~1~

A lot can happen in two years.

Tate drove back to Boston with Jameson and Sanders. She stayed with Jameson, lived with him in Weston. It was home, after all.

He was home.

Jameson was the devil. Sometimes he was cruel, sometimes he was sadistic, sometimes he made her want to tear her hair out. But always, always, he made her love him even more. Underneath everything, was his love. His trust. His adoration.

Sure, they weren't perfect, and she was pretty sure they had turned fighting into an art form. One time she threw a dinner plate at his head and called him retarded. Then he held her down in the shower, calling her a hot-head. But it worked for them, and afterwards he “punished” her by tying her wrists together and fucking her in the hallway. She loved it.

Every single second.

When they got through the summer without anymore hiccups, she decided to take his and Sanders' advice, and she went back to school. Sanders had been right, Tate was a smart girl, and she excelled at her classes. She was going to work towards a business degree so she could open her own bar, and Jameson informed her that if she finished the year strong, he would help facilitate that dream.

But then a bomb was dropped. That next spring, Sanders decided it was time to leave the nest. Tate took it a lot harder than she would have thought; they had grown ridiculously close. He was her best friend, they went everywhere together. He taught her how to drive a stick shift, she taught him how to play beer pong. What would she do without him!?

She wasn't sure how to deal with it. Jameson was of no help at first, wouldn't even tell her the reason why – neither of them would. She pouted. She gave everyone the silent treatment. But finally, she gave in and told him if he had to go, then he had to go, and wished him well.

Though she did make sure to give him a going away party he would never forget.

By the time June rolled around, Tate had a lot of freedom. Ang had moved to Los Angeles – his porn career finally took off, no more B-rate for him. Sanders was in Moscow. Her old roommate Rusty had moved away, and even Tate's sister, Ellie, was settled down with a new boyfriend, way out in the country side. And Tate loved Jameson, she really did, but she couldn't spend all her time with him. They would kill each other if they didn't come up for air once in a while.

Jameson solved the problem by making good on his promise – he bought her a bar. Just came home one day and gave her the keys. At first she was angry. If it was going to be hers, she wanted to be the one to pick it out, to scout the location, to see if it worked for her. She wanted to yell at him, get mad. But somehow it evolved into crazy sex in the conservatory, and suddenly she was making a midnight phone call to Sanders, explaining to him that his geraniums wouldn't be there when he came home.

Jameson had actually picked the perfect location. It shouldn't have been a shock, really. Tate had learned to expect perfection to come out of most of his decisions. The man didn't do things by halves. And it also turned out that the bar Tate used to work in had closed down, and she was able to hire most of the old staff, people she trusted and knew worked well. She was very confident that her first foray into business would be a success.

Turned out “success” wasn't a strong enough word – business was booming. It took off like a rocket. She managed the place as well as worked the bar for the first six months. It completely killed her college career, and almost caused Jameson to kill her. He didn't like her being gone so much. She eventually dropped out of school altogether, figuring she was doing well enough on her own anyway. And after one too many late nights, she decided to back off of working on the floor. Set some hours for herself. Took a vacation even, visited Sanders.

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 railings. 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,” 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 inside 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.

“I know,” he whispered, his tongue tracing a long line from her cleavage clear to the hollow in her throat.

“Jameson, Jameson, please,” Tate cried out.

His hand moved away from her throat and he yanked at the tie, pulling her hands free. Tate's fingers immediately went into his hair, scratching and pulling. Jameson growled and pulled away from her, leaning back on his knees. His hands gripped onto her hips and his thrusts turned almost brutal.

“Taking you longer than I thought it would, Tate,” he chuckled, glaring down at her. She scratched her nails down his chest, really digging in, ripping a button off his shirt.

“What can I say? Old age has made you soft,” she teased.

Jameson didn't hold back when he slapped her that time, and Tate really did scream when she came. She could feel every single muscle she had lock into place, even causing Jameson to cry out. He pumped twice more into her, then he was coming, too. She shuddered and gasped for air, wrapping her body around him when he fell onto her chest.

“Holy fucking shit, Tate,” he breathed. She managed a laugh.

“I know.”

“I must be an old man, cause I swear to god, one of these days, your pussy is gonna kill me.”

“I'll be sure to have that put on your tombstone.”

He laughed as well, then kissed her breast bone.

“Thank you, Liebe.”

“You're very welcome, Love.”

Tate held him even tighter. Her head was spinning from the alcohol and exertion. Her thighs were shaking like she'd just run a marathon. Her neck was stinging and her cheek was burning. All her old favorites. She pressed her face into his hair and breathed him in.

“I love you,” she whispered.

“I know, baby girl.”

“And you love me, too.”

“More than words can express.”

“Good. Now get off of me, you weigh a ton.”

Jameson snorted and blew a raspberry on her chest. She shrieked, tried to push him off, but he just blew another one. It devolved into giggling, then arguing, then threats, and soon enough his tongue was in her mouth and she was using her feet to pull his pants away from his legs.

“Fuck, Tate, at this rate we'll be here all night,” Jameson whispered, his teeth sharp against the line of her jaw. She nodded.

“Sounds good to me,” she replied, panting as two of his fingers reduced her to a pool of wetness. She was ready to beg him to fuck her again, when the door to the room started to open.

“Sir, I don't think these -,” Sanders' voice began to say.

“Don't come in here!” Tate and Jameson shouted in unison. There was a pause, then the door slowly swung shut. Once upon a time, Sanders walking in on them in compromising positions had been funny. Now, they both made an effort to spare him from any more embarrassing or awkward moments.

Jameson helped her to her feet. Gave her a wolf-grin when it took her a moment to stand right. She slapped him in the chest before going about getting dressed again. She couldn't find her bra, though, so she just put her shirt on, then got back into Jameson's jacket. While Jameson buckled his pants, she skipped over to the door and let Sanders inside.

“These were all I could find,” he said, holding up a pair of sneakers. Tate took them from him and glanced at Jameson.

“Did you pack these for me? I'll look ridiculous,” she told him, before bending over and slipping on the shoes – a pair of white, skater-style, DCs.

“I know how you are; we can't make it through a whole night without you complaining about your fucking shoes. I just grabbed the flattest ones I could find and threw them in the car,” Jameson explained, taming his hair by running his fingers through it a couple times.

“Very thoughtful of you.”

“I know. Let's get the fuck out of here. Sanders, did you settle up for me?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Excellent. So glad you're home.”

“Um …, me too, sir.”

They started filing out of the room. There was a brief argument because Tate wanted to keep the almost full bottle of Jack Daniel's. Jameson told her to leave it. She didn't want to waste the booze or money. He pointed out that she'd had enough booze, and it wasn't her money, so she shouldn't worry about it. She glared at him and tucked the bottle under her arm, stomping out the door ahead of him.

“That girl,” Jameson grumbled, but he chuckled while she gingerly made her way onto the spiral stair case.

“I'm sorry, but someone seems to have forgotten something,” Sanders' voice came from inside the room. He turned around, and then Jameson really did laugh. Sanders was holding up a rose colored, lace bra. The one Tate hadn't been able to find.

“You know what? Keep it. A souvenir for when you go back to Russia,” Jameson joked, winking at Sanders before turning to leave.

The bouncers weren't keen on the idea of Tate leaving with the bottle, and another argument was had. In the end, Sanders was able to talk it out of her hands. She danced outside, and was delighted to discover that the rap star party from the private room next to theirs was waiting out there, as well.

While they waited for their cars to be brought around, the two groups socialized. Well, Tatum chatted with the ladies while Jameson and the rapper smoked cigars. Sanders stood by a wall.

“So I gotta ask,” one of the girls started saying. “How do you keep a man like that? I read an article saying he used to sleep with a different girl every night.”

Tate laughed and looked over her shoulder. Jameson was standing a little ways behind her. One hand held a cigar to his lips, and the other was shoved into his pants pocket. Her high heels dangled from his wrist, and she smiled.

That man is perfection.

“Lots of threesomes,” Tate finally answered, and all the girls laughed.

Eventually, the rapper's limo was pulled around and they had to say goodbye. Tate waved them off, then danced back to her boys. The DC shoes she had changed into allowed for a lot of movement and she wondered why she hadn't just worn them in the first place. She backed Sanders up against a wall and forced him to suffer through her “twerking” on him. When the car was pulled up, he finally pushed her away. She snorted with laughter and fell against Jameson.

“Ready to go home?” he asked. She nodded, clutching his lapels and pulling him closer.

“More than ready,” she replied, before kissing him sloppily.

“You realize,” he pulled back from her as his hands squeezed her hips, “you're providing a show.”

“Huh?”

Jameson jerked his head to the side and Tate glanced behind her. Several men with large cameras were across the street, snapping away. She glared at them. They had probably shown up for the rap star, but then realized who Jameson was; Tate didn't like it. Paparazzi had been responsible for a lot of her and Jameson's problems early on, so she didn't like to provide them with anymore fodder.

So she turned around and gave them the finger, with both hands, holding them up in front of her face.

“That just makes them take more pictures,” Jameson informed her, wrapping his arm around her waist and walking her forward, up to the car.

“So? Nothing usable, they'll have to blur it all out,” she replied.

“You're ridiculous.”

“You're ridiculous.”

“Tate?”

“Yeah?”

“Shut up.”

The drive home didn't seem as long. Probably because she spent most of it on his lap, kissing and touching as much of him as he would allow. He produced a bottle of Dom Perignon, 1999, and they toasted their glasses. The second glass wound up getting spilled down Tate's front, and then it was a free-for-all. By the time they rolled up to the house in Weston, she was straddling Jameson's lap and he was gripping her jaw, forcing her to look straight up while he poured the champagne down her throat. It spilled over the sides of her mouth and ran down her neck, over her breasts.

“That was a waste,” she breathed when she'd swallowed everything. She ran her hands over her chest, then flicked champagne in his face.

“Tatum, if it gets you wet, it's never a waste,” was his retort. She laughed.

“Good response, Mr. Kane. Can we go inside now?” she asked.

“I thought you'd never ask.”

They tripped up the front stairs, banged up against the door. Like a couple of horny teenagers, unable to keep their hands off each other. Jameson finally unlocked the front door and they literally fell inside, landing hard on the stairs. Tate groaned and Jameson pulled her up, moving her so she was a couple steps ahead of him.

“Jameson, wait, just wait,” she breathed, gripping onto his shoulders while he pulled at her shirt.

“No,” he replied, moving on to unbutton her shorts. She shoved his hands away.

“I know you want to take me upstairs and ravage me,” she tried to say, their hands fighting with each other.

“No shit. Stop talking.”

“But I had other plans,” she said, holding onto his wrists.

“What other plans? I'm fucking you tonight, I don't give a shit about your plans,” he snapped, yanking free from her.

“Oh, I didn't say we wouldn't be having sex – I definitely want you to fuck me,” she told him, smoothing her hands up his chest.

“Then what the fuck are you talking about?” he demanded. She leaned in close, wrapping her arms around his shoulders.

“I'm talking about tonight. I was thinking that you should fuck me in the ass,” she whispered.

The next second, she was shrieking as Jameson threw her over his shoulder. She laughed uncontrollably as he jogged up the stairs, taking them two at a time.

“Jesus, Tate, why didn't you say something earlier!? I would've left that fucking club hours ago!” he complained. She gripped onto his belt.

“I wanted it to be a surprise.”

“A very welcome one. Goddamn, did you get fatter?” he teased, adjusting her weight as he strode down the hall.

“What!? Oh, that's it. Put me down. I'm putting on a onesie and you aren't getting sex for a week!” she yelled at him, but was still laughing.

“Oh, I don't think so. Too late. You already said it, so it's happening,” he replied. As they went through their bedroom door, she shot her arms out, gripping onto the door frame.

“No way. This'll teach you to make fun of me.”

“I don't know why you're still talking, Tate. It's not like you have a say in any of this.”

Then he yanked her free of the door.