“'Are we' what, Tate?” he asked, his voice breathless as he slammed his hips against hers.
“Are we going to do this again?” she managed to ask. He pulled back and stood up on his knees, then grabbed her by the hips, driving into her even harder, abandoning himself to the carnality of the moment. Her eyes rolled back in her head and he smirked down at her.
“You're going to let me do this whenever I want,” he informed her.
“Yes, Jameson, yes, yes, yes,” she chanted, scratching her nails down his arms. He brought one hand down flat against her chest, between her breasts, pushing her down against the bed. Anchoring her to his thrusts.
Whenever I want, anytime I want, all the fucking time I want. Fuck, she's incredible. How has she been hiding all this sexuality?
“You love this, fucking me,” he said, not even giving a thought to whether or not he was saying too much, or pushing her too far. They'd already gone over the edge. He was going to say whatever he wanted, and she was going to fucking like it. “Your sister's boyfriend. Winning, right? Don't you think this kind of makes you a slut?” he asked, slowing his thrusts. She started panting again.
“Yes, I do,” she answered. He slid his hand up her chest slowly, creeping onto her neck.
“Tatum O'Shea. Perfect, princess, goody-two-shoes-Tate. Who would've thought, a slut,” he swore at her. She moaned, the words having their intended effect, and he groaned roughly when she raked her hands across her own chest. He gently wrapped his fingers around her throat.
God, why does this feel so right? So ... perfect?
“Yes, for you, Jameson. Just for you,” she breathed, and it was like music to his ears. His slowed his movements even further. He would almost pull all the way out, then he would plunge back inside, to the hilt, so slow.
“Whenever I want,” he repeated his earlier statement. She rubbed her lips together and nodded again.
“Of course,” she sighed, and he let go of her throat.
“Goddamn, you're so fucking sexy, Tate,” he groaned, dragging his fingers up the insides of her thighs.
“Are we together?”
He immediately stopped moving. Fuck music – that was more like a record scratch. He glared down at her, but her eyes were closed.
“What?” he asked, his voice full of steel. She rolled her head to the side and opened her eyes, staring at the wall across from them.
“You're dumping Ellie. Does this mean we'll be together?” she asked.
And just when I was starting to think you were different. Stupid fucking girl.
He barked out a cruel laugh, then started slamming into her again. Tate cried out, her hands going to his chest, her nails hooking into his muscles. He leaned down close, forcing her legs as wide apart as they could go, his chest pressed against hers, his hips pumping up and down.
“I don't date sluts, Tatum,” he informed her
“But I'm -”
“A good fuck, yes. But Ellie is my girlfriend. I never said I was dumping her. And even if I did, I wouldn't date her sister. Wouldn't date some eighteen year old,” he laughed in her ear.
“We have to stop, we have to stop, we have to stop,” Tate started moaning, but she made no move to do so. Her hips actually started thrusting up against his, matching his rhythm perfectly.
“I don't think so,” he whispered anyway, sliding his hand between their bodies so his fingers could pinch and pull at sensitive flesh.
Tate screamed and a monster orgasm seemed to spring out of nowhere, surprising both of them. She jerked forward off the bed and coiled around him, clamped her teeth onto his shoulder. It was like shooting off a flare gun into his nervous system. He let out a roar and started coming, as well. Every muscle he had tensed and pressed down onto her, and he could feel her orgasm intensify, ripping a sob from her chest as it did so. It actually took a couple minutes for the tremors to subside, for both their bodies to become still again.
“Holy shit,” Tate breathed, collapsing back onto the bed.
“Fuck. Fuck,” Jameson whispered as he rested his forehead on her chest.
They laid like that for a while, coming down from the high of good sex. Eventually he felt her hand come to rest on his back, her fingers slip-sliding against his slick skin.
“Did you -” she started to ask in a thick voice, but he didn't want to hear it. Didn't want the memory to be ruined. Jameson lurched off the bed, yanking his pants up as he went.
“Shut up. Don't say a fucking thing. Just get dressed,” he ordered. There was a silk blouse on the floor – one of Ellie's, Tate had probably dropped it there when she'd gotten caught in her own shirt. He picked it up and threw it at her. She caught it as it landed over her face.
“How can you -” she started when they were interrupted by a buzzing sound. They both froze for a second, then Jameson made his way into the living room. He walked up to the front door and stared at the intercom for a moment. He was so tired of bullshit. Then he sighed and pushed the button.
“What?” he asked, his voice full of his agitation.
“I'm locked out down here, I forgot my keys. Buzz me in,” Ellie's voice filled the apartment.
Moment officially over. He buzzed her in, sighed again, then walked back into the bedroom. Tate was sitting on the bed, her bra back on properly, her face in her hands.
“What are you doing? I suggest you get dressed,” he said. She lifted her head to watch him walk across the bedroom and into the bathroom.
“How can you be so calm? After what we just did?” she called out, but he didn't respond right away. He cleaned himself up, took a piss, then put his clothing back to rights before heading into the room.
“It's not a big deal unless you make it a big deal, Tate. Get dressed, or you're going to have a lot of explaining to do to your sister,” he said, pulling a shirt out of his closet and yanking it on. Behind him, he could hear her struggling to get to her feet.
“I just had sex with you! We just had sex! We have to tell her!” she shouted.
Jameson finally looked over his shoulder at her. Her skirt was back in place, but she hadn't bothered with the silk blouse at all. She was breathing hard, her chest heaving up and down.
Just like I always knew – sexy. She just needed someone to bring it out of her.
He finally lifted his eyes to her face.
“Alright. You want to start that conversation? Once I'm gone, it's over, I never have to see her again. But you, you're her sister. Much worse for you,” he pointed out.
He was blunt by nature and often unaware of how rude he was being at any given point in time. He also generally didn't care. So when he saw her bottom lip start to quiver, he realized he'd upset her.
Good. Better to know what kind of person you're dealing with. Sex is just sex, baby girl.
“You're an absolutely horrible person,” she hissed, blinking away tears. He couldn't resist it – he laughed at her.
“No shit, but you just fucked your sister's boyfriend, so what kind of a person does that make you? Now get your goddamn clothes on, and get out,” he said, then he grabbed her by the arm and dragged her through the bedroom door.
They stopped just long enough for Tate to button up the silk shirt while he grabbed her cardigan off the floor. She refused to look at him while she tried to make herself look presentable, finger combing her ponytail as best she could. He decided not to tell her it was hopeless.
“I'm going to forget tonight ever happened,” she informed him as they strode towards the front door. Jameson laughed again.
“Baby girl, you couldn't forget if you tried,” he said, pressing himself against her from behind. It was one thing for him to end things – it was quite another for her to think she could just brush him aside.
And when he felt a shiver run through her body, he knew she wouldn't be able to.
“You had better break up with her. If you stay with her, you're ... you're sick,” she informed him, her hand on the door knob. He shrugged, not m
oving his weight away from her.
“I can live with that. See you around, Tate,” he said. She yanked open the door.
“No, you won't.”
He kept on laughing, though even he could tell he sounded angry. Maybe even a little evil.
“I will if I want to.”
While Tate stomped off down the hallway, Jameson noticed that the elevator was arriving at the opposite end of it. He stepped back into the apartment and slowly shut the door. He could hear Ellie talking to her sister, her voice full of annoyance. Disdain. He'd never quite understood why Ellie didn't like her sister. There wasn't much about to Tate to dislike.
He was standing by the windows when Ellie finally came inside. She was already bitching about her sister, and he resisted the urge to groan. He'd already spent half a night listening to Tate doing that – he wasn't about to listen to Ellie do it, too. She wasn't good enough in bed to make it worth it.
Tate, on the other hand ...
What a pleasant surprise. More than pleasant. Fucking amazing.
He'd had good sex before, he wasn't particularly shy in bed with anyone. But he'd never felt so free before; had never just let go and done anything he'd wanted to do. Every dirty word, every mean thought that had come into his head, he'd given it voice. And she'd loved it. Every moment of it. It had been an awakening, for both of them, he was sure.
“What's this?”
Ellie's voice finally broke into his thoughts, and he turned around to see her staring at the floor. She was behind the couch, standing just a couple feet away from him. He followed her gaze, not sure what she was talking about. There was something near her feet, a black piece of fabric. A sock, maybe?
“I don't know,” he said, wondering why she was bothering him about it when she could just pick it up and find out for herself.
But then she did, and at the same moment, he realized what the object was – Tate's panties.
Jameson had been raised well, he knew how to comport himself in most situations. So he knew he should say something, or make an excuse, or finally just sit down and have a long talk with her, end things for good.
But he did none of those things.
Instead, he found himself smiling as he watched her unfurl the black lace. Grinning as she stretched the panties between both her hands and gaped at them.
“What the fuck is this?” she demanded, glaring at him.
“Looks like underwear.”
“Well, it certainly isn't mine!” she yelled. He folded his arms across his chest and finally lost his smile.
“No. No, it's not.”
“Then whose is it?” she snapped, waving the underwear in front of him. “Did you bring one of your whores here? Into our home?”
“I'm not sure which is more insulting – that you think I need to pay for sex, or that you think this is our home. My name is on the lease, not yours.”
“Just stop it! I may have to put up with your disgusting habits, but I don't have to deal with them in the place I live!” she snapped. “Is she hiding in the bedroom? The closet? Jesus, Kane, you disgust me.”
“If I ever brought a whore home, I wouldn't hide her. I'm not ashamed, and I'm not scared of you catching me. You'd know I brought one here because you'd walk in on us fucking,” he informed her, and she gasped.
She always was too prim-and-proper for me.
“Don't speak to me like that!” Ellie hissed. “And if they don't belong to some whore, then who ...”
The light dawned in Ellie's eyes, and Jameson gave her a grim smile. Her jaw dropped, but only for a moment, then she was ranting again.
“How could you?” she shouted. “How could she? She's ... she's ... she's my sister! She's boring and basic and god, how could you!? We were going to get married!”
“I did it because she was here and she was hot and because she wanted it, too,” he explained calmly. “And I'm only going to say this to you once, Eloise – we were never going to get married. Ever.”
But Jameson wasn't sure she heard the last part. She'd glanced out the window, then done a double take before scurrying over next to him and struggling with a latch. He looked down to see what had gotten her attention, and realized Tate was staring up at their apartment. All the lights were on, so she must've seen everything. Ellie finally got the window open and she immediately threw the panties outside.
“You stupid whore!” Ellie leaned out the window and started shrieking at her sister. “I'm telling Daddy! I'm telling him everything!”
It was an ugly and embarrassing display, and Jameson would've figured Tate would be scared shitless. Old man O'Shea was notoriously strict with his daughters. But when he looked back down at her, he was surprised to see that she was smiling.
“You know what, Ellie?” Tate called back, and while they both watched, her fingers started working at the buttons on the front of the blouse. “I don't give a shit!” Then Tate let the shirt fall to the snow covered pavement. She stepped on it, really grinding her heel into the fabric.
You continue to impress me, Tatum. Pity we won't get to play again.
“No! You bitch! You stupid bitch!” Ellie screamed, then ran from the window and out the apartment, the door banging against the wall behind it as she flung it open. Jameson chuckled, then leaned out the window, as well.
“Good for you, baby girl!”
Tate stared up at him, and he could see that she was shivering as snow sprinkled down on her bare shoulders and flakes were sticking to her chest. Then she raised her arm and for just a moment, he thought she was going to do something ridiculous and wave goodbye. But she gave him the middle finger, instead. He barked out a laughed, then blew her a kiss before walking away from the window.
Tatum O'Shea. You're gonna break some hearts, kid. Sorry I don't have one to offer up for you.
~2~
Two years later ...
Sanders Dashkevish brushed a hand down the front of his tie, smoothing it out. It was a nervous tic, but not for the reason most people thought – he often touched his clothing simply to reassure himself that he was actually wearing them.
One would think he'd be used to it by now. Since Jameson Kane had plucked him off the streets of London two years ago, Sanders had been dressing in expensive, designer clothing, all of his own choosing. Even though he'd only been thirteen at the time, he'd immediately gravitated towards suits. Jameson often wore suits, and he did very well for himself, so Sanders had figured it was a safe bet to emulate him.
He'd worn suits ever since, and as a result, he looked like a junior stock broker, even though he was a gangly fifteen year old.
But for years before Jameson, he'd been dressing in hand-me-downs. Ill fitting shirts and pants that never reached his ankles. And then when he'd run away to live on the streets, he'd worn the same outfit for weeks, months, on end.
So yes, he adjusted his ties often, and he straightened his cuff links, and he smoothed out the lapels of his blazers. He never wanted to forget what they felt like, in case he ever had to go back to the streets.
He glanced at his watch, then flicked his eyes to the clock on the mantel. It was three in the morning.
It was strange, he'd lived most of his life inside his own head. Shutting everything and everyone out. Thirteen years of only depending on himself, only accounting for himself. So it shouldn't have been a big deal when Jameson stayed out late.
And yet it was – whenever Jameson was gone from his presence for longer than three hours, Sanders started to get antsy. Nervous. Started to see shadows in the darkness. Hear footsteps in the hall.
Sometimes he wondered if his nightmares would ever go away.
Jameson was his savior, in more ways than one, and unfortunately, he'd been imprinted on Sanders' brain. He felt safest with Jameson, secure. Happy. And without him, he felt ...
Nervous.
He never said these things to Jameson, of course – Mr. Kane had probably never felt scared a day in his life. He ruled his world with supreme
authority and confidence, and since Sanders hoped to be the same one day, he refused to reveal his fears.
But he thought maybe Jameson knew, anyway. He'd go out often – he played as hard as he worked – but he very rarely stayed out longer than three hours, and never as long as four. He always came home within that time frame, and he always checked on Sanders, no matter what.
Because he knows I'm scared of the dark.
There was the sound of a key in the lock and Sanders shrugged out of his suit jacket, hoping he looked casual as he draped it over the back of a chair. By the time he was standing upright, straightening his tie once again, the door was open and Jameson was shuffling into their hotel suite.
“You're awake,” he grunted, kicking the door shut behind him.
“Yes. Would you like a -”
“God, yes, please.”
They'd had an instant connection – Sanders could almost always accurately predict Jameson's wants and needs. While he sat down on the sofa, Sanders grabbed a beer out of the fridge and quickly carried it over to him, popping the tab as he moved.
He sat the beer on the coffee table, then went to grab his chair and move it closer. While he did so, Jameson pulled a thin cheroot out of a pack and lit it. He didn't seem to care that they were in a non-smoking room. He took a deep puff, then proceeded to chug half the beer.
“Difficult night?” Sanders asked.
Jameson chuckled, then leaned back into the couch cushions and took another drag. There was only one light on in the sitting area and his face was lost to shadows. Sanders could only see the burning end of the cigar. It looked ominous, floating in the shadows. Demonic.
“I suppose you could say that.”
“And how would you say it?”
Another thing Sanders enjoyed immensely about Jameson – he never minced words. He always spoke the truth, and he always appreciated honestly. Bluntness. And he returned it in kind. So Sanders felt exceedingly comfortable talking to him in a forthright and candid manor.
“I would say having sex with two strippers back to back would be considered difficult by many people, but it was also incredibly enjoyable,” Jameson responded.
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