~8~

It felt like a lot longer than three days. She'd spent most of the last day with Ang. For the first time since ..., since Jameson had reentered her life, she felt like she was back to the same old friendship she'd always had with Ang, just minus the sex. It was nice. It was amazing. She actually cried a little when he left to go home. He called her a stupid cow and kissed her goodbye.

Sanders pick her up, but instead of driving her straight home, Tate convinced him to stop and have dinner with her. She apologized for making him feel like he had to leave, and explained that she had just wanted some time. Some time to pretend to be the “old her”, so she could figure out exactly who the “new her” was and what that person wanted.

“Did you figure it out?” Sanders asked. She smiled at him.

“I think I did.”

By the time they pulled up in front of the house in Weston, it was after seven o'clock at night. She had guessed that Jameson would be in a foul mood, and Sanders warned that he would be in a foul mood, but she didn't care. She was actually excited to see him. Be in his presence. The couple days apart had rejuvenated her. Made her really like him again. Sometimes, loving a person was easy, the heart went and did that all on its own. Liking a person, however, was a little more difficult. That involved the brain. And the brain was a fickle bitch.

He wasn't waiting for her at the door, as he had a tendency to do whenever she was tardy. In fact, the whole house was mostly dark. She made a face at Sanders, laughing at him as he carried her bag upstairs. Then she crept down the hallway, to the only light source in the house.

A fire was raging.

“Hello,” Tate called out softly, edging into his library. It was her first time entering the room, since he had dumped her in there, that her skin didn't crawl.

“You came back. Shocker,” Jameson commented. He was sitting in one of the wing back chairs, facing the flames. So close, she worried he'd burn his feet.

So, the same spot as always.

“Ooohhh, there's a tone. Someone is feisty already,” she teased, walking over to the couch and plopping down on it, folding her legs under herself. He didn't move.

“Just surprised. It had occured to me that this was all an elaborate ruse, a way to sneak out of my clutches,” he told her. She laughed.

“You give me too much credit. Wasn't Sandy talking to you? I was a good girl, all week,” she assured him.

“I highly doubt that, and sometimes I think Sanders is working for you, and against me. Though he did inform me of a kiss,” Jameson said.

“Such a tattle tale. Yes, there was a kiss. I hope he also told you that I put a stop to the kiss, and told Nick that I wouldn't be running away with him to his castle in Arizona,” she stressed.

“There was some mention of that. Mostly babbling. I try to ignore him when he gets to the facts.”

“Obviously.”

“Shut up.”

“Nothing happened, Jameson. I'm here,” she pointed out.

“Yes. And you could've been here last night, but you chose to spend it with Angier,” he practically spit out Ang's name. Tate laughed and began taking off her scarf and jacket.

“You know, for such an amazing man who is always going on and on about not worrying or caring or any of that bullshit, you're awfully insecure,” she told him. He finally turned his head towards her, his jaw visible below the wing of the chair. She leaned over the back of the couch, folding her arms.

“Fuck you, Tatum. It's post-traumatic stress, from dealing with you,” he snarled. She snickered.

“Such a bitch.”

She was provoking him on purpose, so she didn't move when he got out of his chair and stalked towards her. She had missed him all week. She wanted him, now. She was ready to let go, to give in to him. He had won, after all. She was finally ready to admit that.

“Care to say that again?” he growled, coming around the couch to face her. She turned around, settling back onto her heels.

“Bitch. I called you one. As in, you're acting like a little bitch. You won, Mr. Kane. I'm here. He's in Arizona. Ang is at home. But I'm here, with you. So stop being a bitch.”

His fingers were around her throat instantly, forcing her back into the couch at first. She sighed, her hand gripping his wrist, fingernails digging into his skin. The harder she dug, the harder he squeezed. She gripped as hard as she could.

“Someday, you will learn to watch your fucking mouth around me,” he hissed.

“Probably not, Kane,” she wheezed out. “You should probably just get used to it.”

“I don't have to get used to shit. So was he any good? Still boring? How about Angier? I know he was always a fave,” Jameson said. She managed a laugh, though it sounded more like snorting, and she trailed her free hand across his chest, gripped onto his shirt.

“If I didn't know any better, I'd say you missed me,” she whispered. He glared at her, but the pressure on her neck loosened a little. She was able to sit up.

“No shit.”

“Aw, poor baby. Sexy secretary not hot in bed?” Tate cooed at him.

“I wouldn't know.”

“Please. I don't believe for an instant that you spent all week alone, especially after firing her,” Tate snorted. He rolled his eyes.

“I fired her because she couldn't file for shit, Tatum,” he snapped. “I'm not entirely sure she even knew how to read. And while usually stupid women tend to be good fucks, no one is as good as you.”

She yanked on his shirt and pulled him close, kissing him. Electro-shock therapy, all over her body. Something she hadn't allowed herself to feel, in a long time. She gasped into his mouth, struggling to climb to her knees on the couch. She wanted to be closer; much, much, much closer to him. As close as she could possibly get.

He let go of her throat and quickly pulled his shirt off. He had barely tugged it free of his head before her hands were on his chest, scoring his skin hard enough to leave red dashes on their way down. He grabbed her wrists and yanked her forward, his tongue invading her mouth as he pressed his body against hers, forcing her back into the couch.

“Please,” she realized she was whispering as she fought to kick off her shoes. “Please, Jameson. Please.”

“Apparently little Nick wasn't very good, if you're already begging for it from me,” he chuckled, yanking her shirt over her head.

“Why do you always want to talk about other men when we're fucking? If you want to fuck men, Jameson, it's okay. Can I watch?” she asked while he tried to pull her pants and underwear down. When she lifted her hips, he smacked her on the ass.

“I wouldn't even let you watch me fuck myself, you stupid bitch. You don't deserve a treat like that. Where the fuck were you all day?” he demanded, yanking her clothing free and throwing it over the couch.

“Downtown, with Ang. Then dinner, with Sanders,” she told him, chucking her bra across the room while he slipped out of his own pants.

“I don't like waiting.”

“See? Such a whiny bitch.”

“Watch your fucking mouth,” he hissed, slapping his hand down between her legs. She gasped, and then his fingers were soothing the sting. Slicing through her, like butter. She moaned, letting her legs fall open to him. “Jesus, Tate. I was expecting a battle when you came in here, not an easy fuck.”

“Kind of one and the same with us,” she panted. He slapped her again between the legs and she shrieked, almost coming right then.

“Something's got you all riled up. Did your day with Angier get you all excited?” he asked, burying his middle finger in her. She squirmed around.

“No.”

“You're awfully wet.”

“I usually am.”

“Not without reason. What set you off, hmmm?”

“You. Just you.”

“Good answer.”

His hand was on her breast bone then, pressing her down into the couch. Forcing her down. He propped one of her legs along the back of the couch, and then he was slamming into her. No hesitation, just hips meeting hips in an instant. She shrieked, her hands flying to her breasts, squeezing.

“Oh my ... fuck,” she groaned as he immediately began pounding into her.

“Fucking slut. Spent all day with him. Tried to fuck him in our bed. Probably tried to fuck him in my condo. Who the fuck do you think you are!?” Jameson demanded. She had her other foot touching the floor and he grabbed that leg, held it out away from her body by the knee, forcing himself so deep inside of her, it felt like he was interfering with the rhythm of her heart.

Like that's anything new. Remember the first time you saw him? Heart attack.

“Originally, I wanted to fuck him in here,” she taunted, and the hand on her chest moved to her throat. He wasn't playing around, no butterfly kisses with this hand – he practically squeezed her neck in half.

“You wouldn't fucking dare,” he hissed.

“Didn't have enough time.”

“Stupid whore, didn't have enough balls. Fuck. Fuck you, Tate. Fucking always making me do things I don't want to do,” Jameson growled, his grip on her neck loosening.

“I think you always want to do these things,” she cried out.

“Always,” he moaned.

“I couldn't do it, though,” she whispered.

Why is it that sex always makes an honest girl out of you? Why can't you just fake it, like everyone else?

“Of course you fucking couldn't. I own this pussy, you stupid cunt. You thought you could use it without my permission? Wrong,” he informed her.

“I know, I know,” she breathed. The hand on her throat finally released her, and she gasped in air, only to moan again when his fingers moved to her nipple, pinching it hard.

“I made this pussy. It has belonged to me for the last seven years,” he whispered, letting go of her leg and leaning down on top of her.

“Yes, yes,” she whimpered, squeezing her eyes shut tight. She felt him press his forehead against her temple, his teeth bared against her cheek.

“Mine,” he growled.

“Yours,” she agreed.

“Stupid fucking whore, doesn't even know who she belongs to. Slut. Cunt. You said you wished I didn't exist. Fuck you,” he swore, and she gasped as his hand let go of her breast and slithered between their bodies.

He was talking about when she had screamed at him in the hospital. She was shocked he even remembered the things she'd said. That he ever remembered anything she said. It must have hurt, to have stuck with him for so long.

“I didn't mean it,” she told him, then gasped again as she felt one of his fingers sliding inside of her, right on top of his dick. He was not a small man.

So. Fucking. Full.

“Of course you didn't fucking mean it. I created you, you came from me. If I didn't exist, you wouldn't fucking exist,” he snapped. Realization suddenly dawned behind her eyelids.

Not Satan. Not Lillith. Eve was created from Adam's rib. We're part of each other. That's why I can't get away. That's why he can't get away. I'm not his subject, he's not my lord and master. We're the same.

Getting philosophical during sex usually wasn't her thing, but apparently it worked for her, because Tate came so hard that when she bit down on his earlobe, she drew blood. He roared and pulled back, his fingernails biting into her throat as he grabbed it, forcing her down onto the couch. He held her there while she shook and cried, her whole body ripping apart around him. He finally stilled, but she didn't stop coming for another solid twenty seconds.

“No,” she breathed when she finally felt like she could again. “No, I wouldn't.”

Without a word, he picked her up from the couch. She squealed, clinging to his shoulders as he walked them across the room. She wasn't sure what his intentions were, until she saw that he was walking around the desk. Back to where it all began. He practically dropped her onto it, forced her back down hard against the wood, and began thrusting into her again.

“Why do I always have to fuck you, to get you to agree with me?” he demanded, raking his claws down her chest. She managed a laugh.

“The question is, why do you like it so much?” she replied as he gripped onto her hips.

“Are you kidding?”

“Harder,” she moaned, and he complied. The desk began to rattle and shake, edge forward.

Just like old times.

“The question is, why do you make me do it?” he sighed, his head leaning back. She rubbed her hands across his chest.

“Because no man has ever made me come the way you do,” she purred.

“No shit. You don't deserve it. I should make you work harder for it,” he groaned, his hands moving to her knees. Forcing them wider apart.

“You make me work too hard for it,” she countered.

“Fuck you, I should make you pray to my dick. That fucking mouth. Fuck. Are you this mouthy with Angier?” he growled.

“It's always about Ang,” she sighed.

“You're the one always talking about fucking him, and every time I see him, he's bragging about fucking you. Fucker. Fucking bragging. Couldn't have been that fucking good. He should have at least taught you how to shut the fuck up,” he snarled, his thrusts getting brutal. She felt another orgasm approaching like a freight train.

“He was a good enough teacher,” she moaned.

“Excuse me!?” Jameson's head snapped down to look at her.

“You should know – you benefit from him every day.”

It hadn't happened since last fall. Not since that very last time they slept together, before the shit hit the fan and hurricane Jameson ripped her heart in two. And hadn't even happened once when he had been busy putting the same heart back together in Spain.

He slapped her across the face and she screamed, coming so hard, her vision went black around the edges.

“You goddamn cunt, don't you ever fucking say shit like that to me again,” he snapped at her.

“Yes! Yes! Oh my god, please,” she moaned, not even aware of what planet she was on, let alone what she was saying. He grabbed her by the neck and roughly yanked her forward so she was sitting up. She tried to gasp, still caught in multiple orgasms. His other hand grabbed onto her ass, forcing her closer to him, as close as another human being could get, and he jackhammered his hips against hers, his forehead resting against her own.

“You fucking bitch. Fuck you. Fuck you. I goddamn hate you,” he growled, and then he was coming.

It seemed to go on forever. He would shudder, pump, release, and it would trigger another wave of pleasure through her own body. She was practically sobbing by the end, her arms wrapped around his waist. When he finally let go of her throat, she fell back onto the desk, and he fell with her. Pressed his head to her breasts while he tried to catch his breath.

It felt like they had run a marathon. She and Jameson had wild, roadrunner sex all the time, but this time ..., she felt like she would never be able to walk again. Talk again. Do anything, ever again.

Except maybe have sex. She would definitely do that again.

“Oh my god. Holy shit. Holy fuck,” she panted, pressing her wrist to her forehead.

“Yes,” Jameson breathed in agreement, not moving.

She was very aware that they were in an almost identical position to the first time they'd had sex in his library. Spread out on his desk, him on top of her, both of them gasping for air. Except this time, there was slightly less clothing. A lot bigger orgasms. Definitely a lot scarier feelings. Tate cleared her throat. Tried to talk. Had to clear her throat again. Felt her eyes well up with tears.

“That was ...,” her voice was barely above a breath. He chuckled.

“A week is too long, baby girl. See what happens when you make me wait?” he told her, still out of breath, as well. She cleared her throat again.

“So,” she managed to choke out loudly enough to hear, her voice raspy.

“Hmmm?” Jameson mumbled, his hands gliding up and down the backs of her thighs. Her legs were still wrapped around his waist.

“You hate me, huh?” she asked, managing to laugh. A tear slid down the side of her head. He chuckled.

“Tatum, what have I told you about listening to the shit that comes out of my mouth during sex? It's all rubbish,” he replied, the gliding turning to scratching.

“You've said you hate me before, one time. Before you went to Berlin,” she pointed out. He paused for a second, then his hands continued their path.

“That was different. Sometimes ..., sometimes I feel like I do hate you. I didn't want this, I wasn't looking for this, this isn't what I asked for. I wanted someone to play with, not someone for keeps. You changed the game on me,” he said quietly.

“I did?” she replied, another tear escaping. He nodded his head against her.

“Yes, and I don't know this game. I'm not good at this game. I'm learning as I go, and you don't make it easy, when you fight me at every turn. When you change the rules. You change your mind. You make me slip up. I hate that. Sometimes it all makes me wish for the old days. Sometimes, it all makes me hate you a little,” he confessed. She laughed. The tears were free falling now. No turning back.

Not that there ever was.

“Pity,” she whispered.

“Why?”

“Because it all makes me love you a little.”