“Is somebody here?” she asked. He glanced back at the room as he led her up the stairs.
“Sanders. He works late in there sometimes,” he explained. She laughed.
“That poor man, I probably scared him,” she snickered. She had been screaming like it was a competition, cursing a blue streak. Oops.
“Please. He's walked in on a lot of scenes like that, I doubt he even notices it any more,” Jameson snorted as they reached the second floor. He dragged her down a hall, past a bunch of doors.
“Fuck a lot of women in your library?” Tate asked. Jameson looked over his shoulder at her.
“Jealous?”
She laughed.
“No. You fuck women in libraries. I fuck men in odd, semi-public locations. Po-TATE-o, po-TOT-o,” she replied. He laughed and finally stopped them in front of a large door at the end of the hallway.
“Well, I feel left out. A desk and a bed seem kinda boring in comparison,” he chuckled, pushing open the door.
“I didn't want to say anything,” she said with a straight face, and he laughed again before leading her into his bedroom.
It. Was. Huge. She dropped his hand and walked forward, taking it all in, while he kicked the door shut behind him. He had a huge king size bed. Walk in closet. Expensive, heirloom looking furniture. She walked over to a side table, running her fingers across expensive looking cuff links and watches. Everything was dark, every inch of the room screaming with masculinity. With him.
Tate downed the rest of her drink and slowly turned around to face him. He was still in front of the doorway, his arms crossed, watching her. She sat her glass down on the table and slipped the top of her dress back off her arms. Peeled it over hips. Dropped it to the floor and kicked it aside. Stood in front of him, a hand on her hip.
“So. Fuck a lot of women in here?”
~6~
Tate yawned and stretched, unable to help the wince that followed. She felt sore just about everywhere. It was delicious. She opened her eyes, focused on high ceilings with ornate crown molding. She turned her head to the right – day light was streaming in a window next to her. She turned her head to the left – Jameson was on the other side of the king sized bed, sleeping on his stomach. She smiled and sat up.
It had been a pretty amazing night. She hadn't really known what to expect. Maybe rougher sex and less talking. The way it had all gone was better, though. Like he had said, they were getting reacquainted. Best not to get into the crazy shit the first time they slept together. He had been almost gentle with her in his bedroom, and she could tell he was holding back for her. Prepping her. His words still had bite, though; a promise of what was to come.
Tate rubbed at her neck, working the kinks out with her fingers. She let her fingertips dance along the tops of her shoulders, and on the right side, she could feel a raised welt. She let her fingers play over it for a minute, trying to figure out exactly what it was, when she remembered him biting her.
Glancing at him, she slid out of the bed and scampered across the room, into the bathroom. She closed the door and looked at herself in a full length mirror. Her eye makeup was everywhere, she looked like a panda. Or really, with the combination crazy bed head, a punk rocker that had escaped from the '80's.
She leaned in close, examining the bite mark. He hadn't broken the skin, but it looked ugly. It made her feel warm. She turned around, looking over her shoulder, trying to see her butt. There was no bruising, but one side was distinctly redder than the other. Her back also had red marks going down its length. Jameson had sharp claws. When she turned to the front again, she could see bruise lines forming at the tops of her thighs – she had known those would show up. She then got right up against the mirror, looking over her jaw. She had smacked the desk pretty good, but no marks. That was good. She liked it rough, but she didn't like walking around with a black eye. People asked too many questions.
She tip toed back into the bedroom, and saw that Jameson was still asleep. She watched him for a moment. His hair was rumpled and cute, his arms akimbo to his head, hands clasped under a cheek. His position made the muscles in his broad shoulders bunch and come together, and she chewed on her bottom lip, tempted to scratch him awake.
She didn't, opting to find her underwear instead. She found her bra hanging from the side of a mirror and quickly slipped it on; she decided her underwear was a lost cause and threw them away. She was shimmying back into her dress when she heard the covers rustle around.
“Sneaking out, baby girl?” Jameson spoke, his voice scratchy with sleep. Tate chuckled.
“No, I would've woken you up to say goodbye,” she replied, struggling with the zipper on her back. Once she had it all the way up, she looked at him. He had pulled himself into a sitting position against the headboard, hands behind his head. His piercing blue eyes were traveling over every inch of her.
“Ah, but who told you that you could leave?” he asked. She laughed and walked over to the bed.
“I didn't realize I needed permission,” she responded, kneeling on the mattress and making her way to his side.
“You need to ask permission for everything.”
“Probably not gonna happen, Jameson,” she laughed, sitting back on her heels. He sighed and dropped his hands.
“Well at least we broke you of one bad habit. I swear, your mouth must get you into so much trouble. Very defiant, baby girl. If I had to hear you say 'Kane' one more time,” he didn't finish the thought, just sucked air through his teeth.
“I don't see what the big deal is – pretty much everyone else calls you Kane,” she pointed out. He leaned forward.
“You're not 'everyone else', you're different. You get to see the real me,” he told her.
Her heart leapt in her chest. She was different to him, she got to see the real him. Too much info. She didn't know whether to jump for joy, or head for the hills. Ang had told her to be careful, and she had laughed at him. She should have heeded his warning a little better.
“Well, I'll have to see the 'real you' later – I have to go,” Tate laughed. Jameson narrowed his eyes.
“Why?”
“Because, it's almost eleven o'clock. I have to go home, run some errands, shower, get ready for work. I work at the bar Thursday through Saturday,” she explained. He nodded and yawned, rubbing a hand over his face.
“Right, right, the shit hole. I'll be in Manhattan this weekend, but I'll be back Sunday. I'll call you,” he told her.
“Ooohhh, Manhattan weekend. Lifestyles of the rich and the famous,” she teased. He rolled his eyes.
“There's that mouth. Hold on, I'll have Sanders get the car,” he said, leaning over and grabbing a phone that was next to the bed.
While Jameson barked orders at poor Sanders, Tate did her best to wipe away the makeup that was under her eyes. She could go into the bathroom and wet a towel, but it was too much effort. She didn't want to move away from him until she had to go. She swept her hair up into a ponytail just as he was hanging up the phone.
“Poor Sanders, I don't think you're very nice to him,” she commented, pouting out her bottom lip. Jameson reached out and pinched it.
“It works for us,” he replied, running the edge of his thumb along her bottom teeth.
“Where did you find him?” she asked, when he let his fingers trace over her lip and down the side of her jaw.
“London,” he answered, his fingers moving down to her throat.
“Is that the accent he has? Didn't seem British,” she commented. Jameson nodded, his fingers moving around the edge of his bite mark, which was just barely peeking out the side of her collar.
“It's not originally where he's from, but it's where I found him. He was trying to steal from me,” he continued, pushing the material to the side and leaning close so he could examine the wound.
“Steal from you!?”
“Yeah. He was thirteen, a pickpocket. A bad one. Probably about a week away from collapsing. I admired his tenacity. He's
been with me ever since,” Jameson finished the story, smoothing her dress back into place.
“How old is he now?”
“Twenty.”
“Wow. That's crazy, I thought he -,”
“Tate,” Jameson interrupted, his hand going to her neck and cupping the back of it. “You're obsessed with other people, I swear.”
“Says the man who stalked me to get me here,” she countered. He snorted.
“I didn't hear you complaining last night.”
“You wouldn't have listened, even if I did.”
“You're okay with all this? You're not running away to hide from me?” he asked, narrowing his eyes at her. Tate laughed.
“Jameson. If you knew some of my stories. One time Ang and I got kicked out of a fancy restaurant because he crawled under the table and went down on me during the whole first course – last night was nothing scary to a girl like me. I can handle anything you can dish out,” she assured him.
“There is a big difference between me going down on you, and me calling you the 'dumbest cunt I've ever fucked'. It has been my experience that most women will say they're okay with something, and after the fact not be okay with it at all,” he said, his fingers massaging her skin. A shiver ran through her body at his words.
“I'm not most women,” she reminded him. “It's all fun to me. A game. Sometimes, I'm the dumb cunt. Sometimes, you'll get to be.”
“I very much fucking doubt that,” he snorted. She started laughing.
“I don't have time for this, Jameson,” she managed to say. “We can play some more on Sunday, I have to go home now.”
Tate started to move to get off the bed when he yanked her forward. Suddenly, his mouth was over hers, and she was gasping into him. Both his hands went to the back of her head, drawing her forward. She followed, straddling his lap and pressing her own hands against his chest.
They hadn't kissed at all the night before – she hadn't even realized it till after she had woken up. Their lips had been all over each others bodies, but no kissing. She hadn't thought it a big deal at the time. Now it seemed like a very big deal.
Tate had forgotten what kissing him was like, like he was stealing all her breath away. Sucking it right out of her lungs. She moaned, scooting as close to him as she could get, rubbing herself against his chest while she coiled her arms around his neck. She could feel her heart palpitating, and if she hadn't been so lost in the moment, lost in the taste, and scent, and feel of him, she would've gotten nervous. Heart palpitations weren't a good thing, when it was only supposed to be games between them.
His hands dropped to her spread knees and he slid them up her thighs, under her dress. The palpitations got worse. Just as he was discovering she wasn't wearing any underwear, the bedroom door opened behind them. Jameson pulled away a little, but didn't take his eyes off of hers.
“The car is ready, sir,” Sanders' clipped voice came from the doorway. Jameson stared at her for a second longer and then flicked his eyes over her shoulder, his hands continuing their journey under her dress.
“Twenty-minutes, Sanders,” he replied, his gaze going back to Tate's. She smirked down at him.
“Very good, I'll wait downstairs.” And the door clicked shut, just before Jameson started to slide her skirt up over her butt.
“You're very authoritative, Mr. Kane,” Tate breathed, licking her lips.
“You have no idea.”
Then he was pinning her to the bed, forcing his tongue between her lips and his knee between her legs.
Why did I bother getting dressed?
WHEN TATE FINALLY GOT home, she rushed around like a mad man. Stopped in at the temp agency to tell them she was off the market for a while. Called Ang and left him a voicemail that pretty much consisted of just squealing into the phone, then hopped in the shower.
She had stayed much longer than twenty minutes in Jameson's room. It was closer to a whole hour later when she finally got out of the bed. After taking a shower together, arguing over whether or not it was appropriate for her to wear his clothing instead of her just-had-sex-in-it dress, him punishing her for arguing, then finding clothing of his that worked for her, it was actually hours later when she finally left, closer to three. Her shift at the bar started at six.
She came out of her bathroom and walked straight into a body. Tate screamed, slapping Ang across the face, not realizing it was him. He grabbed her arm before she could swing again.
“Jesus, starting a little early,” he said. She yanked her hand away.
“You scared the fuck out of me! What are you doing here!?” she demanded. Ang had a key to her apartment, but she hadn't been expecting him. They usually didn't see too much of each other on the weekends.
“I'm not fluent in stupid-girl-speak, I have no idea what your voicemail was about, and I had a shitty day, so I thought I'd stop by,” he explained. She frowned up at him, her anger vanishing in an instant. He looked kind of upset, and it took a lot for something get under Ang's skin.
“You had a shitty day? I'm sorry,” she said, then led him into her room. He stretched out on her bed while she rummaged through her closet.
“Yeah. Pedro backed out of the film, so they're pulling the whole shoot. Then my grandma stopped by. You know how joyous that can be; 'Angier, when are you going to become a respectable person!? You're going to burn in hell!' - one of my all time favorite speeches of hers,” he told her. Tate threw some clothing at the foot of the bed and then sat down next to him, rubbing her hand over his flat stomach.
“You know she's just an old bitch. Why do you let her get to you?” she asked. He shrugged.
“She just does. I can still remember when she used to bring me over to her house, bake me cookies and shit. Now I'm not even allowed to go over there,” he grumbled.
“Well, fuck her, then. She's missing out on the most amazing person I've ever met,” Tate replied. Ang rolled his eyes and looked at her.
“Like it's so easy for you to have your family hate you,” he pointed out. She blinked in surprise.
“It is. I don't care that they hate me,” she responded. He shook his head and propped himself up.
“Yes, you do. Whenever you get drunk and talk about them, that's when you get the nastiest. I know when you start babbling about your sister, I finally get to pull out the ropes and lube,” Ang told her. She laughed.
“That is so not true,” she chuckled, but then his hand was on her knee, his fingers sliding up her leg. A very similar gesture to Jameson's, just a couple hours ago. Her breath caught in her throat when Ang scooted closer.
“Doesn't matter. I feel like shit. She makes me feel like shit, I hate it,” he grumbled, leaning into kiss her neck.
Tate swallowed thickly. She was in unfamiliar territory. While under normal circumstances she and Ang got it on whenever they felt like it, it usually wasn't when one of them had just slept with another person. And she didn't know all the rules to the game she was playing with Jameson. Would he be mad if she slept with Ang? He had made it very clear that their relationship would be a purely sexual one, but that didn't necessarily mean it wasn't exclusive. She pushed at Ang's shoulders, forcing him to look her in the eye.
“You shouldn't let her get to you. I know it's hard, and sad, and kinda depressing sometimes, but it's still so much better than life with them. We always have each other, so fuck everyone else,” she said. He sighed, then he leaned into kiss her, his arms wrapping around her waist.
Hmmm, maybe went the wrong way with that speech.
“It was horrible. You know how she is, she stood in the hallway after I kicked her out. Banged on peoples doors, screaming about her 'faggot grandson', same old shit. I don't want to hate her ... but I hate her so much,” he breathed against Tate's skin.
Ang had been a huge part of her life, for a very long time. Jameson may have peeled away the excess material, exposing the real Tatum – but Ang had helped mold her. She had sharpened her tongue and claws against him, amongst o
ther things. He needed her, and while most friends hashed shit out over beers or ice cream or whatever, she and him had their own fucked up ways. It just worked for them.
So she went with it. She felt kind of guilty and wrong – feelings she wasn't used to experiencing anymore – but she also wanted to make Ang feel better. Make him forget a little bit of his pain. He pulled her over so she was straddling him, and he ran his hands up and down her back before settling them on her shoulders.
“I have to go to work soon, Ang, so maybe I can just give you a -,” she started, when he suddenly bolted upright. She clung to his shoulders, almost getting catapulted off the bed.
“What the fuck is this?” he asked, running his fingers over the welt on her shoulder.
“Jesus, you startled me!” Tate snapped, then looked at where his fingers were touching.
“Did he do this to you?” Ang asked, leaning in close to the bite mark.
“No, I was trying to chew through my own shoulder, so I could escape,” Tate laughed. Ang glared at her. He had gone from upset to angry, very quickly.
“Are those teeth? What the fuck, Tate? That looks painful,” he snapped. She laughed.
“You're joking, right?”
“And your legs! What the fuck happened!?” he demanded, his hands gripping her thighs. Her towel had ridden up, exposing her bruises. They both stared down at her lap.
“What the fuck do you think happened? Ang, it's not like any of this is new to you. A couple weeks ago, you practically gave me a concussion, when you were practicing one of your 'moves' for your movies,” she used air quotes, making a face at him.
“That's a little different, Tate. I've been fucking you for five years. This guy just found you two days ago, and you're letting him tear chunks out of you!?” Ang's voice was getting loud. Tate scowled and climbed off his lap, holding the towel secure around her body.
“That guy found me seven years ago, and not one mark on my body is unwanted, or was unasked for. If you're gonna give me a bunch of shit, then maybe you should go,” she growled, stomping over to her door. Ang stayed on her bed, running a hand through his hair.
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