~9~

“What are the rules?”

“No rules.”

“Shut up.”

“Fiiiiiine.”

“What are the rules?”

“No Angiers in the house.”

“Yes. And?”

“No plotting your imminent demise.”

“And?”

“No corrupting Sanders.”

“Good girl. I'll be back in four days.”

Jameson leaned down and kissed her. Went to leave, made it a couple steps, then came back.

“What!? I haven't corrupted him yet,” Tate held up her hands defensively. Sanders shifted from foot to foot, tried to blend in with the door frame.

“Any rules for me, baby girl?” he asked, glancing in a large mirror and fiddling with his tie. She batted his hands away and worked at the knot.

“You are shit at doing this,” she grumbled, pulling the whole thing free and starting over.

“Watch it. Why are you so good at it?” he asked, watching in the mirror as she deftly tied a knot.

“Fucked a lot of professors,” she replied. He shoved her hands away.

“You're not fit to touch me,” he informed her.

“That's not what you said last night.”

“Last night was a completely different story. Any last words?” he asked. She thought for a second.

“Don't do anything I wouldn't do,” she replied with a smile.

“What a horrible thought. Be good,” Jameson kissed her again, then sailed out the door, Sanders carrying his luggage behind him.

It was Monday. He would be back Friday. She had told him she loved him Saturday night. Things hadn't exploded. The earth hadn't swallowed her whole, Satan hadn't carried her off to his temple of doom. Though he did carry her off to his bedroom.

 

“I know you do, baby girl.”

“When did you know?”

“Paris.”

“How? I didn't even know.”

“You're not very subtle.”

“I'm sorry.”

“Never be sorry, Tate. I never am.”

“Does this change things?”

“No. Not a thing.”

“Please, don't hurt me.”

“I'll do my best.”

“That's all I can ask.”

 

He had kissed every inch of her skin, practically worshiped her with his mouth. She had felt like dying on top of his desk, but fifteen minutes later, and he had her so super charged, she felt like her fingertips could jump start a jet engine. Just when she was ready to beg for it, he had slipped inside of her, and eased the tension.

And things really hadn't changed. They fucked all weekend, making up for lost time. Sanders was scarred on more than one occasion, by walking into the wrong room at the wrong time. Jameson still called her filthy names, and she still loved it. Still treated her to heavy hands, and she loved that even more. But best of all, when he did say something nice, it didn't hurt. It didn't scar. It just folded in with the rest.

Finally.

“I bought something,” he said Sunday afternoon, striding into his library.

She was back to laying on the floor, stretched on her stomach. There had been an “incident” with the couch. It had gotten flipped over and a leg broke off. It was being repaired. Jameson told her she had to be more careful in the future – his shit wasn't cheap. She told him that maybe he shouldn't go around fucking people so hard. He told her to shut her mouth. It just went uphill from there, and then they broke his desk chair.

She had laughed a lot.

“What is it?” she asked warily, sitting up and taking a box he held out towards her.

She recognized it instantly. A vintage Cartier necklace, mostly pearls and diamonds. Purchased by an anonymous buyer over a phone.

“Got it at some stupid auction,” he commented, sitting in his wing back chair. “Don't know why. Waste of money. For some charity function.”

She wanted to cry, but she was trying to make it a habit not to do that anymore. So she game him a blowjob instead. Was practically of equal value, she was sure.

But Sunday evening, he got a phone call. They were still in the library, so she was there when he got it. Something about his offices in Germany. She heard everything, he tried to get out of going. Had even offered to send Sanders in his place. But he was needed. He had to go – it was easy to forget, but he did have obligations. He had to go to Berlin.

Of course, a panic attack was the first thing on her mind. But then she calmed down. Saying “hey, I'm kinda sorta in love with you, you sadistic bastard” was kind of like making a deal. She had to trust him, to a certain extent. So she just smiled and told him to come home soon. He tried to talk her into going with him, but she told him she wouldn't go for all the tea in China. Fuck that. Letting him go was baby steps. He would have to wait for the giant leaps.

She requested that Sanders stay behind, though, which made everyone happier. Sanders didn't like going to Germany. Jameson didn't like leaving Tate alone. Tate didn't particularly like being alone. So it all worked out.

It really wasn't so bad. That's what she kept telling herself. She tried to ignore the fact that the last time she had confessed her feelings to him, he had run away to Berlin. Awfully big coincidence. But it was just that, it had to be – she would have to trust that it was, trust him. So she did her best.

“What should we do without him?” she asked when Sanders finally came home.

“Same thing we usually do when he is not at home,” he replied, walking into the kitchen.

“I'm not making brownies. You called me fat a couple weeks ago,” she reminded him.

“You made me angry. I was provoked into saying that.”

“I didn't provoke shit. You were being a brat.”

“Though technically, you are a couple pounds overweight for your height.”

“Shut up! I am not!”

“Well, a couple more pounds, and you will be.”

“I WILL NOT!”

She laughed and threw flour all over him. A small baking fight ensued. Something about Sanders being messy just did her in. Perfect, pristine Sanders, coated in baking soda and canola oil, made her laugh endlessly. Even when she slipped in the oil and fell onto her back. Even when he dumped an entire ten pound bag of sugar on her. She couldn't stop. He finally pulled her up and dragged her to the bathroom, where he pushed her – fully clothed – into the shower. She shrieked when the cold water hit her.

“I am not amused,” was all he said before he stomped out of the room.

But he came back, clean and showered. He changed into pajamas and they enjoyed brownies while they watched a movie in the sitting room. She lamented about cleaning the kitchen, but he told her he would have a cleaning service come take care of it in the morning.

“Sandy, does Jameson know you have spooned with me? Multiple times?” she asked, shoving almost a whole brownie into her mouth.

“Yes. I tell him everything.”

“He doesn't mind?”

“No. Why should he?” Sanders asked, not taking his eyes off the television screen.

“He hates it when I so much as smile at Ang,” she pointed out.

“Mr. Hollingsworth is a threat. I am not,” Sanders pointed out. She nodded.

“Fair enough.”

They woke up the next morning, still on the couch. She was stretched across his chest, drooling. Attractive. He hid his disgust well when they got up, but she still laughed. Then he cooked them breakfast and they ate it outside, shivering in their pajamas. She found herself thinking that some of her happiest moments in life had been spent doing absolutely nothing with Sanders.

“Should I call him?” Tate asked, jumping up and down in the middle of Jameson's bed. Sanders stood in the doorway.

“If you want to,” he replied.

“Of course I want to. But I've never really called him before,” she told him.

“I know.”

“So, I kinda wanted it to be special, the first time I call him,” she tried to explain, jumping high and doing a toe touch.

“You are going to hurt yourself,” Sanders warned.

“Pffffft, no I won't.”

“Why would a phone call be special? Are you going to wait for his birthday?” Sanders asked.

“Don't be silly, it's because -, ACK!” she hit the mattress wrong and took off at an angle, almost bouncing clear into the closet. She hit the floor with a thud.

“I told you,” Sanders' voice called out to her.

She didn't have to worry about whether or not to call Jameson, though, because he called her.

“Have you been good, baby girl?” he asked. She was in the library and she looked across the hall, watching as people swept and cleaned in the kitchen.

“Uh ..., sure. You could say that.”

“Oh god.”

“Sanders is still in one piece,” she assured him.

“I don't want to talk about Sanders,” Jameson replied.

“What would you like to talk about?” she asked.

“How wet you are.”

“Oh my.”

“I'm waiting for an answer.”

By the time they got off the phone, she was laying on the floor behind the desk, her pants around her ankles. Breathing hard. The phone resting on her chest. She probably should've shut the library door, but she didn't really care.

Not when she was sitting on cloud nine.

The next day she and Sanders hit the town. She didn't want to go shopping, but she did want look into job options. She didn't tell Sanders until they were sitting on a bench, her perusing the want ads in a newspaper. He frowned when he realized what section she was reading.

“I don't think Jameson would like this idea,” he warned her. She shrugged.

“I have to do something, Sandy. I can't just sit in that house all the time, hanging on Jameson's every word. I need something,” she stressed, shivering and scooting closer to him.

“Jameson once mentioned that you were accepted to Harvard. That must mean you are smart,” he said. She snorted.

“Thanks, Sandy.”

“Why don't you go back to school? Surely, there is something you are interested in,” he suggested.

“Harvard costs an awful lot of money, Sandy. You gonna float me fifty grand?” she asked.

“If you were serious about going, yes, I would.”

She was shocked.

“I'm not gonna let you pay for me to go to school,” she grumbled, concentrating on the paper.

She hadn't really ever thought of going back to school. Before Jameson, she had been too busy hustling. Too busy having a good time. During Jameson, she couldn't think of anything but him, and after Jameson ..., well, really more of the same. School had never been something on her radar.

But Sanders had a good point. She was smart, or at least she used to be – it couldn't be that hard to get back into the swing of things. She had originally gone to school for political science. Daddy's requirement. She hadn't ever taken the time to think of what she would go back for, if she ever went back.

“Would you let Jameson?” Sanders asked in a soft voice.

“Hmmm. And what should I go to school for?” she asked, letting the paper fold down.

“You are very good with people. You could be a social worker,” he suggested.

“Or a stripper.”

“Sometimes, I'm not sure why I talk to you.”

They walked around after that, and Tate stopped in at a couple bars which were hiring, grabbed applications. But she didn't stop thinking about what he had said. Going to school. Pretty amazing. Something to think about, for the future. She was just taking baby steps towards Jameson. She wasn't about to run and leap into his arms, asking for a hand out that would bind her to him for years.

Later that night, Sanders had to take part in a video conference with Jameson and some suits, around two in the morning. Eight in the morning, Berlin time. Tate laid upstairs in bed, staring at the ceiling. Sanders' voice was a distant murmur in the otherwise empty house.

She couldn't sleep, so she got up and wandered into the sun room. She hadn't spent much time in there, not after she and Ang had been in there. She scooted in behind the computer and stared at the big screen. It was dark. She shook the mouse, and everything turned on, lit up. She chewed on her bottom lip and glanced around.

Tate hadn't looked up anything about Jameson since that night. The night. At first, she hadn't wanted to, and now ..., she was scared to, she realized. Scared of what she might learn, might see. She should trust him. She should give him his privacy. She should not care. He didn't waste his time investigating her. Why should she waste her time on him?

She had already typed his name into the Google search bar before she even realized what she was doing. She figured she was halfway there already, so might as well jump all the way into it. She hit enter, and watched the pages come up.

There was a lot of news about his trip to Los Angeles, him selling his part in a film company. A big film company. Tate wondered why he had gotten out of it, but then another article talked about him turning around and investing a god-awful amount of money in an oil company, so she figured it was a trade of sorts. She never asked him about his money, or what he did with it. She didn't really care, and it wasn't her business.

She hesitated with the mouse over the tab for a while, but then she clicked it. Images. Pictures immediately filled the screen, and she sighed. He still had the ability to turn her into a giggly, stupid girl, no matter how many times she saw him. No matter how much time they spent together naked. He was just so handsome. She sighed, scrolling through the photos.

Tate was relieved to see none of him and Pet, not since the old ones. There were pictures of him in Marbella, from a Spanish tabloid. One of him and Tate, standing on the bow of his yacht, talking to each other. Or arguing, she couldn't tell. Neither of them looked happy.

She moved on, found more pictures of them. One of them at a cafe in Marbella, another of them leaving a shop. Tate would never get used to seeing pictures of herself online. There was even one of them leaving the restaurant, after her run in with Pet. It was at night, and it was grainy, but it still made her smile. Him mid-stride, walking confidently ahead of her. Her laughing, holding onto the hem of his jacket, bent over a little as she struggled to keep up with him. He almost looked happy as well, a small smile playing at the edges of his lips.

She printed the picture out, and while she looked at it, she realized she had no pictures of them together. She subjected Sanders to selfies all the time, and of course she had tons of pictures with Ang. Even Nick, with the amount of team events she went to with him. But no real pictures of her and Jameson together. At least, none that were taken on purpose with their express permission.

She frowned and moved back to the search bar, typed in their names together. She was astounded at the amount of photos that popped up. Them everywhere together, all over Boston. Pictures of them in the Bentley, in restaurants, coming out of his building, going into his building. In front of his building. Lots and lots around his office building.

Her favorite was an old one, one from before their brief split, where they were caught in the rain. She was soaking wet, because she had been standing outside waiting for him. When he had come out to meet her, he had taken one look at her and gone back inside. He came back with an umbrella and held it over her. She laughed, and he had kissed her. The photographer caught that moment. She was still smiling through the kiss, and Jameson had one hand against the side of her neck. They looked ..., they looked almost normal.

She printed that picture out as well.

“What are you doing?”

Tate screamed so loud, she was pretty sure the police would be showing up. Sanders jumped a little, took a step back from her. She bent over the keyboard, trying to catch her breath. He had just shaved about ten years off her life.

“DON'T EVER FUCKING DO THAT!” she yelled.

“I'm sorry. I assumed you heard me come in, my apologies. What are you doing?” he asked, glancing between her and the screen.

“Looking up pictures,” she replied, leaning back in the chair, still trying to breathe.

“Last time you did that, things did not end so well. He hasn't seen her, since he's been there,” Sanders assured her. She nodded.

“I believe you. I was looking up pictures of us, together. I don't have any. Look! Here's one of me and you!” she pointed out, making the picture larger. Sanders squinted at it.

Jameson was in the foreground of the photo, talking on his phone. They were in the background, Sanders standing very straight, with Tate leaning on him, her arms around his shoulders, smiling up at him as she held her face close to his own. Probably teasing him about something. Tate looked at the title of the article and burst out laughing.

“What?” Sanders asked. She pulled up the webpage, pointed out the headline.

Trouble In Paradise: Is Jameson Kane's Current Play-Thing Cheating With His Guy-Friday?

“We're an item, Sandy,” she told him. He snorted.

“This is why I don't look these things up. They are full of lies and a waste of time.”

“At least you got a sorta-title. I'm just a 'play thing',” she pointed out.

“Please, turn it off,” he asked. She obliged, closing the windows. She held up the two photos she had printed out.

“I just wanted these, I wasn't trying to dig up dirt,” she promised him. Sanders took the photos and examined them under the desk lamp.

“They're nice. May I take them?” he asked. She raised her eyebrows.

“Uh, yeah. I mean, sure, I guess,” she replied, a little caught off guard.

“I will find them frames,” he explained.

“Good. I thought maybe they were for your secret shrine,” she teased.

“No. I only use solo pictures of you for that.”

She laughed until he cleared his throat.

“I'm sorry, yes?” she gasped for air.

“Jameson would like to speak to you, that's why I'm up here,” he told her. She jumped out of the chair.

“God, has he been on hold this whole time?” she asked, hurrying down the hall. Sanders nodded.

“Yes.”

When Tate picked up the phone in the library, she could hear the sound of Jameson drumming his fingers against whatever kind of desk it was he was sitting behind.

“Sorry,” she breathed. “I didn't know you were on the phone.”

“Sanders failed to mention it?” he asked.

“He was ..., distracted,” she explained.

“How are you?” Jameson asked.

“Good. We've been having fun,” she told him.

“Mmm hmmm. And how much do you miss me?” he pressed.

“On a scale of one to ten? Maybe a two,” she mocked him.

“Liar.”

“How is your trip?” she asked.

“Tiring. Frustrating. I could very much use some of your relaxation methods,” he told her. She laughed and glanced at Sanders, who was sitting in Jameson's wing back chair.

“Might be kind of awkward, Sandy is sitting in front of me. Or kinda hot. I think I may be an exhibitionist,” Tate wondered out loud.

“I know you're one. But no, it's probably not a good idea. I was just checking to make sure you weren't doing anything you shouldn't be doing,” he told her.

“Oh? Like what?” she asked.

“Running away.”

“I'm not going to do that,” she replied in a soft voice.

“Yet.”

Ooohhh, he's in a mood.

“Tell you what,” she started, leaning back in his chair and putting her feet on his desk. “I promise not to run away until you fuck things up again.”

“Fucking bitch.”

“Feel better?” she asked, smiling. He chuckled.

“Yes, yes I do. I'll be home soon.”

“I know.”

“Be ready.”

“I will.”

Then the line went dead.

Falling in love with him had been easy, much easier than she would've thought. That first time, when she had been a silly, stupid, eighteen year old girl, she had fallen a little in love with him. And then last fall, he had walked away with most of her heart.

Jameson Kane wasn't scared of much, but apparently feelings terrified him. Saying she loved him, saying it out loud, had been so much scarier because of that; but knowing that it scared him, and now knowing that he wasn't running away, made it all that much better.

“Sanders,” she said softly, staring off into space.

“Yes?” he asked, turning towards her.

“I need you to get something out of the safe for me.”

 

*

 

When Jameson got home Friday night, he felt like shit. A shitty trip, shitty plane ride, and shitty traffic. Shit. He was cranky. He wanted to walk in the door, have a drink, and then sleep for the next three days. Possibly four. He walked into his home and dropped his suitcase on the floor, the thud echoing through the dark house. Not a single light was on in any of the rooms.

“Hello?” he barked out. No answer. Sanders had walked back to the guest house, after parking the car. But he had said Tatum was at home.

Jameson went upstairs, but she wasn't in the bedroom. He left his suitcase at the foot of the bed, then went back downstairs. She wasn't in the bathroom, or the kitchen. On his way back through the hall, he finally heard something. A crackling noise. There was a fire going in the library. He pushed open the door, walked into the stifling hot room.

He loved the heat.

“What the fuck are you doing? I've been looking for you,” he snapped, his eyes searching the room for her.

“Yeah, and I've been waiting for you,” she replied. His eyes snapped towards his desk chair. She had her back to him, and he could see her bare feet propped up on a bookshelf.

“I am not in the mood for bullshit, Tate. It was a long flight, and I -,”

“Hey, I finally found them!” she interrupted him.

“Huh?” he asked, too tired to even be annoyed.

“Your glasses! I haven't seen you wear them since that day in Spain. I found them, by the computer,” she said.

“I honestly couldn't give two fucks. I'm going to bed,” Jameson growled, but before he could make a move, Tate swiveled around in his chair.

“I think they look better on me,” she told him, smiling at him, his glasses sitting on the bridge of her nose. His eyes wandered over her form and he groaned.

“Baby girl, why do you do this to me? I'm tired,” he moaned, slipping his tie over his head.

“I'm not doing anything,” she replied, leaning back in his chair and stretching her legs over his desk.

“I'm sore, and I'm mad at the world, and I just want to be pissed off at everything, and you do this,” he grumbled, unbuttoning his shirt as he walked towards her. She smiled up at him.

“Well, you can be pissed off at me. Sometimes, I think it's more fun.”

She was wearing his glasses, the Cartier necklace he had bought her from her ballplayer's auction, and nothing else. Not a stitch of clothing. Her hair was piled up on her head in a messy bun, and she wore heavy eye makeup behind the glasses, but that was it. He grabbed her by the ankles and swung her legs around, spinning her in the chair so she was facing him.

“You're going to have to do most of the work, baby girl. Mr. Kane is very, very tired,” he warned her, pulling her legs apart and walking up between them.

“Don't I always?” she replied as he leaned down close to her.

“Shut the fuck up. I'm too tired for your lip,” he growled, gripping her hips and scooting her forward.

“Maybe you're too tired for anything fun,” she said, then squeaked as his fingers dug into her flesh. He yanked her forward, his hands going under her ass as he picked her up.

“Probably. Wake me up if I fall asleep,” he told her, carrying her out of the library. She hooked her ankles together behind his back.

“Never do.”

“I am going to fuck you so hard, just for this attitude.”

“Promises, promises.”

He made good on his word, not stopping till she was panting and listless underneath him. And even then, he dug deep into his reserves, and managed to get another orgasm out of her with his tongue. Then he made her go down on him; made a mess coming all over her and the bed.

While she went to take a shower, he kicked the comforter to the floor and slipped between the sheets. He didn't care about taking a shower. He wanted to slip into a coma for a couple hours. Or days. But just as he was about to, something caught his eye. A light from the closet was glinting off something silver on the nightstand. He rolled closer and turned on a light. A picture frame, one that hadn't been there before he'd left. He picked it up and looked it over.

He didn't know where she had gotten it, but it was a picture of the two of them, kissing in the rain. He couldn't remember the time, but it looked like last fall. He ran his fingers down the glass, across her face.

She's stunning.

She had said she was in love with him. He had said it was okay. He hadn't said it back. She said that was okay. He was still a little blown away by it. By his reaction as much as by hers. From the very beginning, he hadn't wanted a relationship with her. He had told her that, from the very start.

The first time around, when Tate had admitted to having feelings for him, he had freaked the fuck out. Jameson could admit that now. She couldn't just like him – she would want something, in return. Something he might not ever be able to give. Too much. He would give her anything else; sex, money, diamonds, gold, whatever else. But he couldn't make a promise if he didn't know whether or not he could keep it.

This time around was different. He had worked to get her back, fought for her. That in itself was its own kind of promise. In Paris, when she'd had her breakdown over the pearls, that's when he had realized. Any kind of game they had been playing, he had long since won. She wasn't over him. She had never been over him. In fact, she was so much farther down the rabbit hole than either of them had guessed, she probably couldn't make it back out. Somewhere along the line, she had fallen in love with the devil. And being the devil, of course, Jameson had known.

He rolled onto his back, holding the picture above him. It was a good photo, it kind of encapsulated their relationship. Tatum doing something stupid, like standing in the rain, getting soaking wet, when she could've gone inside. Jameson holding an umbrella over her, trying to shield her from the damage she had experienced while waiting for him, but a moment too late. Them meeting in the middle. Kissing. Touching. Not asking for anything, not demanding anything. Just being themselves.

“I thought you'd be unconscious by now, the way you were complaining,” Tate laughed, rubbing a towel over her hair as she walked out of the bathroom. He glanced at her.

“Where did you get this?” he asked, holding up the frame. She sat down on her side of the bed and looked at it.

“Oh, Sandy did that. I printed it out, and he saw it, asked to put it in something. I didn't realize he'd left it in here,” she said.

“Where is it from?” Jameson asked, looking at it again.

“Like last September, I think. Maybe the end of August. We're outside of your work,” Tate told him.

“Who took the picture?”

“I don't know. It was online.”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah. You're an 'international playboy', paparazzi loooove you,” she teased him. He grunted.

“Fuck off.”

“It's true,” she pressed. He frowned.

“I don't like people taking pictures of us,” he grumbled. She stretched out on her stomach next to him, a large towel still wrapped around her middle.

“Why? Embarrassed to have me as your 'play thing'?” she asked with a laugh. He didn't quite know what she meant by that, or really care.

“Don't be fucking stupid. You're part of my life, I like to keep that private. Other people aren't fit to witness us,” he snapped. She smiled big at him, and his satanic heart skipped a beat.

“You are so sweet sometimes,” she said softly.

“Shut the fuck up.”

“Alright, fine then. Don't look at it,” she snapped, reaching for the frame. He held it out of her reach.

“No, I like it,” he said. She stretched across his chest, clawing at his arm.

“Apparently not, all you've done is bitch about it,” she grumbled, her towel falling loose.

“You have gotten way too lippy lately. Don't think I haven't noticed. Refer to me, or anything I do, as 'bitch' again, and I'll teach you who the bitch around here really is,” he warned her, but he smiled as he switched the frame to his other hand. She laughed as well, swinging her body the other way, till she was almost completely on top of him, still reaching for the picture.

“I'm not scared of a little bitch like you, bitch, so quit bitching and just -,”

“Dammit, Tate,” he started, rolling over on top of her. “Always making me do things I don't want to do.”

“Dammit, Jameson, always bitching about things I don't want to hear about,” she teased back.

“Shut the fuck up. If you want pictures, I would be happy to take some of you,” he groaned, pulling her towel away from her body.

“Really?”

“Sure. Just let me grab a camera,” he started to get up, but she clung to his arms.

“Clothed, Jameson,” she told him. He pushed her hands away, rolled her onto her stomach.

“I don't want pictures like that,” he said, his voice low as he ran his hands down her back. Dug his fingers into her skin. She groaned and stretched underneath him.

“What kind of pictures would you like?” she whispered. He pulled her hips into the air, ran his hand up between her legs.

“This is a particularly nice angle for you,” he commented. She wiggled against his touch.

“God, you're like a machine,” she groaned as his fingers worked their way inside of her.

“A robot,” he chuckled.

“I won't argue with that.”

He slapped her on the ass.

“You argue with me even when I agree with you,” he snapped, taking his fingers away. He held onto her hip with one hand and stroked his cock with the other.

“What are you waiting for?” she breathed, stretching her arms out on the mattress.

“For you to beg,” he replied.

“Please,” she whispered.

“Please what?”

“Please, fuck me again.”

“Why?”

“Because I need it.”

“You don't deserve it.”

“No, but I need it. I want it. Please.”

“Hmmm, let me think about it.”

She chuckled, and one of her hands slid down the mattress. Disappeared beneath her body.

“Not like I really need you, for what I want,” she whispered, and he could see the tips of her fingers between her legs.

“Fuck you,” he growled, and then shoved her fingers away. He pressed himself to her entrance, pushed his dick inside. She gave a full body shudder.

“Yes,” she hissed.

“Shut up,” he snapped, slapping her on the ass again. She squealed.

“God, so much for being tired. You should go out of town more often, if this is how you're going to be when you get back,” she told him. He held onto her with both hands, closed his eyes.

“I am tired. You wouldn't be so fucking chatty if I was myself,” he warned her.

“Big talk.”

“Shut the fuck up, whore. Why do you want me gone so bad, Tate? What did you get up to while I was gone?” he demanded.

“What didn't I get up to would narrow it down,” she laughed.

He smacked her ass until she begged him to stop. Until she was coming.

“You're too easy, baby girl,” he groaned, rolling her onto her back, then nailing her to the mattress.

“I know. Why did I bother taking a shower?” she panted, her fingers working their way into her own hair. He wrapped a hand around her throat, cut his fingernails into her skin. She moaned.

“Tatum,” he breathed, his hips picking up speed. He was very close.

“What?” she gasped, pulling her hair. He squeezed her throat tighter.

“This time, when I come on your tits, you're going to sleep in it.”

“God, you're filthy.”

“You love it.”

“I know.”