Fuck. Fucking kissed him. I couldn’t fucking believe it. I almost dragged you in to the car, fucked you right in front of him – you’d probably like that, wouldn’t you? Fucking kissed him in front of me, what were you thinking? Stupid fucking slut,” he growled.
Ah. It all came back to Ang. She was angry at Ang and angry at herself – so she wanted to be treated badly. Jameson was angry at Ang and angry at her – he wanted to treat someone badly.
We are a match made in Hell. He may be Satan, but I’m Lillith.
He pulled away and spun her around, forcing her onto her stomach. She didn’t have a chance to move before he hiked her hips in to the air and slammed in to her, his dick bottoming out on the first push. She screamed, pounding a hand against the wall across from her. It was pain. It was sexy. It was aggressive. She loved it. She tried to prop herself up, and he pushed her back down, a hand on the back of her head. She reached a hand back to touch him, and he grabbed it, pressing her hand against her face. She couldn’t see anything. Could only feel.
All she felt was him.
“I want you to come, Tate. Are you going to come for me?” he snapped from behind her, letting go of her head and dragging his nails down the length of her back.
“Yes, yes,” she cried out.
“You always come for me.” He kept dragging his nails down the exact same path, over and over.
“Yes.”
“It’s more than you deserve, whore.”
“Yes.”
“You’re so good to me,” he murmured. She let out a sob.
“Oh my god!”
She came, all those Kegel exercises she had told him about kicking in and locking his dick in to place. He went as deep as he could and then stopped, one hand holding onto her hip. She screamed and panted, pounding one hand on the mattress. The orgasm lasted forever, shredding her. Making her ache. The whole time, he raked his nails down that path on her back. Peeling away a layer of skin, exposing a piece of her soul. Stealing it from her. Or just taking it back.
Houston, we have a problem.
While she was still trembling and trying to figure out what the hell she was feeling, he pulled out of her. She didn’t have the energy to ask what he was doing; she just collapsed, sucking in air. After about a minute, she felt a hand on her ankle and she was suddenly yanked off the bed. She clawed at her bedding, taking a sheet down with her. She landed in a heap on the floor, the blanket falling over her shoulder. By the time she got her bearings, she saw Jameson sitting down in a chair in the corner of her room.
“Now that that’s done,” he said in a calm, soft voice, planting his feet widely apart and putting his hands on his knees. His erection jutted straight up and she had trouble not staring at it.
“Um …, what?” Tate managed, her voice hoarse.
“You are going to crawl over here, on your hands and knees. And you are going to suck my dick, like your life depends on it. If I decide to come for you, you are going to swallow every last drop. You’re not going to move. Understood?” he told her.
She didn’t answer. Instead, she just started crawling.
Tatum O’Shea, always such a nice, normal girl.
8
Jameson spent most of the next week in Los Angeles. He needed space. He couldn’t think straight, not when she was around.
Tate had followed his instructions that night, swallowed every last drop he had to give. Say what he wanted about her life, Tate had gotten some good things out of living on the fringe of society – she gave the absolute best blowjobs he had ever been privileged enough to receive.
She laid on the floor for a while afterwards, and eventually he crawled down next to her. And just chatted with her. She told him that part of the reason she had made him go out on the town, meet her friends, was because she was beginning to feel like his dirty secret, being hidden away in his house.
Stupid. It wasn’t that Jameson was ashamed of her; he just didn’t like to be around other people. Plain and simple. He hated to leave his house, regardless of whether or not she was there. She didn’t even factor in to it. He reminded her that if she thought something was about her, it probably wasn’t. She had laughed at him.
She told “scary” stories about her first year living alone in Boston. He told “scary” stories about the first hostile takeover he had overseen. She asked if he’d had any run-ins with her family, and he admitted that he’d dealt with her father several times, but they had never spoken about Tatum, or any of the O’Sheas. It hadn’t occurred to him to ask about her, but judging by the way she talked, her father wouldn’t have known anything about her, anyway.
Halfway through a very hair raising tale about her getting lost in the worst neighborhood in Boston, they heard the front door crash open. They stared at each other while they listened to a drunk Rusty stumble through the living room. There was some giggling, and then a man’s voice. Footsteps down the hall, some light sexy banter. Jameson pressed a hand to Tate’s mouth, to keep her from laughing out loud.
When the moaning started, he almost laughed himself. God, how did people have sex like that? “You’re so beautiful,” “You’re so amazing,” “Oh my god, you’re so amazing!” “Oh my god, you’re so beautiful!” Moan, moan. Pant, pant. Tate was almost convulsing under his hand, she was laughing so hard. It sounded ridiculous, and worse, it sounded fake. Jameson didn’t understand bad sex – why not just stop doing it? But the bed springs kept squeaking, the headboard banging out a dull rhythm.
Jameson had laid himself on top of Tate and began mocking the noises from the next room. She snorted and choked to keep from laughing, tried to push him off of her, but when he pawed at her breast, it stopped being a game. He pushed her legs apart, dipped his fingers in to her, pushed inside of her. She kept her lips together and moaned in her throat.
He whispered that she was beautiful, that she was amazing. But it was different from their neighbors - Jameson actually meant it. He didn’t know what to make of it. He had never treated her like that before, like she was delicate, or special. But he was beginning to realize that she was both of those things to him.
The next morning, he woke up before her. They had moved to the bed at some point and fallen asleep. Tate had been right next to him – the bed wasn’t very big, maybe a full. He was used to a king. She had been laying on her stomach, with one arm and one leg hanging off the side. He had watched her sleep for a while, his eyes wandering down the angry scratch marks on her back, over the bruises on the side of her neck. She let him do so many things to her. Eventually, she would want something in return, and that thought scared him.
He snuck out without waking her up. Stopped in at her landlord’s office, took care of her rent situation. If she couldn’t act like an adult, he could be one for her, he figured. He called Sanders and then called her cell phone, left her a voicemail. He didn’t want her accusing him of running away. That wasn’t what he was doing.
At least, he didn’t think so.
So he flew to L.A., tried to forget about her for a couple days. He was getting a little too attached to her. When he had seen her at the meeting with his lawyers, when he had known that he was going to sleep with her again, he had pretty much started thinking of her as a possession.
Something he had created, thus something that belonged to him. Pretty to play with, fun to banter with, but nothing more than that. Now, though, it was beginning to seem like a whole lot more.
He didn’t think that was okay. Jameson didn’t want to be attached to her, or to any woman. He didn’t want to need anyone, least of all Tatum O’Shea. So he set out to distract himself. Checked on some businesses he was involved with, went to some events, attended a gala. Met lots of women. It didn’t work too well. He still thought about her a lot. Her body, her laugh, her little games.
He was a little surprised that she hadn’t called him, and then he realized Tate had actually never once called him. Had he given the impression that she wasn’t allowed to? Sometimes he wasn’t entirely aware of how much of an asshole he was being, at any given point in time. After three days had passed, his curiosity got the better of him.
“Sanders,” Jameson barked across his hotel suite. A moment later, the other man’s head peeked around the door.
“Yes?” he asked.
“Have you spoken to Tate?” Jameson asked, looking over some newspapers.
“What? No. Should I have?” Sanders asked, sounding surprised. Jameson had thought maybe she would have called him – the two had a developed a weird sort of camaraderie, made weirder by the fact that Sanders hardly ever spoke. But it was obvious he liked her, enjoyed her company.
“No. Give me your phone,” Jameson said, holding out his hand. Sanders marched in to the room and handed over his cell phone. It was four o’clock in L.A., which meant evening in Boston.
“Is everything alright?” he asked. Jameson nodded, dialing Tate’s phone number. She answered on the fourth ring.
“Guten Abend, haben Sie die voicemail-box erreicht -,” her voice started prattling in German.
“What the fuck are you doing?” he interrupted.
“Jameson?” her voice laughed.
“Yes. I didn’t know you spoke German,” he said.
“I don’t, I only know that line. Did you get a new phone?”
“No, I’m using Sanders’ phone. Why did you answer in German?”
“I always do that, when it’s an unknown number,” she told him.
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