The Kane Series Boxset

by Stylo Fantome

  He had come out of the shower one morning to discover Tate gone from his room. Which was fine, he didn't care too much what she did with herself. He had just started to pull clothing out of his luggage when he'd heard shouting from the room next door. Ellie and Robert's room.

  Jameson didn't know why, but he'd had a bad feeling. He yanked on a t-shirt and some track pants, sighed, and headed out of his room. He hadn't wanted to deal with real family issues, didn't want to be the person to break up a family fight. But he had heard Tate's voice in the fray, and as always, she had piqued his curiosity.

  When Jameson saw Robert hit her, saw Tate go down to the ground, the first emotion he felt was shock. Utter shock, that someone could hurt Tate. The second emotion was rage. Pure rage. He hadn't even thought about it, just slammed through the bedroom door and pinned Robert to the wall.

  Jameson knew Tate wasn't exactly a wilting flower. She was a tough girl who had gone through some tough things, not to mention the fact that she had probably experienced more aggressive behavior from Jameson himself, while in bed. But in his mind, it was completely different. He was allowed to touch Tate that way because she was his; because it was consensual. Because she asked him to do it. Because she liked for him to do it. Because he would never, ever, hurt her. No one else was allowed to touch her like that, treat her like that.

  Should've ripped his fucking head off.

  That had marked the change. When Jameson looked back over the years, that moment was the true defining one. That's when he knew it was something different, that it was something more. Any other girl, he would've ended the trip, ended the relationship. Too much drama. Jameson wasn't about drama, he was about sex. But for Tatum, he wanted to grind Robert into dust. Wanted to pick her up and carry her away from it all. Shield her from her horrific family. Do bad things to her in bed, so she could forget about the bad things in real life.

  I wanted to save her. Took me all these years to figure it out, but even back then, I wanted to be her prince on a white horse.

  TATE SIGHED AND LEANED back against a wall. Jameson was smiling and mingling around the party. No one seemed to notice the bandage wrapped around his knuckles. When he had punched the photographer, he had clipped the camera. Sliced right through his skin.

  Of course he hadn't gone to jail. Bribes went pretty far in Hong Kong, and by the end of the whole ordeal, the paparazzi were the ones being carted off in a police car. Jameson sent a bell hop to tell Ang and Isadora that they would need to find their own way back to the hotel, then he carted Tate outside. Sanders appeared not long after, snapping his fingers at the valet.

  “Why would he say that?” Tate had asked, leaning over Jameson's hand, trying to judge whether or not he would need stitches.

  “Because people are assholes. Maybe he'll think twice before asking questions like that again.”

  “You shouldn't have hit him.”

  “I should've hit him harder.”

  “What was all that stuff they were saying, about my dad?”

  “Stuff you don't need to worry about.”

  “Jameson -,”

  “Don't push me on this, Tate. I'm not in the fucking mood.”

  Tate hadn't pushed him on the matter, but she didn't want to let it go, either. But after they got back to the hotel, she didn't have time to grill him. He immediately hopped in the shower to get ready for his party. So Tate followed suit and picked out an outfit. Took a shower as well. Made herself look as good as possible.

  What a fucking waste.

  Just like she'd predicted, she didn't know anybody, and just like she'd predicted, she had to watch Isadora pour herself all over Jameson. Tate wasn't jealous, per se, she just didn't appreciate the blatant disrespect. Ang showed up and blew a raspberry on her neck, promising to distract the Brazilian goddess for her. But before he could make it across the room, he got distracted by a different pretty girl.

  Men. What a bunch of fuckers.

  “Are you alright?”

  Tate smiled as Sanders moved to stand next to her.

  Okay, not all men.

  “I'm fine. Just bored. How are you? Feels like we haven't gotten to spend any time together,” Tate said, pouting her lip out. Sanders cleared his throat.

  “There'll be time later, I'm sure,” he replied, adjusting his tie.

  Hmmm, awfully early to be twitching. He's nervous.

  “Sandy,” Tate started. “Is there something going on that I should know about?”

  “Why would you ask me that?”

  “Because of this party. Dinner last night. Ang. Isadora.”

  “The party is because of the resort property he is investing in, Mr. Hollingsworth is for you, dinner was a matter of right-time-right-place, and Ms. Silva just happened to be an investor in the same resort,” Sanders prattled off quickly. Tate turned to fully face him.

  “One thing I've learned about you – when I really want to know the meaning behind an action, you feed me all the obvious points. But I know you know what I'm really asking,” she called him out. He swallowed thickly, didn't quite meet her eyes.

  “Then the question is why do you keep asking me, if you know I'll always respond that way?” he countered.

  “You'd tell me, wouldn't you? If he was planning something bad?” Tate asked in a quiet voice. Sanders' eyes finally met hers.

  “Of course I would,” he assured her, his voice very serious. She smiled and reached out, squeezed his arm.

  “And what will it take to convince you to move home for good? I miss you,” she decided to change the subject.

  “And I miss you, as well. But you know it's not that simple,” he replied. She snorted.

  “It is. There's plenty of -,”

  “Sanders!”

  Jameson had a voice that could carry when he wanted it to, so there was no mistaking who was calling. Sanders gave a tight-lipped smile to Tate before making his way across the room. She watched as Jameson laughed, clapped Sanders on the back. Introduced him around.

  This is so fucking boring.

  Tate groaned and pushed away from the wall. A glance at her watch told her it was only five in the afternoon. The party would go on for a while, but she was over it already. She wound her way through people, smiling politely at everyone. When she finally got to the other side of the room, she slipped into the bedroom, shutting the door softly behind her.

  Her phone was at one end of the dresser, plugged in and charging. She could see the notification light blinking on it, so she made her way over. Turned on the screen. It was from Rusty, her old roommate. Tate laughed as she scrolled through pictures of the other girl at a bachelorette party in Vegas. Tate had been invited to the same party, but had turned it down because she'd thought she would be busy with the bar. Turned out she was busy on the other side of the world.

  Well, not technically busy.

  Tate didn't know how long they texted back and forth. Long enough that she made herself comfortable, bending over the dresser and resting her elbows on top of it. She told Rusty all about her own trip, about Jameson dragging her from one odd incident to the next. Rusty and Jameson had met, several times, but the other woman had always been a little afraid of him. So Tate sent some embarrassing photos of him, hoping to humanize him a little.

  “What are you doing?”

  Tate glanced up to see Jameson standing in the doorway, his hand still gripping the knob.

  “Talking to Rusty,” she explained, going back to her phone.

  “There's a party out here, you know,” he pointed out. She nodded.

  “I know.”

  “Full of people.”

  “Yes.”

  “In person, that you can talk to.”

  “Got it.”

  “Tatum. Get the fuck off your phone and get out here.”

  “No thanks.”

  She heard the door shut, and then he was walking towards her.

  “I wasn't asking, Tate,” he warned her.

  “I'm just real
ly not in the mood, Jameson. I swear. Have your party, I'll just hang out in here. You can wake me when everyone goes,” Tate offered, finally looking at him again. He had moved to lean against the dresser right next to her.

  “I thought you liked parties,” he said in a soft voice. She chuckled.

  “I like my kinds of parties. This is people chatting and smiling and trying to guess how much everyone is worth. What no one seems to realize is none of them are as rich as you, so the rest doesn't matter. Boring. They don't even notice if I'm there or not,” she told him.

  “I notice, and that's all that matters,” he corrected her. She snorted.

  “I'm too tired to argue with you. Go to your party, flirt with your Brazilian, it'll be over before you know it,” she instructed him. He moved to stand behind her.

  “I'm sensing a little jealousy,” he replied, then she felt his hand on her back. He slowly ran his fingers down her spine.

  “Not jealous. Maybe a little annoyed, but not jealous.”

  His hand kept moving, sliding over the material of her tight pencil skirt, smoothing over her ass.

  “And attitude, I'm sensing lots of attitude. I don't care for that,” he said.

  His voice was getting hard, the pressure from his hand heavier. Tate stopped looking at her phone and without turning, tried to see if she could spot him from the corner of her eye. But he was completely out of her vision.

  “Not trying to be attitudey. Just telling you how I feel. And I don't feel like partying,” she continued, her voice low.

  “I don't give two fucks how you feel.”

  “Sounds like a personal problem.”

  He smacked her on the ass and she trapped her bottom lip between her teeth.

  Someone is definitely in the mood to play. I must not be the only one who finds this party boring.

  “Why couldn't you just come find me and ask me to end the party? Why do you always hide away?” he demanded, his hand moving back and forth across her skirt.

  “Oh, right, like that would work,” she laughed, then gasped when he spanked her again.

  “There's that attitude.”

  “Jameson,” she breathed.

  “Hmmm?”

  “You have forty people in the next room, all here at your request. You have to go back out there,” she told him.

  “Telling me what to do, Tate?”

  “Wouldn't dream of it, sir.”

  Spank.

  “Fucking attitude. Fuck, Tate. I fly you half way around the world, and half the time all I've gotten in return is your goddamn attitude,” he hissed.

  “Oh, c'mon, more like a third of the -,”

  Spank.

  “Shut the fuck up.”

  “You better be willing to finish what you start,” Tate panted.

  Suddenly, his hand was on her back, shoving her down. Her arms went out from underneath her and she dropped her phone as she was held down flat against the dresser.

  Rusty who?

  “What the fuck did you say to me?” his voice was deadly soft. She felt his fingers brushing against the back of her thigh, barely a touch. Then her skirt was moving. He pushed it up and over her ass, letting the material bunch around her hips.

  “Maybe I changed my mind. Maybe I do want to go back to the party,” she whispered, biting back a smile.

  “Too late for that, baby girl. You did this on purpose, you know I love these,” Jameson sighed, and she felt his finger run along the top edge of her stocking.

  “Not everything is about you. They went with the outfit,” she replied.

  “Did underwear not match your outfit? Because you aren't wearing any.”

  “Well, couldn't have any lines. That skirt is really tight. I don't want to be tacky.”

  “What you want is to be fucked.”

  Tate kept her mouth shut, humming softly as his fingers ran up and down the inside of her legs. She stayed silent until his fingers were pushing inside of her. Then she gasped.

  “Jameson. There's a lot of people out there,” she breathed, turning her head to the side, trying to see him. Because of his hand on her back, she couldn't lift herself at all, so she couldn't see anything. It was kind of a strange sensation, to be touched, but not see the touch-er. All the fun of being blindfolded, without the pesky blindfold.

  “Does that bother you?” he asked, hooking his fingers inside of her. She swallowed a moan.

  “No. I just ..., know how you are with new people,” she whispered. The hand on her back moved into her hair, pulling sharply.

  “Please, Tate, enlighten me. How am I with 'new people'?” Jameson hissed, forcing her to bend backwards.

  “You like to put on a good face. The deviant tycoon usually doesn't come out till later,” she explained, then cried out when he pulled hard enough that she had to look straight up.

  “'Deviant'? And keep it down, wouldn't want to ruin the 'good face' I've put on so far,” he told her.

  “I didn't come in here so you'd follow me,” she suddenly blurted out. She wasn't looking for a pity fuck, not even from Jameson.

  “Too bad, cause I did. Stop talking,” he snapped. She groaned, moving a hand to the one he had in her hair, trying to loosen his hold.

  “Can't stop, sorry,” she replied. He took his fingers away and she moaned at the loss. But then he was pressing against her, pinning her legs against the dresser.

  “Goddammit, Tate. I said shut the fuck up. Why can't you ever fucking listen?” he growled.

  “Why can't you fucking learn that I don't like to listen?” she managed a laugh.

  He didn't respond. Tate heard a drawer open and she tried to turn her head to look, but he held her firmly in place. There was a soft rustling sound, like he was digging through some kind of material, then the drawer slammed shut.

  “What are you -,”

  Tate couldn't finish her question, because something was shoved into her mouth. It took her a second to figure it out. Her tongue was against something soft. Almost cool feeling. Smooth. Satin.

  He just shoved a pair of panties in my mouth.

  “You never fucking do as you're told, so I'll just have to make you,” he informed her, then he was shoving her down flat again.

  Her hands weren't bound together, he wasn't holding her in place. She could pull the material out of her mouth at any point. But she didn't. Tate pressed her palms flat against the dresser and groaned loudly as she felt his cock pressing inside of her. She dragged her fingernails across the wood, shuddering when he was pressed up against her, filling her to the brim.

  She had come into the room to escape the party. To escape that uncomfortable feeling of being in a room full of people she didn't know. Now, she was getting fucked in a room next to that room full of people she didn't know.

  And she didn't find it one bit strange that she finally felt comfortable again.

  She shrieked and cried out as he began pounding into her. The underwear wasn't doing too terribly good a job of muffling the sounds, but she supposed it was better than nothing. His hand found its way back into her hair, yanking at the roots, but not pulling her up. His other hand was gripping onto her hip, pulling her back against his thrusts.

  “Fuck, Tate, it's been too long,” he moaned from behind her. She managed a nod.

  “Mmmm hmmm,” she agreed, not able to manage real words.

  “If you weren't so busy being a bitch half the time, we could be doing this more often,” he informed her.

  “Hmuck hoff,” she snapped back.

  “What was that?”

  He pulled the underwear from her mouth and she gasped in air.

  “I think ..., you understood me ...,” she panted. He let go of her hip and spanked her, eliciting another groan.

  “Watch your fucking mouth.”

  “God, you're so eager today. Did your Brazilian get you all heated up?” Tate taunted him, wanting more from him. More hands, more words, more everything.

  “She's pretty fucking hot, but I
couldn't seal the deal,” Jameson replied, almost pulling out of her entirely. Tate held her breath while he slowly slid back in, then wham, he was slamming against her. She shrieked and he repeated the action.

  “Too old to land them anymore?” she managed to ask, then bit down on her own finger as he slammed home once again.

  “She's too busy blowing Angier in the bathroom. Maybe I'll get next go around.”

  “Lucky girl.”

  He pulled away abruptly and yanked her back around to face him. She was gulping in air when he forced her head up to face his own, his mouth covering hers. It was an angry kiss, full of clashing teeth and aggressive tongues. He walked them backwards, around the bed, and then he sat down on the side of it, pulling her on top of him.

  “You want to be the one sucking his dick right now?” Jameson asked, helping her as she struggled to unbutton his shirt.

  “It has been a while,” Tate taunted. He shoved her hands away before just pulling the shirt apart, popping off the buttons.

  “Whore.”

  “Only for you.”

  “If it's only for me, why are you talking about blowing him?”

  “You're the one talking about Ang's dick. If you're so curious, I'm sure we could -,”

  His fingers wrapped around her neck, squeezing so tight, he froze the words in her throat.

  “Don't ruin this by making me ill, Tatum,” he snapped.

  She wanted to respond. Come up with a retort that would really make him mad. But he was pulling up on her throat, forcing her up onto her knees. Then his free hand was between them, guiding her back onto his dick. She sighed, settling herself on his lap.

  “This is so much better than your party,” she whispered, nibbling on the edge of his ear.

  “No shit.”

  “Better than Ang.”

  “It had better be.”

  “Better than a Brazilian.”

  “Let's not get crazy.”

  “You can fuck yourself.”

  Tate went to pull away, disgusted, but his arm wrapped around her waist. The shift was lightning quick – first, she was straddling him. Then, she was underneath him, and he was plowing into her like it was a race.