~8~

Jameson spent most of the next week in Los Angeles. He needed space. He couldn't think straight, not when she was around.

Tate had followed his instructions that night, swallowed every last drop he had to give. Say what he wanted about her life, Tate had gotten some good things out of living on the fringe of society – she gave the absolute best blowjobs he had ever been privileged enough to receive.

She laid on the floor for a while afterwards, and eventually he crawled down next to her. And just chatted with her. She told him that part of the reason she had made him go out on the town, meet her friends, was because she was beginning to feel like his dirty secret, being hidden away in his house.

Stupid. It wasn't that Jameson was ashamed of her; he just didn't like to be around other people. Plain and simple. He hated to leave his house, regardless of whether or not she was there. She didn't even factor in to it. He reminded her that if she thought something was about her, it probably wasn't. She had laughed at him.

She told “scary” stories about her first year living alone in Boston. He told “scary” stories about the first hostile takeover he had overseen. She asked if he'd had any run-ins with her family, and he admitted that he'd dealt with her father several times, but they had never spoken about Tatum, or any of the O'Sheas. It hadn't occurred to him to ask about her, but judging by the way she talked, her father wouldn't have known anything about her, anyway.

Halfway through a very hair raising tale about her getting lost in the worst neighborhood in Boston, they heard the front door crash open. They stared at each other while they listened to a drunk Rusty stumble through the living room. There was some giggling, and then a man's voice. Footsteps down the hall, some light sexy banter. Jameson pressed a hand to Tate's mouth, to keep her from laughing out loud.

When the moaning started, he almost laughed himself. God, how did people have sex like that? “You're so beautiful,” “You're so amazing,” “Oh my god, you're so amazing!” “Oh my god, you're so beautiful!” Moan, moan. Pant, pant. Tate was almost convulsing under his hand, she was laughing so hard. It sounded ridiculous, and worse, it sounded fake. Jameson didn't understand bad sex – why not just stop doing it? But the bed springs kept squeaking, the headboard banging out a dull rhythm.

Jameson had laid himself on top of Tate and began mocking the noises from the next room. She snorted and choked to keep from laughing, tried to push him off of her, but when he pawed at her breast, it stopped being a game. He pushed her legs apart, dipped his fingers in to her, pushed inside of her. She kept her lips together and moaned in her throat.

He whispered that she was beautiful, that she was amazing. But it was different from their neighbors - Jameson actually meant it. He didn't know what to make of it. He had never treated her like that before, like she was delicate, or special. But he was beginning to realize that she was both of those things to him.

The next morning, he woke up before her. They had moved to the bed at some point and fallen asleep. Tate had been right next to him – the bed wasn't very big, maybe a full. He was used to a king. She had been laying on her stomach, with one arm and one leg hanging off the side. He had watched her sleep for a while, his eyes wandering down the angry scratch marks on her back, over the bruises on the side of her neck. She let him do so many things to her. Eventually, she would want something in return, and that thought scared him.

He snuck out without waking her up. Stopped in at her landlord's office, took care of her rent situation. If she couldn't act like an adult, he could be one for her, he figured. He called Sanders and then called her cell phone, left her a voicemail. He didn't want her accusing him of running away. That wasn't what he was doing.

At least, he didn't think so.

So he flew to L.A., tried to forget about her for a couple days. He was getting a little too attached to her. When he had seen her at the meeting with his lawyers, when he had known that he was going to sleep with her again, he had pretty much started thinking of her as a possession. Something he had created, thus something that belonged to him. Pretty to play with, fun to banter with, but nothing more than that. Now, though, it was beginning to seem like a whole lot more.

He didn't think that was okay. Jameson didn't want to be attached to her, or to any woman. He didn't want to need anyone, least of all Tatum O'Shea. So he set out to distract himself. Checked on some businesses he was involved with, went to some events, attended a gala. Met lots of women. It didn't work too well. He still thought about her a lot. Her body, her laugh, her little games.

He was a little surprised that she hadn't called him, and then he realized Tate had actually never once called him. Had he given the impression that she wasn't allowed to? Sometimes he wasn't entirely aware of how much of an asshole he was being, at any given point in time. After three days had passed, his curiosity got the better of him.

“Sanders,” Jameson barked across his hotel suite. A moment later, the other man's head peeked around the door.

“Yes?” he asked.

“Have you spoken to Tate?” Jameson asked, looking over some newspapers.

“What? No. Should I have?” Sanders asked, sounding surprised. Jameson had thought maybe she would have called him – the two had a developed a weird sort of camaraderie, made weirder by the fact that Sanders hardly ever spoke. But it was obvious he liked her, enjoyed her company.

“No. Give me your phone,” Jameson said, holding out his hand. Sanders marched in to the room and handed over his cell phone. It was four o'clock in L.A., which meant evening in Boston.

“Is everything alright?” he asked. Jameson nodded, dialing Tate's phone number. She answered on the fourth ring.

“Guten Abend, haben Sie die voicemail-box erreicht -,” her voice started prattling in German.

“What the fuck are you doing?” he interrupted.

“Jameson?” her voice laughed.

“Yes. I didn't know you spoke German,” he said.

“I don't, I only know that line. Did you get a new phone?”

“No, I'm using Sanders' phone. Why did you answer in German?”

“I always do that, when it's an unknown number,” she told him.

“That's ridiculous,” he snapped.

“Aw, you miss me, don't you? That's why you're whispering sweet-nothings in my ear,” she teased.

I do miss her.

“Don't be stupid. What are you doing?” he asked, getting out of his chair and heading out onto the balcony.

“Watching a movie with Ang,” she replied.

They made up fast.

Jameson wasn't as immune to Ang as he liked to pretend. She was right, he was jealous. When she had kissed Ang, Jameson had nearly lost it. And then when he had gone back in to the apartment, heard the way Ang was talking to her, it had taken everything he had not to destroy the younger man. He had wanted to beat Ang in to the ground. Jameson could talk to Tate that way, but no one else could. Only him.

Scary thought.

“Are you sure you're just watching a movie?” he asked, running his hand along the railing. She laughed.

“I don't know, let me check. Ang, are we watching a movie or having sex?” her voice went away from the phone.

“Definitely fucking,” came a reply from far away. There was some muffled smacking noises and Tate laughed, back to the phone again.

“He's lying. We're watching 'The Emperor's New Groove',” she explained.

“The Disney movie?” Jameson asked, his eyebrows scrunching together

“Mmm hmmm.”

“Why are you watching cartoons?”

“Because I like them. And we're really stoned,” she told him. He groaned.

“Jesus. This is why I can't leave you alone,” he grumbled in to the phone.

“Then maybe you shouldn't,” was her husky reply. Jameson paused for a long time, and could hear her get up. Move around. Go to somewhere quiet.

“I can't take you everywhere with me,” he told her in a low voice.

“No. But you don't have to leave so much, either,” she replied. He smiled.

“I think you miss me, Tate,” he teased back. She snorted.

“I miss parts of your anatomy. When are you coming home?” she demanded.

Liar.

“Two days. Think you can wait that long?” he asked. She laughed.

“Probably not. I'm about to start humping inanimate objects.”

“God, you're crude. Filthy. I'm going to fuck you so hard when I get home,” he laughed.

“Promises, promises,” Tate sang.

“Two days. Be at my place, at one o'clock. Bring a bathing suit,” he instructed.

“Seriously?”

“Why do you make me repeat myself?”

“Two days. One o'clock. Bathing suit. You got it, boss.”

Jameson didn't say goodbye, just hung up the phone. Hearing her voice made him happy. Seven years ago, if anyone had asked him if he thought he'd ever see Tatum again, he would have said no. And now he was sleeping with her on a regular basis, and hanging on her words. Stupid, stupid man.

“Sanders,” he snapped out, heading back in to the room.

“Yes?” the other man responded, taking his phone back when Jameson held it out.

“Call Dunn. Call the other associates. Call my lawyers. We're going to be having a get together when I get home. Food and drinks around the pool, weather permitting,” he said. Sanders looked surprised.

“I'm sorry. We're having ..., what?” he asked. Jameson laughed.

“Ms. O'Shea seems to think she's my dirty little secret. We're going to prove to her that she's not,” Jameson explained. Sanders stared at him for a minute.

“You really like her, don't you?” he asked. Jameson's laugh died away.

“You know I hate those kinds of questions. Now get to work.”

“Alright, I'll call everyone and find a place to take care of the details. What about your arrangement for this evening, the Harmon sisters?” Sanders asked, picking up an appointment book and opening it.

“What about it?” Jameson asked, striding over to his closet and rummaging through his clothing.

“Do you want to cancel?” Sanders continued.

“Why the fuck would I want to do that?” Jameson blurted out, turning around. Sanders shrugged.

“Your phone call just now, the party. I thought maybe -,” he started.

“You thought wrong. Now go, you have a party to plan.”

*

Two days later, at one-thirty, Jameson stood on his front porch. His arms were folded across his chest and he wore an expensive pair of wayfarer sunglasses. His back yard was filled with about twenty of his friends and colleagues, most with their significant others, but he was waiting for one specific person.

And she was late.

“Did she call you?” he asked. Sanders appeared in his line of vision.

“No. You keep asking me that. Why would Ms. O'Shea ever call me?” Sanders responded. Jameson shrugged.

“She likes you, you two are friends,” he replied.

“She likes you, too.”

Jameson frowned.

Finally, ten minutes later, a cab pulled in to the driveway. Jameson knew he could always send Sanders to get her, but then the whole process would take twice the amount of time. Plus, she needed some accountability – it was up to her to call the cab and get in it and get there. Frankly, he was surprised she managed it at all.

“Sorry, it really wasn't my fault this time,” Tate laughed as she climbed out of the back seat.

“Sure it isn't,” he replied, scowling at her.

She was wearing the same shorts she had worn when he had gone to her bar, and a sheer black blouse with a black bikini top underneath it. She had flip flops on her feet, a ridiculously huge purse, and aviator glasses that were so shiny, he could see his reflection in them. While they talked, she pulled her hair up in to a sloppy ponytail. She looked completely different from any other person in the house.

He wanted to devour her.

“It's really not her fault, sir,” the cab driver started, actually stepping out of the cab. They all turned towards him. “I got a flat tire on the freeway. I have a pinched nerve in my back; the young lady actually changed the tire for me. No charge for the ride.”

Jameson turned back to Tate, his eyebrows raised. She smiled broadly and flexed her arms like a body builder, kissing one of her biceps. He laughed and gestured for Sanders to pay the man anyway.

“You changed a tire, dressed like this?” he asked as he led her in to the house. She threw back her head and laughed.

“No, I changed in to coveralls first. Yes, like this, Jameson. I didn't have much of a choice. Do you even know how to change a tire?” she asked. He pulled on her ponytail.

“No playing with me this early, we've got to act respectable for a little while,” he told her.

“Why?”

But he didn't have to answer. The back part of the house was a conservatory that over looked his pool and back yard. She gave a low whistle. There were a lot of people on his back lawn, all laughing and smiling. Clinking glasses and chatting, looking like they were all having the time of their lives. Jameson Kane rarely invited people to his private dwellings. Tate stood completely still, staring at everything.

“Scared, baby girl?” Jameson whispered. She shook her head.

“No, but why? Why are you doing this?” she asked.

“You said I treat you like a secret. This is everyone I know in Boston. Except for Angier. Forgot to invite him,” Jameson said, his tone full of bite. She lowered her glasses and gave him a Look.

“But why?” she pressed.

“You're not a secret to me, Tate. I'm not ashamed of you or what we do. You're two steps above being an employee anyway,” he pointed out. She snorted.

“Employees get paid, and I haven't seen a fucking dollar. I ate macaroni and cheese ALL weekend,” she told him.

“Whatever. I'm being nice. This may be your only opportunity to see it in action,” he warned her. She took a deep breath.

“I'm not like these people, Jameson. I won't fit in. I'm very flattered, and this means a lot, that you did this. It's very sweet. But ...,” she let the sentence hang.

She is scared.

“Alright. I made my statement. You don't have to go out there. Since you're scared. And hey, now we really know who the bigger pussy is,” he mocked her.

Tate turned to look at him, shoving her glasses onto her head. She slowly unbuttoned her shirt and let it fall to the floor, then shoved her shorts off her hips. She was wearing a black bikini, the bottoms breaking in to two strings that curved around her hips. She had an amazing body, and the scorching summer had given her a killer tan. He drank in the sight of her.

“I'm not scared. By the end of the day, those people out there will like me more than they like you,” she informed him. He laughed.

“I have no doubt of that. But you do realize that not one single other person out there is just strutting around in their bathing suit. I didn't realize you had to be half naked to feel comfortable,” Jameson said, gesturing outside. He was right. There were some board shorts, and a lot of ladies were wearing bathing suits underneath fancy covers and long dresses, but no one was serious about getting in the pool. Tatum shook her head.

“You said wear a bathing suit, so I'm ready. Let's do this,” she replied, and strode out the back door. Jameson caught up with her, and it was obvious he surprised her when he hooked an arm around her hips, guiding her to the closest group of people.

“Cecily. Livvy. Tad, this is my friend, Tatum. Our families were close, in Pennsylvania. I recently discovered her living right here in Boston. Tate, Tad's a junior broker at the firm, Livvy is his wife, and Cecily keeps the accounting department in order,” he introduced her.

Tad stared at her tits the whole time, Livvy looked like she wanted to draw blood, and Cecily laughed, shaking Tate's hand. Tate, of course, was friendly and personable. She laughed easily and it was obvious that making friends came naturally to her. Jameson introduced her to a couple more groups of people, and then left her to her own devices. He had done his part, shown her that she wasn't someone he wanted to hide away. She was a friend, he guessed, just like the rest of them.

Now he could go back to being an asshole.

Jameson hovered near the makeshift bar, chatting and laughing with some of the guys, but always keeping an eye on her. She floated around the party, mingling with everyone. Cecily took to her, as did a couple of the other girls, but most of the women watched her with venom in their eyes. It was obvious that Tate was aware of this, and she flirted shamelessly with every single guy. More so with the ones who had judgemental girlfriends or wives at their sides. She stretched out on a lounge chair at one point, and made a show of putting sun tan lotion on every visible inch of skin.

He was not immune to the pull she was having on the other men.

“Where did you find her?” Wenseworth Dunn walked up to Jameson's side, gesturing to Tate as she stretched her arms above her head.

“I told you, our families -,” Jameson started.

“Bullshit. Most blue blood types don't breed daughters that hot,” Dunn laughed. Jameson nodded.

“Agreed. But she is Mathias O'Shea's estranged daughter,” Jameson supplied. Dunn whistled.

“Oh wow. Pretty powerful guy. Playing with fire, Kane,” he warned.

“Not really. Severely estranged. Haven't spoken for seven years. I'm part of the reason why, though he still speaks to me,” Jameson said. Dunn turned to look at him.

“What do you mean?”

“I was dating her sister, and Tate and I slept together. They disowned her,” Jameson explained. Dunn laughed.

“Good old Kane. You know how to pick 'em. She looks like the type to sleep with her sister's boyfriend. Fucking hot. She yours?” Dunn asked.

Jameson didn't like this line of questioning, but he didn't want to come off as a jealous lover. Tate didn't have any claim on him, nor did he on her – they had been very clear about that from the beginning. Still.

Fucking Dunn.

“We're sleeping together, if that's what you're asking,” Jameson gave an evasive answer.

“Kinda low brow for you, Kane. I thought you only dated Eastern European supermodels,” Dunn joked. It wasn't funny.

“I don't date anyone anymore. Tate and I like to fuck, that's it,” Jameson snapped. It was harsh, but he didn't care. He didn't care if people knew they were sleeping together; what he didn't want was people thinking he was in the market for a wife or anything.

“Good time girl, all right. Tell her to call me sometime,” Dunn mumbled, his eyes raking over Tate's form as she climbed out of her chair, looping her arm through Sanders' and walking with him towards the house. Jameson laughed darkly.

“You couldn't handle her, Dunn,” he said.

“Oh really?”

“To say she likes things a little wild, is an understatement. And you most definitely couldn't afford her,” he snapped. Dunn's eyebrows shot up.

“You mean she's a -,”

“I mean, this conversation is over. Go mingle, eat, drink, hit on someone, jesus,” Jameson growled before stomping away.

He was angry. “... thought you only dated Eastern European supermodels,” – Jameson didn't appreciate obscure references to his ex. Didn't appreciate references to her, at all. And he especially didn't appreciate the way Dunn had been looking at Tatum. It was all fine and dandy for them to sleep with other people, but he certainly didn't want to be trading stories at the water cooler about her gymnastic abilities in bed.

And, a tiny part of him whispered, he simply didn't like Dunn looking at her, period.

*

Several hours later, Tatum hopped down the stairs on one leg, pulling up her sock on the other leg. When she got to the bottom of the stairs, she put the other sock on, as well. She had opted for long red socks. Better for evening wear. It was just starting to get dark outside and people were moving in to the conservatory. As she headed in to the library, she pulled a loose tank top on over her head and walked right in to something. She stumbled backwards, quickly pulling the shirt over her bikini top.

“I'm sorry, I didn't know anyone was in here,” she laughed. There was a man standing in the library. She had met him before, but couldn't remember his first name. Last name was Dunn, he was Jameson's business partner. He smiled down at her.

“Just looking around. I've only been to Jameson's house one other time,” he told her. She laughed again.

“Yeah, he never lets anyone come over, treats it like a fortress. I'm surprised there aren't TSA agents at the bottom of the driveway, screening people before they come in,” Tate joked, but she felt a little uncomfortable. Dunn's eyes never met hers, just stayed trained on her body, and she was very aware of the fact that she was standing in front of him wearing only knee socks, a bikini, and a light tank top.

“He's strange that way, isn't he? So open about some things, so private about others,” Dunn mumbled. She frowned. His words were loaded with tension and double meanings.

“Not sure what you mean. He's always been pretty open with me,” she replied.

“Always. You've known each other a long time, huh? I didn't even know Mathias had any kids,” Dunn commented. Tate was surprised. Jameson had talked about her family with this guy?

“Yeah, there's two of us, I have an older sister.”

“He mentioned her, too. Sounds like you were very naughty in your younger years.”

She narrowed her eyes. Jameson had talked about that!? And she was liking this Dunn guy less and less. His voice was lascivious, and while normally that wouldn't bother her, he was Jameson's partner. They were in Jameson's home. And she was not the least bit attracted to Dunn. He gave her the creeps on a seismic scale.

“We all have a past, don't we?” she brushed past him, heading to where her cell phone was plugged in and charging.

“Oh yeah. Your past just sounds more interesting,” Dunn told her, following her across the room. She frowned, pretending to concentrate on her phone.

“I'll be sure to let you know when I write my life story,” she responded.

“Or we could get together sometime and you could tell me yourself,” he offered.

She snapped her head up, a little surprised. Though he hadn't spent a lot of time with her at the party, she thought Jameson had made it very clear to everyone that he had some sort of a relationship going on with her. When he would stand next to her, he always draped an arm around her waist. When she had been off by herself, at one end of the pool, he had come up behind her and wrapped his arms around her shoulders, kissed the side of her neck. Turned her to face him while he whispered very dirty things in her ear, his hands running down her body. No one was next to them, but they were well within sight of the other guests. So it was a little bit of a shock to her that his business partner, and friend, was hitting on her.

“I don't think that's a good idea,” Tate laughed, moving to walk past him. He blocked her way.

“Why? Because of Jameson? He won't care, we've shared girls before,” Dunn assured her. She snorted.

“I care, and I say no thank you,” she snapped, trying to go the other way. He moved again.

“Just name your price, I'm sure I can match whatever Jameson offered.”

Tate stood stock still, staring Dunn in the eye. Jameson had told him that? Was telling people he had paid her to sleep with him? It was more of a joke than anything, he had never actually given her any money. She didn't want his friends thinking they could just slip him some cash and they could fuck her in a dark corner of his house. She didn't want Jameson thinking that.

How could he think that!?

“I don't know what you're talking about. Move,” she ordered. Dunn laughed.

“It's okay, I'm okay with it. Jameson's okay with it,” he assured her, stepping closer to her. She backed away.

“Is everything alright?” Sanders' clear voice carried across the room. Dunn whirled around and Tate scurried past him, hooking her arm through Sanders'.

“No, this guy is an asshole,” she said. Dunn laughed.

“Oh, c'mon, I just -,” he started, when Sanders cleared his throat.

“I believe you'll find Mr. Kane in the conservatory, with the rest of the guests,” he interrupted.

“Oh, was he asking for me?” Dunn asked.

“No, but I assumed since you're soliciting services from a woman who has been staying in his home, you would want to discuss it with him first,” Sanders told Dunn, his voice like ice cycles. Dunn's face got hard, and Tate smiled. Apparently Jameson was not “okay with” this little proposition – based on Dunn's face, she would guess that Jameson didn't know anything about it at all.

“We could go together,” Tate offered. “Tell the whole story, do a reenactment. He'd love it. What do you guys think?”

“Whatever you say, Ms. O'Shea,” Sanders replied. Dunn huffed and stomped out of the room. Tate laughed.

“God, did you see his face? What a dick,” she chuckled. Sanders nodded, turning and leading her across the hall, in to the kitchen.

“Clearly. Would you care for a drink, Ms. O'Shea?” he asked. She nodded, and without even having to tell him, he went and grabbed a bottle of Jack Daniel's from a cupboard.

“You treat me so good, Sandy,” she sighed as he sat the bottle on the huge island in the center of the kitchen. He gestured towards the glasses but she shook her head.

“Are you alright, Ms. O'Shea?” he asked in his careful tone. She shrugged, moving around to the other side of the island so she could face him.

“I don't know. I will be,” she replied.

“Did he touch you?”

She lifted her eyes to Sanders, and for once, he was looking back at her. He almost never made direct eye contact with anyone, except for Jameson. His question surprised her. His voice lacked any emotion, like normal, but there was something in his eyes. He was worried about her, concerned. Tate was shocked.

“No, he didn't,” she assured him. He nodded.

“Would you like me to get Mr. Kane?” Sanders offered. She shook her head and twisted the cap off the bottle.

“No,” she laughed, taking a drink.

“I think he should know about this. He would be very upset,” he told her. Tate laughed some more.

“You really think he'd be upset? I don't,” she replied, taking an even bigger swig.

“You're wrong. He cares about you, Ms. O'Shea,” Sanders assured her. She almost spit the liquor out.

“Jameson Kane doesn't care about anyone but himself,” she snorted. She had to say things like that; she had to remind herself.

“I have seen a lot of women come through his life,” Sanders' voice was quiet, almost soft. She stared at him. “But he has never treated anyone the way he treats you. He used to talk about you, you know. A long time ago, when he would drink. He would mention your name, mention that he wondered what you were doing, where you were. He cares.”

He stressed the last words, and Tate almost felt like tearing up. Who knew Sanders could be so passionate? And about her, of all people. For him to tell her these things, these obvious secrets, it meant a lot, on so many different levels. He really wanted her to know, Jameson cared about her.

She had told herself so many times that it wasn't a possibility, Jameson Kane would never truly care about her. Would never feel anything for her beyond desire. Maybe there was hope ..., no. She didn't want to believe it. Satan didn't have feelings, and if she began to think he did, he would eat her soul – what little she had left to give.

“You're very sweet, Sandy,” she chuckled in a low voice, “but I think we both know that's not true.”

“What's not true?”

Jameson's voice boomed in the doorway. He strode in to the room, not looking very happy. He glared at both of them, crossing his arms over his chest as he came to a stop at the front of the island. Tate toasted him with her bottle before taking another drink. Sanders stood up straighter.

“Did you need something?” he asked.

“No. You can leave,” Jameson told him. Sanders nodded.

“I'll be in the guest house. Ms. O'Shea,” he said, and both Jameson and Tate looked at Sanders. “Please think about what I said, very seriously.”

“What the fuck is he going on about?” Jameson demanded while Sanders walked out of the room. Tate shrugged.

“Sandy is an old soul in a young body, his riddles are too deep for us to understand,” she joked. Jameson glared at her.

“I've been looking everywhere for you. What were you two talking about in here?” he asked. She laughed.

“Your friend, Dunn,” she replied.

“Dunn? What about Dunn?”

“He seems to have gotten the impression that I'm a prostitute,” Tate said. Jameson got very still, his eyes turning to ice.

Sanders must have learned that trick from him.

“What are you talking about?” Jameson asked in a low voice.

“He cornered me in the library, was being a super creep, hitting on me, telling me he could afford whatever you were paying, blah blah blah. Sandy came in and saved me,” Tate explained.

“Are you serious right now?”

“Yup. Great friends, Jameson. Maybe keep our little game more on the down low, though. Unless you want me to sleep with your friends, which in that case, we could set up -,”

Jameson slammed his hand down on the island, causing her to jump.

“Fuck no, I don't want you sleeping with my friends. I can't fucking believe he did that, in my own house. I'm going to go in there and rip his fucking head off,” Jameson swore. She laid her hand on his arm, before he could move.

“It's over, it's done with, not a big deal. Sandy gave him some of that magical freezer burn treatment, and the guy nearly pissed himself when we told him we were gonna tell on him, so it's cool. We're good,” she assured him.

“It is not cool, and we are not good,” Jameson growled.

“If you don't want your friends treating me like a whore, maybe don't mention that you offered to pay me,” she suggested.

“I didn't, I made a joke,” he said. She rolled her eyes.

“Yes, and men are retarded assholes. You make a joke like that and he looks at my tits, and it's one-plus-one equals whore,” she explained, and Jameson finally laughed.

“I wish I had gone to that school,” he chuckled, running his hand through his hair.

“It's really not a big deal, Jameson. Don't go freaking out. He's business. I'm pleasure. We'll keep it separate from now on,” Tate suggested. He nodded.

“Looks like neither of our little games worked out. Our worlds don't seem to mesh so well,” he pointed out. She nodded.

“We seem to have assholes for friends.”

“God, what does that say about us?”

“We're asshole royalty.”

“King and Queen of the Assholes?”

“Totally.”

They both cracked up after that – it was too far in to the realm of ridiculous for Jameson, and the fact that he had kept it going made her laugh, as well. He pulled the Jack Daniel's bottle close and took a drink as well. He made a face as he passed it back to her.

“How you drink that shit, I'll never know,” he grumbled.

“When you're just poor, white, trash, you don't exactly go straight for the Johnny Walker Blue Label,” Tate laughed.

“I have some, we could be drinking that instead,” he offered.

“Nah, I like to stay true to my roots,” she joked, taking a healthy swig of the whiskey. He was silent for a moment, staring across the room. Sounds from the party drifted in to the kitchen. Jameson scowled.

“I can't fucking believe Dunn did that,” he grumbled, staring out the kitchen door.

“He said you've shared girls before,” she told him. He glanced at her.

“Not like that, not like what we are,” he replied, gesturing between himself and Tate.

“Like how, then?”

“Like the same girl from an escort service. I've never let him sleep with a girl I was actively sleeping with on a regular basis. I don't do that. I would never be okay with you sleeping with him, or any of my other colleagues. Not now, or at any point in time in the future,” Jameson told her. She nodded.

“I'll keep that in mind.”

“You had fucking better.”

“Hey, don't get mad at me – I'm the one who was solicited. I deserve like restitution, or something,” she joked. Jameson laughed.

“Restitution? Like what?” he asked.

“A $50,000 pearl necklace,” Tate replied without hesitation. He snorted.

“Just go ahead and start holding your breath, I'll get right on that,” he told her. She made a face at him.

“I missed you, you know,” she blurted out. His eyebrows shot up.

“Really? The succubus missed her lord and master, Lucifer?” he joked, and she almost choked. It was basically the same joke she made about them in her head.

He's psychic, I knew it.

“Maybe 'miss' is too strong of a word,” she corrected herself. He laughed.

“Shut up, you couldn't have missed me that much. You were too busy getting stoned with Angier,” he taunted.

“One night. It was a peace offering, he came over to apologize. I would never turn down good weed,” she told him. Jameson laughed again.

“Are you sure that's all that happened? I don't know if I trust you,” he said. She rolled her eyes.

“I solemnly swear that I did not sleep with Angier while you were in Los Angeles,” Tate held a hand over her heart while she promised. He nodded.

“Good. So, what did you miss about me, baby girl?” he asked, leaning his forearms on the island. She thought for a second.

“Your penis.”

He barked out a laugh.

“I already knew that. What else?”

“I don't know. Sometimes you're almost funny. You let me run around in my underwear all the time – Rus hates it when I do that at home. And sometimes you're almost halfway sweet to me,” she tried to explain.

“Jesus, I sound like if Stalin owned the Playboy Mansion,” he pointed out. She nodded.

“Yes. Exactly like that,” Tate agreed.

“Shut up. What else?” Jameson pressed. She was thoughtful again.

“The way you treat me. Sometimes, and don't get me wrong, I love him, but just sometimes ..., Ang kind of babies me. Coddles me. Tries to take care of me too much. Like he's afraid I'm gonna fall on my face if I'm out of his sight. You, on the other hand, practically push me down the stairs and just tell me to move my feet,” she laughed.

“You make me sound abusive,” he remarked. She shrugged.

“I meant it as a compliment. And you kinda are, in a way. I just happen to like it,” she told him. He glared at her playfully.

“I'm not abusive. I'm ..., aggressively sexual,” Jameson explained. She rolled her eyes.

“More like a sexual aggressor,” she teased.

“You flatter me too much. And I might have missed you, too, just a little bit,” he confessed. She pressed a hand to her chest.

“See? There it is – sweetness. Be still, my beating heart.”

“Shut the fuck up.”

Tate got up and wandered across the kitchen, grabbed some crackers and then leaned back against the cupboards. While she munched away, she watched him. He had turned to watch her, as well.

“On a scale of one to ten,” she started, “how much did you miss me?”

“I don't have a basis for comparison.”

“One - you didn't think about me once, ten – you cut your trip short because you couldn't live without me,” she suggested. He thought for a second.

“A two?”

She threw a cracker at him.

“God, you're such a dick. Sweetness, gone. You probably didn't miss me because you were too busy plowing some starlet,” she joked. Jameson was silent, just stared at her, and she gasped. “Oh my god. You did, didn't you?”

“I don't think you really want to have this conversation right now,” he said, moving away from the island and heading towards the kitchen door.

“Was it your ex?” she called out, and he stopped. Turned back towards her.

“No. She's not an actress, and she doesn't live in L.A.,” he assured her.

“Then who was it? Has she been on tv? Please tell me I've seen her in a show or something,” Tate laughed. He leaned against the doorway, shoving his hands in to his pockets.

“You're really okay with this?” he asked. She moved back to the island and pulled herself up so she was sitting on top of it, facing him.

“I want all the gory details. Was she prettier than me?” Tate asked.

“I don't know how to answer that question,” he replied. She laughed.

“You're shy, Jameson?” she teased. He shook his head.

“I can't say if she was prettier than you because there were two women.”

“You slept with two women, in L.A., in one week?” Tate tried to lay everything out. He shook his head again.

“In one night.”

“Impressive. Smooth operator. Did they pass each other going through the front door?”

“They walked through it together, at the same time.”

Her breath caught in her throat. Oh wow, Jameson had been a naughty boy while he was gone. She was touched that he was worried it would bother her, but it didn't really. She wasn't threatened by some random chicks in Los Angeles.

“Hot. So, were either of them prettier than me?” Tate asked again.

“They were twins, and they were very sexy, but not as sexy as you,” Jameson assured her. She smiled big.

“I'm choosing to believe you on that. Were they better in bed?” she continued. He thought for a second.

“Well, that's hard to answer. Twice the anatomy to play with, kind of gives them an advantage,” he said. Tate pouted her lower lip out at him, trying to hide her laughter. “But they weren't better. No. No, definitely not. No one takes care of me quite like you.”

“That's good to hear, seeing as how it's usually you doing all the taking care of – have you ever slept with them before?” she asked, munching on a cracker. He shook his head.

“No, I just met them that week. Kind of a spur of the moment thing. They asked me to dinner, one thing led to another,” he nodded his head for emphasis. Tate laughed.

“The ol' one-thing-led-to-another-suddenly-I'm-fucking-twins kind of night. I have that same problem all the time. Bitches just be falling for you in pairs, man,” she teased. He rolled his eyes.

“God, I shouldn't have said anything.”

“No, I'm glad you did. I want to know everything,” she urged, pushing the box of crackers away. His face became hard, serious. Almost angry.

“Really? You want to know everything? Like how I tied one girl down and had her watch while I fucked the other? Or how they took turns sucking my dick? Things like that?” Jameson's voice was serious as well. The temperature in the kitchen suddenly cranked up about a hundred degrees. She licked her lips and nodded.

“Exactly like that,” Tate replied, her voice breathy. He stared at her for a second, and then he pulled his cell phone out of his pocket, pushed a button.

“Sanders,” he barked in to the phone, still staring at her. “Party's over. I want everyone out of my house in five minutes.”

“Ooohhh, finally, alone time,” Tate chuckled.

He didn't say anything in response, and they watched each other in silence. When they heard the sound of feet clomping through the house, he winked at her and slid out the door, closing it behind him.

She let out a breath, bowing her head forward. The mental image of Jameson, having sex, with two women. She rubbed her legs together. When she was having sex with him, she was too caught up in the moment, most of the time, to really pay attention. The idea of sitting back and watching him, seeing him in all his perfect kind of action; it turned her on. With two women? Wow.

The goodbyes seemed to take forever. She could hear voices murmuring, picked out Jameson's voice among them. She laid back flat on the island, propped her feet up on the edge. Two women. Did he talk with other women the way he talked with her? She imagined him tying a woman's wrists to a bed post, calling her names. Tracing his tongue down her prone body. Tate's hand crept onto her stomach. Fiddled with the edge of her bikini bottoms. She took a deep breath through her nose, forcing her hand to stay still.

It had been a long week without him.

“Getting started without me? Bad girl,” Jameson's voice was soft as he walked back in to the kitchen.

“No, but I thought about it,” she replied, not lifting her head but holding up her hands for him to see.

“That's bad enough. I've barely told you anything, and you're already turned on?” he asked, moving so he was standing in front of her. She sat up, letting her legs fall back down against the drawers beneath her. He grabbed her knees and spread her legs so he could stand between them.

“I've got a very good imagination, Mr. Kane,” she assured him. He placed a hand against the crotch of her bikini bottoms, gently tracing his middle finger up and down. She sucked air through her teeth, trying not to moan.

“Apparently. You're soaking wet, Tatum,” he informed her. She nodded.

“You have that effect on me, if you haven't noticed.”

“You sure it wasn't all those men you were flirting with? Laying it on pretty thick out there,” he told her, his fingers from his other hand digging in to her knee.

“I thought you liked it when I was slutty,” she pointed out. He narrowed his eyes.

“Hmmm, sometimes,” was all he said in response, the pressure from his fingers getting harder. She sucked in another gasp of air and grabbed onto his wrist.

“No fair. I want to hear your story,” she told him, stopping his movements.

“You are an amazing woman, Tatum O'Shea,” Jameson chuckled, stepping back away from her.

“You have no idea. Now make it juicy. Lie if you have to,” she told him, and he laughed, going back to his position by the door, leaning against the wall.

“Alright. What do you want to know first?” he asked. She laid back down.

“How it all started, start there. What were you wearing. What were they wearing,” she suggested.

“Awfully detailed.”

“I'm a very visual person.”

“Let's see. I met them for dinner. I was wearing clothing. One of them was wearing a ridiculous dress, you would have loved it – short, slutty, only covered one shoulder. The other one was more demure, some fancy shirt, and tight pants,” he described. Tate laughed.

“You were 'wearing clothing', huh? You're a horrible story teller. Do these girls have names?” she asked, propping her foot up on the island top.

“Probably,” was all he said, and she laughed.

“Terrible. So okay, we'll say Thing One is Slutty One - right up your alley. Thing Two, Demure Temptress. How long did it take you to talk them in to coming home with you?” she asked. He snorted.

“I didn't talk them in to shit, Tate. We had appetizers, I told them I was going home, they asked to join me. Demure Temptress sucked my dick during the cab ride to my hotel,” Jameson stated.

“Oh my. Lucky cab driver,” Tate whispered.

“Once we got in to my room, I sat on the balcony while they took turns blowing me. Slutty One couldn't wait any longer, and climbed on top of me right out there,” he continued.

“What was Demure Temptress doing?” Tate asked, staring up at the ceiling.

“She went back in to the room, got naked. Stretched out on the bed. Played with herself,” his voice was soft. Tate could feel her breathing pick up.

“Did you like that?”

“Very much so.”

“What else?”

“I carried the slutty sister in to the room, laid down on the bed between them. You can touch yourself, Tate, it's okay,” Jameson said when her finger began to trace lines above her bikini. She laughed.

“I don't need your permission,” she pointed out.

“Wrong.”

Her hand dived underneath the bathing suit material and she closed her eyes. She brought her other leg up so both knees were in the air, the balls of her feet balanced on the edge of the island. Sometimes she wondered who was better at touching her – herself, or Jameson. Her fingers could thread her like a needle; precise, knew exactly how to touch. Jameson was more like silk; smooth, finessing everything. She began to pant.

“What else?” she moaned.

“Fuck, Tate, what did I do to deserve you?” his voice sounded strained. She chuckled.

“Nothing, yet. Keep talking, please,” she begged, her other hand joining the first as she gently eased a finger in to her opening.

“The demure sister rode my cock for a while, while slutty girl let me see how many fingers I could fit inside of her. Then they traded places,” he continued. Tate moaned, pushing her hips in to the air. She dragged one hand away, brought it to her hair and pulled a little.

“Get to the part with the ropes,” she gasped.

“Tatum, naughty girl, you want me to tie you up, don't you?” Jameson asked.

“I want you to do whatever you fucking want,” she said, and then cried out, pushing two fingers inside.

“Good answer. I didn't have any rope, I had to use the slutty one's tights. I tied her down flat to the mattress, to the legs of the bed. Bent the demure one in half right beside the other girl and fucked her as hard as I could.”

“Oh my god, did you talk? Did you talk to them the way you talk to me?” the words rushed out of Tate, her voice sounding like she was almost whining. His story, the picture he was painting, was getting her so hot, she almost didn't need her hand to help her get off.

“Oh no. No, I reserve that for people that I think can actually handle it. That's why sex has always been better with you – I can always be myself,” he told her in a whisper. She moaned again, long and low, her fingers thrusting in and out of herself.

“I'm glad,” she whispered, the hand in her hair going behind her head, gripping onto edge of the island.

“Not to say that boring, old, regular sex doesn't help pass the time. After demure one came apart all around me, I moved onto slutty one. Left her tied up, so I could do anything I wanted to her,” Jameson's voice was almost menacing sounding.

“What did you do?” Tate's voice was starting to shake. She didn't want to come, not without him inside her, but she couldn't stop her fingers.

“What do you think I did?” he asked.

“Did you go down on her?” she asked, and then held her breath.

“No. I don't do that for just anybody,” he informed her. It made her happy to hear it, he hadn't done that for her yet.

“I noticed.”

“You want me to go down on you, Tate?” he asked.

“I don't care.”

“I consider that a very big favor. It's quite a treat for me to give. You would owe me, big time,” he told her. She shook her head.

“Obviously, I don't need your favors,” she managed to chuckle, but it turned in to a gasp as a tremor ripped through her body, forcing her hips in to the air again. She was so close ...,

“What the the fuck did you just say to me?” Jameson snapped. She smiled, pressing her knees together.

“God, yes, talk to me like that,” she moaned, her fingers moving fast, running a race against him.

“Shut the fuck up and stop moving,” he ordered. She shook her head.

“Can't. Sorry,” she whispered, her breathing beginning to hitch.

She hadn't heard him move, but suddenly she felt his hand on her knee. She turned her head forward and opened her eyes to find him staring down at her. He slid his hand between her thighs, moving them apart. She finally pulled her hand free of her bottoms, but he grabbed her by the wrist and raised her hand to his face, wrapping his lips around two of her fingers. She moaned again, scratching the nails of her free hand down her thigh. His tongue swirled around her sticky sweet fingers, and then he slowly pulled them free.

“You always need my favors, Tatum,” he informed her, dropping her hand and then grabbing her by the hips, pushing her back along the counter. Her legs stretched out, till her calves were resting against the edge.

“Yes, yes, I do,” she groaned.

“Beg me,” he ordered.

“Anything. Do anything. Just please, touch me, something, anything,” she begged.

He hooked his hands under knees and yanked them up. She planted her feet flat while he wrenched her thighs wide apart. A shudder ran down her body while his fingers dug in to her flesh. Her eyes fluttered shut, and she felt his teeth against her inner thigh. Biting his way down, his tongue softening the blows. His breath was hot against her damp bikini bottoms and she wiggled her hips in anticipation.

“A very big favor,” he reminded her, his fingers creeping across her skin. She laughed.

“I didn't ask for any favors,” she told him.

“You're about to get one.”

He roughly pulled the crotch of her bottoms to the side and then his mouth was on her. She cried out, her hands instantly going to his hair. His tongue made one long sweep up her center, cutting her like a knife. Her thighs shook, and she felt like her holding onto him was the only thing keeping her from flying off the island top.

The man wasn't all talk; his tongue moved expertly around her – she may have met her match in the oral sex department. Her breathing cranked back up and she started making harsh sounds in the back of her throat. Whining. Moaning. Panting. All of the above.

“God, I don't think I've ever tasted a pussy as sweet as yours,” he groaned against her, running his hands over her breasts and then clawing them back down her body. “I didn't think there could be anything better than fucking it, but this is pretty close.”

“I aim to please,” Tate whispered, pulling at his hair.

His tongue was back at it, this time joined by two of his fingers. Tracing up and down, swimming in and out. She shrieked and moaned, writhed around underneath him. His other arm came down across her hips, his fingers digging in to her skin. Her cries got louder, her hips undulating against his face. In the back of her mind, she knew that the door was open, that anyone could walk in on them – Sanders, a guest coming back for something, anyone – but she didn't care. It just excited her more.

“You're very close, Tate,” Jameson lifted his head enough to whisper, biting on her thigh while his fingers still moved inside of her.

“Yes, please, please, so close, please,” she whined, her hips lifting off the island, straining towards his mouth.

“Do you want to come on my tongue, or my dick?”

“Can't I do both?”

“Maybe another time. My generosity has run out for right now,” he told her.

She sat up abruptly, forcing him to lean away. She grabbed his neck and pulled herself forward, sliding across the island in to him. She locked her lips onto his warm, damp ones, tasting herself against his tongue. Her legs went around his waist and she hooked her ankles together.

“Now, it has to be now,” she groaned, her hands back in his hair and pulling.

“So greedy,” he laughed, picking her up off the island and carrying her out of the room. She clawed and writhed against him, all the way up the stairs. He carried her in to his bedroom and then laid them down on his bed, stretching out on top of her.

“So what am I going to owe you, for that huge favor?” Tate breathed, stretching while he peeled her clothing off of her.

“Something big,” he warned. She smiled, working a hand in to his pants.

“Oh, I know it is,” she replied. He laughed.

“All you think about is sex.”

“Nothing wrong with that. It's your fault, anyway.”

“I aim to please.”

She had made it pretty clear that she wanted to come on his dick, and she did – but before he could come, he slid down her body and latched his lips back onto her pussy. For having gone on and on about doing her such a big favor by eating her out, how it wasn't something he “ever really did”, he couldn't seem to stop. He was like a man possessed. It wasn't until she was so oversensitized that even the idea of another orgasm was uncomfortable, that he finally stopped. She laid on her back, trembling and shaking, her hands above her head.

“Please, too much, no more,” she gasped for air, rubbing her thighs together. He worked his way up her body, pausing at her breasts, his fingers circling a nipple, pinching it. Her back arched up and she whimpered.

“I could do this all night,” Jameson breathed, his teeth going to the nipple.

“If only I had a twin,” she joked.

“Jesus christ, I would die.”

“But very happy. You would die a very happy man,” she pointed out. He lifted his face to hers, rubbed his nose against her cheek.

“You're better than any set of twins, any threesome, I've ever had. You better be careful, Tatum, or my claws will get in too deep for you to ever get away,” he warned her. His voice was soft, but his words carried weight. They settled on her chest, interfered with her heart beat. She opened her eyes and stared at his ceiling.

“I like it better when you say mean things,” she whispered.

“Why?”

“They don't hurt as much.”

Jameson was silent for a while and then he rolled her over, slapped her on the ass. Called her a stupid slut for listening to anything that came out of his mouth in bed. Held her down by her shoulders and fucked her hard.

That was her comfort zone. She felt like if he was nice to her, if he was sweet to her, she would forget what was really going on, forget her place in the grand scheme of things. And he was Satan, after all. He would make sure to put her back in her place. That would be real pain, and she couldn't handle that, not from him. Not again.

I'm losing this game.