The Kane Series Boxset

by Stylo Fantome

  Jameson and Ellie met again on several occasions, “bumping” into each other. He would later learn that a lot of it had been carefully crafted by their parents, arranging the whole relationship from the get go. Every time, Ellie angled for a date, mentioning restaurants she liked, offering to get him into exclusive events, blah blah blah.

  Jameson didn't give two fucks about restaurants or events – he just wanted to know what she was like in bed.

  It took a long time, longer than he would have liked. She was charming and smart, but boring as fuck. He had been raised to be polite, however, so he stuck it out. He'd never gotten along with his father, but for once, the old man was pleased with his decision. Jameson was tired of butting heads with him, so staying with Ellie just seemed easier.

  She wasn't horrible in bed – though of course, most women had to actively try to be bad in bed. She was eager to please, but it soon became apparent that she wasn't eager to please him in the ways he really wanted. And Jameson was coming to realize that the things he wanted were pretty far from “normal”.

  The first time he ever “met” Tatum O'Shea, it was the beginning of February. Jameson had managed to avoid officially meeting the O'Shea clan for as long as possible, but after two months of dating Ellie, he couldn't beg off anymore. No one could pitch a fit quite like she could, and Jameson hated a fit. So he agreed to have dinner at her house.

  He was standing in the living room, having a brandy with Mathias, when the front door swung open, then slammed shut quickly. Jameson glanced in the hall, then did a double-take. A girl was walking towards the stairs, snapping into her phone. She had long black hair that had been yanked up into a messy ponytail on top of her head, and she was wearing running shorts that were so ridiculously tight and tiny, she might as well have just been wearing underwear.

  But thinking that made him wonder if she was wearing any underwear at all, which then led to thoughts of peeling her shorts off of her and doing unspeakable things to her ... most likely involving tying said shorts around various parts of her body, and -

  “Kane,” Mathias barked. “Have you met my other daughter, Tatum?”

  That's the girl from the Christmas party!?

  “No, I haven't,” Jameson replied.

  “Willful child, that one. We told her you would be here tonight, told her what time to be home, but did she listen? Of course not. Ridiculous. And that outfit. She looks like a prostitute,” Mathias grumbled. Tatum was oblivious to all this as she paced in front of the stairs, arguing with whoever was on the other end of the phone.

  Stop looking at her like that, she's sixteen, you fucking pervert.

  “It's not so bad, she was obviously exercising,” Jameson managed to respond.

  Tatum finally got off her phone and jogged up the stairs. Jameson cleared his throat, looked away. Mathias grumbled some more, but they didn't talk about Tatum again. Though Jameson spent the better part of the night watching the stairs, waiting for her to come down, wondering what she'd look like in normal clothing.

  She never came – he would later learn that her father had sent her a message telling her not to, telling her that she had already embarrassed him enough in front of their guest.

  Over the course of his relationship with Ellie, Jameson didn't see Tatum a whole lot. The two girls were far enough apart in age that they really didn't have that much in common. On top of that, they were two very different people. Two people who didn't get along very well. Ellie never invited her sister anywhere or to anything, and Jameson avoided family gatherings like the plague, so he never had a reason to be around Tatum.

  But every time he did find himself around her, he was struck by her presence. She was somewhat shy and reserved, but when she did smile, it was big, and lit up the room. She had sharp, dark eyes, and was very smart. And her body, dear lord. She was only five years younger than him; if they had been twenty-five and thirty, it wouldn't have made a difference. But seventeen and twenty-two? Jameson knew the way he looked at her was inappropriate. Still, good looks were good looks, he couldn't deny that, and Tate had looks in spades. Different from Ellie. Darker.

  There was something about her that brought out the dark thoughts in Jameson, as well.

  The first time Jameson tried to break up with Ellie, he had been very blunt. He told her the main reason was because she was boring in bed. Jameson wanted something else, something different. Ellie screamed and threatened and cried. Jameson didn't care.

  That first attempted break up was the first time he slept with someone outside of their relationship. He had gone to a bar, hooked up with a waitress. A very adventurous girl with a ridiculously talented mouth, but the best part – the woman loved when he pulled her hair. Something about this thrilled him. The harder he pulled, the more she liked it. The deeper she sucked him, the harder she rode him.

  This is what I want.

  And so it continued for a year and a half. He would try to dump Ellie. They would have a fight. He would warn her that he was going to sleep with someone else, he would go sleep with someone else, he would tell her that he slept with someone else – and Ellie would still beg him to stay. It was insane. What an insane, fucked up relationship.

  He would come to learn that he specialized in those kinds of relationships.

  But outside pressure from his father, from her parents, from Ellie herself, kept him with her. Deep down, Jameson admitted he was weak. He would rather take the path of least resistance, then just dump the bitch and deal with his father's wrath. So Jameson stayed. Slept around, explored his darker proclivities with other women.

  And as she got older, he could admit, he would occasionally fantasize about Tate. She was sexy as fuck, and forbidden fruit. She was nice as could be, always polite, a “please and thank you” kind of girl; which just seemed to spur him on more. The nicer and politer she was around him, the more he wanted to do ..., something. Shake her out of her pastel existence. Scare her. Wrap his hand around her throat and squeeze.

  But only a little.

  It was all a fantasy, though. He also thought pop singer Katy Perry was sexy, but he was most likely never going to sleep with her. He would never actually touch Tate; wasn't actually, literally, attracted to her. Too young, too immature, too inexperienced, too off-limits.

  No, there would never be anything between him and Tatum O'Shea.

  ~4~

  “Hello?” Tate called out, creeping around the penthouse. She kind of remembered Jameson saying he had to run an errand, but she'd been in a post-coital fog. Not a whole lot can get through that kind of fog.

  The boys had been gone for a long time. Once again, Tate was suspicious. Where were they sneaking off to? And she wasn't necessarily surprised by Jameson behaving that way, but it was a surprise coming from Sanders. He wasn't a fan of surprises either, and certainly didn't like taking part in them.

  Oh god, this is all an elaborate plan to sell me in to sex slavery. Took him two years, but he finally found a buyer.

  Tate meandered around the rooms. Ate some grapes. Danced naked on the balcony. Then she finally got dressed and laid down. Took a nap. She woke up to the sound of the door opening. She sat up, rubbing at her eyes.

  “Tate?” Jameson's voice rang through the room.

  “In here,” she yawned out.

  “Well, be out here.”

  Feisty.

  Tate crawled out of the bed, dragging her feet as she made her way into the living room area. Jameson looked her over and burst out laughing. She blinked at him.

  “What? What!?” she asked.

  “Were you sleeping?” he ignored her question, walking up till he was right in front of her.

  “Yeah. Why?”

  “Your hair, you slept on it while it was wet.”

  He was still laughing as he lifted his hands to her head. She could feel him patting down her hair, so she reached up and felt it, as well. She cringed. Yeah, not good. She was basically rocking a giant rat's-nest-poof on the back of her head. />
  “Guess another shower is in order,” she teased, leaning into him and wrapping her arms around him.

  “Okay, but this time, you get to spend the whole time on your knees,” he warned her.

  “Hey, no one made you do that for me, and I would have been happy to reciprocate, but you ran away. Where have you guys been all this time? Where's Sanders?” Tate asked, realizing for the first time that he wasn't there. She glanced around, but didn't see him anywhere in the room.

  “Look, I know you don't like surprises, but I think you'll -,” Jameson started.

  He was interrupted by a banging noise, though. Something banged into the hotel room's door, and then it opened a little. There were voices in the hall – Tate recognized Sanders speaking softly, though she couldn't make out what he was saying. Then someone else started to talk, and they weren't being soft at all.

  “I didn't fly all this way on a moment's notice just so you and Satan can tell me what I can and can't do.”

  Tate let out a shriek and started running for the door, just as it began to swing open. Sanders walked in first, but she ran right past him, throwing herself at the other voice.

  It's been too long.

  Angier Hollingsworth hadn't changed much over the years – she often joked that he was a vampire. The man didn't seem to age. He was still lanky, his hair still messy, his smile still naughty. The only difference was now he was semi-famous and pretty wealthy. Tate hadn't seen him in quite a while, because both their schedules were so busy. She couldn't get time away to see him as often as she used to, and he couldn't get any time at all, period. The porn industry was very demanding, and Ang was sitting at the top of it.

  Well, more like laying down, really.

  “What are you doing here!?” she yelled, leaping on him. Ang stumbled backwards with her weight, dropping his luggage as he fell against the wall in the hallway.

  “I was invited!” he told her, wrapping his arms around her as she wrapped her legs around his waist.

  “I've missed you, Angie-wangy,” she sighed, pressing her head into his neck. Ang always felt a little like home to her. Warm, familiar, comforting.

  “I always miss you, Tater tot,” he countered, hugging her tightly.

  “God, I think I'm going to be sick,” Jameson's voice came from behind them.

  Tate laughed and unwrapped herself from Ang, stepped back onto the ground. She helped pick his bags up and carried them into the hotel suite. Showed him around a bit, let him ooh and aah over the décor, the balcony.

  “Seriously, Ang. What are you doing here? Jameson hasn't told me anything, I'm not even sure what I'm doing here,” Tate asked while they looked out over the ocean. Ang turned towards her.

  “He called me a week or two ago, told me he'd be bringing you out here, thought maybe you'd like the company,” he explained.

  “Sanders called you a week ago?” she asked.

  “No, Satan.”

  “Jameson called you!? Himself? Like actually spoke to you?” Tate guffawed.

  Jameson and Ang had never become friends. They tolerated each others' presence for her, but they were just two totally different people. They were cordial and polite, got along on a basic level, but that was it. There were no phone calls or text messages between them. The idea of Jameson calling Ang was downright bizarre.

  What the fuck is going on?

  “He called you – two weeks ago – to ask you to come on this trip? And I didn't even know I was coming on this trip till yesterday morning?” Tate clarified, still in shock. Ang swallowed thickly and shrugged, turning back to look out at the water.

  “Might have only been a week, I don't know. And he only said he might be bringing you, and that he might want me to come. I only got the call yesterday morning that he actually wanted me here,” Ang broke it down.

  “God. I must have really made him feel bad,” Tate mumbled, remembering their talk in the hammock – which must have happened after Jameson had called Ang.

  “Not surprising. You're kind of an asshole.”

  Tate punched him in the arm.

  “Shut up. Let's get something to eat, and you can tell me all about your latest sex-capade,” Tate suggested, linking her arm through his and leading him back inside.

  “You know, believe it or not, I might actually be a little over having sex,” Ang told her, and Tate burst out laughing.

  “I don't believe it. You? Not possible.”

  Jameson was in some sort of phone meeting, so Tate took Sanders and Ang downstairs to a restaurant. Sanders told Ang all about Moscow, and Ang told Sanders all about reach-arounds.

  Just like old times.

  Jameson finally joined them, which added a sharp edge to the conversation. Tate had often wondered if the rivalry between the two men would ever die down. Two years was a long time, but both still seemed to be locked in some sort of war with each other.

  “You owe me big time for this,” Jameson commented after Ang had left to find a bathroom. Tate snorted.

  “I shouldn't have to owe you for something I didn't ask for,” she pointed out.

  “Shut the fuck up and tell me how grateful you are.”

  “Beyond words, darling.”

  “Shut up.”

  “Jameson,” Tate started, “why are you still so pissy with him? And if he makes you so antsy, why did you invite him?”

  “I am not 'pissy' with Angier, I just don't like him. And I invited him for you,” Jameson repeated the sentiment.

  “You acting like a bitch about the whole thing kinda ruins the gift,” she teased.

  “Tatum?”

  “Hmmm?”

  “Shut the fuck up.”

  “Anything for you.”

  They were silent for a while. Sanders picked at his salad. Jameson glared off into space. Tate smiled at him. He finally glanced at her, did a double-take, then stared at her.

  “What? That blank stare makes you look like a cow,” he said bluntly.

  “Jesus. How did you ever manage to pick up women with a mouth like that?” she replied.

  “I got you easy enough.”

  “Thank you,” she suddenly blurted out. Jameson groaned and ran a hand over his face.

  “Your mood shifts become tiring. What are you thankful for?” he sighed.

  “For you bringing Ang, for trying to salvage this trip for me. For putting up with me,” she offered. Jameson nodded.

  “Good. You should be thankful.”

  “Oh, trust me, I am.”

  ~5~

  Jameson sat at the foot of the bed, watching Tate as she shut the bedroom door. All the lights were off in the room. The blinds had all been drawn, only leaving a sliver of light coming in just at the bottom of the windows. They had never turned on the air conditioning when they'd gone to lunch, so the room was sweltering hot. But Tate made no move to turn on the AC. She knew he liked it warm.

  She knows me so well.

  Jameson loved this side of Tate. Of course, he loved all sides of her – first and foremost, he loved her heart and soul. But he thought it was stupid that people never wanted to admit that sex played a part in a loving relationship. Yes, he loved having sex with Tate. Yes, he loved how she was in bed. It was a large part of what had drawn him to her in the first place, her sex appeal.

  He especially loved that he was the only one who got to see that side of her, anymore. Outside of the bed, in public, Tate was a spitfire. A dominating personality, she knew how to command a room. How to garner attention. Her wit and personality, her smart mouth and sassy words. She didn't take shit from anybody, over anything. Very independent. Very strong willed.

  So it gave him a dark thrill to see such an independent, strong willed woman down on her knees. Lowering herself to crawl across the bedroom floor to him. So slow in her movements, accenting the sway of her hips. She reached his feet and sat back on her heels. Placed her palms on his knees, then slid them up his thighs, pushing his legs apart. Her body quickly filled the void and she s
lid up his length, pressing her lips to his ear.

  “Game?” she whispered, slowly moving till she was straddling his lap, raised up on her knees.

  “What kind of game?” he whispered back. She kept shifting and sliding around, moving like silk against his body, till she was kneeling at his side.

  “You can't say one word,” she breathed, moving around so she was pressed against his back.

  “Or what?”

  “Or I win, and it's all over,” she chuckled, working his tie loose and dragging it over his head.

  “Doesn't sound like a very fun game to me,” he pointed out, letting her pull him back. She forced him to lay down flat as she moved back to his side.

  “Trust me, I'll make it fun,” she assured him, and he felt her hands on his belt buckle.

  “You say that. Somehow I doubt it,” he challenged her. She snorted and yanked his pants down.

  “By the end of the night, you'll be worshiping me. Game starts now,” she said.

  “Wait, I never -,”

  Her teeth skimmed the underside of his dick, and Jameson choked on air. She chuckled; a condescending sound that made him want to yank on her hair and tell her who was in charge. But he hated to lose. So he swallowed his groan and closed his eyes, reveling in the feel of her lips working their way to the base of his cock.

  This woman will be the death of me.

  Of course, that was nothing new. Jameson had slept with a lot of women in his day, and none of them compared to Tate. She always kept him wanting more. Was always more than enough, which was really saying something, considering the crazy things he'd done in past. The crazy things that had become somewhat standard to him. Almost boring, even ...

  “... IS ALL THE PAPERWORK ready?” Jameson asked, strolling down a wide hallway while trying to eat a hot dog. Lunch on the go.