It was all going so well that by the following spring, she approached Jameson with the idea of opening a second bar. Something a little different. A little darker, sexier, and in a different part of town. His response was a hearty “no”, at first. But she had ways of convincing him, and it helped that she promised to keep the same hours. It took a couple months of begging, but she finally got her way.
“We should have a party.”
Jameson suggested it towards the end of the summer. It was shocking – Jameson never wanted to have a party. Never wanted to leave the house, and never wanted people to come over. Tate had been busy scouting new bars, and figured it was his way of getting her attention.
“What kind of party?” she asked.
“A special kind.”
“Oh god. I'm not ready for an orgy.”
“Prude.”
He thought it would be fun for one last hoorah, of sorts. The new bar, along with the old bar, would take up all her free time. It would be a while before they would be able to get out and get away, or anything like that; so why not have Sanders come home for a visit, and they could spend an evening in New York together?
Well, who could say no to that? Didn't seem like such a big deal.
Though she seemed to have forgotten that virtually everything Jameson did turned into a big deal, some way or another ...
“CAN WE PLEASE gooooo!?” Tate groaned at the foot of the stairs. It was an hour or so after the library incident, and still, Jameson was being tight lipped about their plans. Had only told her to be ready to go in an hour. It was one o'clock in the afternoon, and it only took three or four hours to drive to New York. Seemed kind of early for dinner.
If they were going to dinner.
I hate surprises.
“Jesus, you're like a toddler,” Jameson grumbled, finally coming down the stairs.
“Well, I've been waiting down here for forever,” she pointed out. He rolled his eyes and turned his back to her.
“Ten minutes. It's been ten minutes since you came down here,” he corrected her. She smoothed out the material over his shoulders, then pulled the hem of his suit jacket into place.
“It feels like forever,” she tried to argue.
“Shut the fuck up or we won't be going anywhere.”
She skipped out the door behind him.
Sanders drove. It felt kind of strange, having him behind the wheel again, but he refused to ride as a passenger in almost any car he was in, so they let him drive. Tate didn't pay attention to where they were going, so she was surprised when they stopped at her bar. She stared for a second, taking in the neon “O'Shea's” sign.
“You brought me to work?” she asked. Jameson nodded, putting his hand on the small of her back.
“Yes.”
“You throw shitty parties.”
“Shut up.”
It turned out to be a surprise party. Jameson had arranged everything – the bar was closed, and there were drinks and enough food for everybody. Tate laughed and full on kissed him, to the point cat calls had to be issued to get her to let go of him.
She ate, she drank, and she most definitely made merry. Possibly too merry. Several cocktails and a couple shots later, Jameson announced it was time to go. They really were going to New York, and they would have to book it if they wanted to make it in time for their dinner reservations.
“Mmmm, how many hours does it take to get there?” Tate purred, leaning into him after they were in the car and on the freeway.
“We have about three left to go,” Jameson replied, loosening his tie a little. Tate ran her hand up and down it.
“What should we do to pass the time?” she asked softly, then nibbled on his ear lobe. He chuckled.
“I did just throw a party for you. I think you owe me,” he suggested. She laughed, then stretched one of her legs across his own.
“Oh really. And what do I owe you?” she asked, her voice husky as she raked her nails down his chest.
“Something big.”
“I think you owe me something big.”
“You can have that at the end of the night.”
“I want it now.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because Sanders is driving and you still haven't learned how to keep your mouth shut.”
Jameson had actually had the Bentley outfitted with a privacy window between the front and back of the car, but it wasn't entirely soundproof, and he was right; Tate wasn't quiet at the best of times. When she was tipsy, like she was right then, she wasn't able to keep quiet at all.
But he did point out that she couldn't make too much noise if her mouth was full. Before the thought was even fully voiced, she was on her knees, pulling his belt loose. She had him coming in record time.
Dinner was amazing. The best food, the most expensive champagne, and the two people she loved most in the world. Even Sanders had a couple glasses and was convinced to laugh more than a few times.
“No getting drunk, you're our designated driver,” Jameson reminded him. Sanders cleared his throat.
“Of course not, I am not a 'drunk',” he replied. Tate cackled.
“Remember that time ... when Jameson was out of town? And we got wasted,” she stammered in between chuckles. Sanders smiled.
“Yes. You tore down the curtains in the library,” he recalled. Jameson's eyebrows went up.
“That's how those got ripped!?”
“Tattle tale,” Tate laughed even harder.
Dinner had been late, which led her to guess that they were going to stay in a hotel for the night. So Tate was shocked when Sanders drove right through downtown and pulled up in front of a night club.
“Seriously?” she asked, glancing back at Jameson.
“Seriously. Occasionally, I like to see you smile.”
Jameson wasn't the biggest fan of dancing, and generally hated proper night clubs. Too much noise, too many people, too many rules. If he was going to be crammed into a building with dark lighting and sexy music and half naked women, he figured he should at least be allowed to have sex at some point. Most U.S. night clubs frowned on that kind of thing, so he rarely went – if Tate felt like a night out, she usually had to do it solo.
But he'd gone all out for her that night. They bypassed the huge line, of course. Mr. Kane did not wait in lines. A velvet rope was swept aside with great flourish, and then they were led into the dark club by a young man who seemed way too excited to help them.
Someone should've warned him that Jameson's a stingy tipper when it comes to guys.
Of course there was the main dance floor, and of course there were VIP tables. They walked past all of those to a back wall, in front of which stood several wrought iron, spiral staircases. Tate looked up and was surprised to see matching balconies that showed people dancing. Private rooms. Nice.
“If you need anything, anything at all,” the young man was gushing as he showed them around their room, “just pick up the phone and a waitress will be right with you. Tammy will be your server, and she'll be with you shortly.”
Jameson made himself comfortable on a velvet couch while Sanders stood by the door, looking uncomfortable (i.e., normal). When a waitress showed up to take their order for bottle service, Tate went out to bop around on the balcony, and didn't come back in until the liquor was delivered.
Scotch for Jameson. Perrier for Sanders. And of course, Jack Daniel's for Tate.
She had the best time. Jameson sat in the room and smoked cigars, chit-chatting with Sanders, but that didn't stop Tate from finding fun. It turned out that a semi-famous rap star was in the VIP room next to theirs, and while she was dancing, Tate got to talking with some girls that were on his balcony. Before long, she was stretching and crawling over the railings, tumbling into their party.
It was a good two hours before she made her way back to the balcony. She was significantly tipsier, but still having fun. She cackled and shouted into her room, leaning over the raili
ngs. Jameson finally came out.
“Jesus, I thought you were going to stay over there all night,” he snapped.
“Pfffft, you knew where I was, you could've come and gotten me,” she pointed out.
“I shouldn't have to chase you down.”
“You love chasing me down. Heellllpppp,” she whined, holding her arms out to him.
He shook his head, but Jameson was laughing as he helped lift her over the railings, back onto their side. She laughed as well, stumbling into the room and falling on the couch. Sanders stared across the room, but a smile played on his lips.
“Having a good time?” he asked.
“The best time. But my feet hurt,” she groaned, sticking her legs up in the air and shaking her feet in his face. She was wearing ridiculously high stilettos. She wondered why she'd thought they were a good idea.
“I told you not to wear these,” Jameson reminded her as he sat next to her and grabbed onto one of her ankles, removing the offending shoe.
“Shut up, they're hot looking,” she snorted, wiggling her other foot around, trying to stay out of his grasp.
“Very hot. Sanders,” he barked. “She has spare shoes in the car. Go get them.”
Sanders nodded and hustled out of the room.
“Oh, thank you, so much better. You take such good care of me,” Tate groaned, stretching her legs out once he got her other shoe off.
“Always, Liebe,” he agreed, gently massaging one of her feet.
Liebe. German for “Love”. It never stopped feeling good to hear it. She felt warmth spread across her chest.
“This was a very good time, Jameson. Thank you,” she told him.
“It was. Ready to go home?” he asked. She snorted again and sat up, pulling her legs away.
“Are you kidding!? The night's still young! You're not ending this early for me,” she warned him.
“This night is getting boring. I can only talk about Russian literature for so long before I feel like strangling Sanders,” Jameson pointed out.
“You could be having fun with me, instead of being an old man,” Tate suggested, standing up and stretching her arms over her head.
“Watch it,” he warned her. She smiled at him over her shoulder, then went and closed their door.
“Old man. How old are you now, Jameson? Thirty-three? God, that's depressing. I should trade you in for a younger model,” she teased him. He leaned back into the couch, stretching his arms out along the back of it.
“Funny, sometimes I have the same thoughts about you,” he countered. She rolled her eyes.
“Please, you could never find another woman like me.”
“No. But it might be fun to try.”
“You want to try?” she asked, coming to a stop. He smiled, but his eyes were narrowed.
“Hmmm, I don't know. It's been so long. Maybe I'm 'too old' to play the field anymore,” he told her. She gasped melodramatically.
“No! Not the Jameson Kane! Never. You've still got 'it', I'm sure,” she assured him, her voice syrupy sweet. He barked out a laugh.
“Well, thank you for that vote of confidence, Tate.”
“God, it's must be so easy to be you,” she sighed, running her fingers over his jacket, which was hanging on the back of a chair.
“You think so?” he asked.
“I know so.”
“You try handling and trading the same amount of money as the GNP of a small country, in a single day, and tell me how easy it is,” he snapped. She shrugged, slowly turning her back to him.
“I meant the other stuff.”
“What other stuff?”
“Not Jameson Kane, the financier. Jameson Kane, the man.”
She peeled her top off and chucked it over her shoulder. He was silent, so she kept going. Unhooked her bra and threw it as well. Then she picked up his jacket and slid it on, turning around as she buttoned the top button. It was so big it almost hid the tiny shorts she was wearing, and displayed everything from her cleavage down to her belly button. Jameson stared back at her, one of his eyebrows raised.
“You think that's easy? I deal with you, every day,” he reminded her. She laughed and slowly moved around the couch, till she was behind him.
“Please. I'm the easiest part of your day,” she argued, leaning over him from behind and stretching her arms along his. When her hand ran into his watch, she slowly unclasped it and slid it off his wrist. Pulled it onto her own.
“You are easy. Dealing with you, however, is another story entirely.”
“You're so funny!”
She slipped out of her shorts and kicked them aside before continuing her turn around the couch. She was completely naked under his jacket, but the material still hid all the good bits. Jameson's eyes bounced from her legs to her chest to her face. It made her smile. After all the time they'd spent together, after two years, he still looked at her like she was breakfast.
Best thing ever.
“I thought you wanted to party,” he questioned as she moved to straddle his lap.
“Oh, I definitely want to party,” she chuckled, working his tie loose and then slipping it over his head.
“What did you have in mind?” Jameson asked, watching as she put his tie on herself.
“Hmmm, don't know. Maybe I could just slap you around for a while, see where the night takes us,” she joked.
“Jesus, you really do want to be me tonight,” he snorted.
“Don't I look the part?”
“Not quite as good looking as me, but almost.”
“God, you're such a dick.”
“Good thing you love dick.”
“That's not even funny.”
“Yes it is.”
Tate leaned forward and kissed him.
They had been kissing each other, on and off, for over nine years. Every single day for the last year and a half, but it never got old. Never got stale. She always wanted more. She moaned when his fingers wrapped around her jaw, tilting her head to give him better access. Hissed when his teeth bit into her bottom lip. Whispered “please” as his fingers clawed their way up her thighs.
“This is the real reason you got a private room,” Tate chuckled as Jameson twisted them around, laying her down on the couch.
“I know how you get when you drink,” was his response as he unbuttoned the jacket.
“I'm not -,” she tried to argue, but it turned into a gasp as he squeezed her breasts.
“Time to be quiet now, Tate,” he instructed her, his hands sliding down to her hips for a brief moment before he started undoing his belt.
“I don't want to be quiet,” she complained.
“Shut up.”
“You like it when I'm loud.”
“Only when I want you to be loud. And now I want you to shut up.”
“Maybe I don't want -,”
“Shut the fuck up. This is your last warning.”
Hmmm, do what he wants, or what I want ... well, it's my party, so this should be about what I want.
“Make me,” she challenged him.
Jameson's response was instantaneous. He roughly yanked the tie up over her head, grabbing her wrists in one hand at the same time. He pinned them above her head and tied them together, then knotted the tie around the leg of an end table behind her. There was almost no slack, and when she yanked at her restraints, they knotted tighter.
“Always gotta be pissing me off,” he growled, his teeth meeting her neck while his hands went back to his pants.
“I like to keep it interesting. Untie me,” she whispered, licking at the shell of his ear.
“Too late. If you're lucky, afterwards I'll untie you and let you leave with us,” he replied, his hands forcing her legs around his hips.
“You know I don't like to be tied up,” she reminded him. He actually laughed.
“Do you think I give a fuck?”
“But I thought this party was for me.”
“It is.”
And then he was i
nside of her. Tate cried out, her shoulders arching away from the couch. His hand came down against her breast bone, pressing her down flat, then he leaned forward. Kissed her softly.
“Do you want to be untied?” he whispered, his lips against hers.
“I want you to do whatever you want,” she whispered back.
He slammed his hips against her so hard, she actually shrieked, and her hands automatically jerked against the tie, yanking the entire end table forward. A lamp wobbled and fell to the floor, but Jameson didn't seem to notice. Just kept fucking her.
Oh wow, he's been saving up for this ...
On a technical level, Tate didn't know how to describe the sex they had; it wasn't “making love”, that was for sure. At least, not the way most people thought of it. When they really got going, there was always at least some small, sharp sting of pain, with a thick layer of pleasure blanketing it. Perfection. Jameson was simply too big, in every sense of the word. On top of her, inside of her, his hands against her. He took her over and overflowed her and she spilled over with him.
Absolute perfection.
This is how we make love.
“Jesus, Tate, I tell you to shut the fuck up, and you start screaming even louder,” Jameson hissed, pounding into her. Tate tried to respond, but couldn't catch her breath. She tried to reach her arms towards him. That's why she hated being tied up – she wanted to touch him, to always be touching him.
“It's the only way your hear me,” she finally managed to get out.
“Is that a fucking joke? How could I ever not hear you; you never stop talking.”
“And you never listen.”
He slapped her across the face.
He's pulling out the good stuff awfully early – he must want this over quickly.
“Watch how you fucking speak to me,” he growled. Tate shook her head, straining her hips towards his own.
“I'll speak to you any way I fucking want,” she pressed. He slapped her again, and then his hand was tight around her neck. Squeezing. Almost choking.
“Goddamn, Tate, you're mouth,” he moaned, his mouth moving to her breast. Biting. Kissing. Samesies.
“You love it,” she panted, her whole body starting to shiver.
The Kane Series Boxset Page 80