~7~

A week later, Tate rushed around her apartment, a toothbrush sticking out of her mouth. She grabbed various articles of clothing, shoving them in to an oversized purse. She had stayed at Jameson's for most of the last week – even gone back to his place after her shifts at the bar – and she didn't know how this week was going to go, but she wanted enough clothing to cover all her bases. She snorted at that thought.

Not that I wear much clothing.

It was August in Boston, which meant hot and humid – but Jameson insisted on keeping the house at near boiling temperatures. She pretty much lived in her underwear, tank tops, and socks when she was there. If it bothered Sanders, he didn't show it, so she didn't think twice about doing it.

Tate also liked to think that she and Sanders were developing a friendship of sorts. The kind where only one friend talks, and the other just stares and says the bare minimum. Friendship-ish.

That morning, she had managed to drag them in to downtown Boston to play at being poor with her. She got them free lunch, took them through a Sunday market, forced Sanders to try on ridiculous clothing. Jameson wasn't as easy, he simply refused to do anything.

But he went along with her, and even laughed when she held Sanders' hand and told a clerk that he had just proposed, so could they, please, join in on the champagne brunch the store was throwing for newly-engaged people? Jameson laughed even harder when she really sold the act by planting a big kiss on Sanders' mouth – tongue and everything. The really shocking part was Sanders kissing her back. Cheeky man.

But then Jameson got called in to work; a client was having some sort of financial crisis. Tate let him go, but only after making him promise to pick her up at six o'clock. He had said he would go to her dinner, and she was holding him to it.

Tate tried not to think of it as a dinner date with friends – she thought of it as an elaborate form of torture, a game; seeing how far she could push him. Also, a tiny part of her had wanted to see if he'd actually go through with it. They spent so much time at his place, only venturing out on occasion for dinner, that she was beginning to think he was hiding her away. It was strange – she didn't really mind being someone's whore, but she hated the thought of being someone's dirty secret.

She dropped her toothbrush in to the sink and spit out the excess toothpaste foam. Water, gargle, spit, and she was good to go. She threw on a jacket and headed for the front door, when there was suddenly a loud banging. She paused, but the banging didn't. A voice with a heavy Boston accent started shouting.

“I know yuh in there! Open the doo-or!”

Landlord.

Tate cursed under her breath and began backing away. She noticed a note stuck to the fridge - “Avoid front door – I would be mad you haven't paid rent yet, but can't pay either. Love ya, bitch! Rus.” Tate swallowed a groan and headed for her bedroom.

“Tatum! I know yuh in there! You owe me money! I want it, now!” the landlord yelled. She hurried to her window and was fighting with it to go up when her cell phone rang. With an aggravated sigh, she pulled it out and answered it.

“I'm at the curb, where are you?” Jameson's voice demanded.

“Uh, still in here,” she answered in a hushed voice. “Look, pull around to the back alley. I'll meet you out there.”

“Back alley? And why the fuck are you whispering?”

She rolled her eyes and climbed out onto the fire escape.

“Just fucking meet me back here!” she hissed at him and then hung up the phone.

By the time she was dropping to the ground, Sanders was pulling the car up next to her. Tate practically fell in to the backseat, the strap of her jumbo-sized bag tangling around her legs. She laughed, breathless, as the car started rolling again.

“Okay, first of all, never hang up on me again. Second of all, what the fuck is going on?” Jameson asked. She stretched a leg over his lap, pulling at the strap.

“My landlord was at the door,” she was still laughing, pulling her foot towards her chest, the strap pulling tight around her ankle.

“Do you often run from him?”

“Only when rent is late.”

Jameson grabbed her leg, stilling her, and he pulled the strap free.

“You haven't paid your rent, Tatum?” he asked in a soft voice. Only she knew better now – Jameson was only soft before he did something sharp.

“Well, someone wasn't being very truthful about paying me – I've only worked six days in the last two weeks. Not exactly raking in the dough, so I couldn't pay. I have to start temping again; I have to pay my rent, Jameson. Rus depends on me,” she told him. He snorted.

“I'm not just going to give you a thousand dollars -,”

“Four thousand dollars.”

“Any amount of money, in cash, to run around with – you're insane. You'd probably spend it all on hookers and cocaine.” She didn't deny it. “I'm going to set you up an investment portfolio. As fun as sucking dick for money at eighty probably is, I don't think you want to be doing that.”

“Doesn't change the fact that I need to make rent. I need to eat, I need to pay my bills. Three days a week just doesn't cut it, I told you that,” Tate reminded him as she smoothed out her skirt. It had climbed up to her hips during her struggle with her purse.

“I'll feed you, and don't worry about the rest,” was all he snapped before turning away, looking out his window. Subject apparently closed. She snorted.

“You're too extra. What's got you in such a sweet mood?” she asked.

“Your life is ridiculous. You were skipped ahead in school, graduated at the top of your private school, and you were accepted in to an accelerated program at Harvard. Why are you fucking around? Such a fucking child,” Jameson growled.

She stared at him for a second. He sounded angry. Like, for real angry. It didn't make sense. Why did he care what she did? Since asking about Ellie that first night, Jameson hadn't asked her one single other thing about her life or family. She was kinda shocked he even remembered that she had been moved ahead in school. Tate frowned at him.

“You call it being a child. I call it living my life the way I want to,” she replied.

“But it's the wrong way,” he informed her, his voice dripping with disdain.

Who the fuck was he to judge her life!? She wasn't good enough to be his girlfriend, but he still got to boss her around and pass judgement on her life? She didn't think so. Her anger started to boil.

“Says who? The great Jameson Kane?” Tate snapped at him, her voice loud. “What, I should live a life more like yours? Why on earth would I want to do that? I get to be who I am, the real me, every single day. I say what I want, and do what I want. You hide behind your money, and your business, and your suits, and your intellect. Pretending to be this suave guy, when we both know you're two steps away from being a complete sociopath who -,”

She didn't get to finish her sentence. He turned around on her in an instant, grabbing her by the throat. She didn't miss a beat – Jameson Kane had yet to learn that Tate was usually capable of giving as good as she got. She knocked his arm loose, but by then he was halfway laying on top of her. It was a blur of hands and arms, her trying to push him back, him batting her away. They wound up stretched across the back seat, one of her arms pinned under his knee as he knelt over her. Her free hand pulled at his wrist, trying to yank away the hand that was back around her throat.

“You think I hide, Tate? You think I pretend?” he hissed, his face close to hers. She glared up at him.

“I don't think, I know,” she snapped back.

“And what is it you're doing, baby girl? Ran away from home. Ran away from your family. Ran away from school. That's all you do, run away. I'm counting down the days till you do it to me,” he told her. She sucked in air through her teeth.

“You call it running, I call it freeing myself.”

“Bullshit. If that was true, you wouldn't be so upset over what I said,” he pointed out.

“I'm not upset, I -,”

Suddenly he was shaking her. She dug her nails in to his wrist and he let go of her, but only long enough to pin that arm between her body and his thigh. His hand immediately went back to the base of her neck and he lowered his face till he was directly above her.

“Don't ever fucking lie to me, Tate. Stupid fucking girl. Put your fucking hands on me like that again, and you'll see how mean I can really get,” he warned her, his lips so close they were brushing against her own.

She felt her temperature soar through the roof. Jameson had an uncanny gift that made it impossible for her to be truly mad at him – the angrier she got, the more she just wanted to have sex with him. He was blessed that way; or rather, she was cursed.

“You keep promising to show me. Still waiting,” Tate whispered back. He chuckled, and the anger in his eyes cooled a little. There was a long pause while he stared at her, and then there was a cough from in front of them.

“One block away, sir,” Sanders' voice carried in to the back seat. Jameson glanced at him and then returned his attention to Tate.

“You just want to piss me off, I swear to god. You have no idea, the things I want to do to you,” he told her.

“The windows are tinted. Sandy would probably like the show,” she offered, sliding around underneath him, rubbing her body against his legs. Jameson quirked up an eyebrow.

“I doubt that. We'll go home, and I'll put a happy end to this argument,” he informed her. She narrowed her eyes.

“We can't go home – we're going to dinner,” she reminded him. He shook his head.

“Bad girls get sent to bed without dinner,” he stated. She began to struggle against his weight.

“No. You agreed to go, so you have to go. I told everyone we would be there,” she said.

“Do you really think I give a fuck?” he asked with a laugh.

“That's not fair. You agreed,” Tate stressed.

“Why is this so important? You want me to meet your friends? I don't care about your friends, Tate. If you think I care about your life, you're mistaken. Stupidity annoys me, whether it's you, or some guy down the street, or something on TV, doesn't matter. I think you're stupid, and that annoys me. Don't read in to things. We are going home, and we will finish this discussion there. The only reason I'm not fucking you right now, is because I have too much respect for Sanders,” Jameson spat out at her.

But not for me.

The problem with playing her games, Tate had long ago learned, was the line between fun and bad was too blurry. For instance, Ang had called her just about every dirty name they could both think of, but one time, while just hanging out at his apartment, he made a sarcastic remark about her family hating her because she was a huge whore. She didn't speak to him for two weeks. Took him even longer to get back in her pants.

What was real, and what wasn't real? Calling her a “dumb cunt” was fine, as long as Jameson didn't really think she was one. Knowing and thinking she was a whore was fine, as long as she was treated with respect. Was he playing a game now? If he had said all those same words at another time, a different situation, she would have already been thinking of ways to get him naked in the car. But it didn't feel like he was playing. If he was, it wasn't fun anymore. Her feelings were hurt. She hated that.

“Get off of me.”

Surprisingly, he complied without hesitation. Tate pushed away from him, getting as much distance between the two of them as she could on the seats. Sanders was just pulling in to a parking spot outside of her friend's apartment building. She refused to look at Jameson, just went about straightening her clothing.

“Oh my, I've struck a nerve. I didn't know Tatum O'Shea had those anymore,” he said, his voice quiet. She looked over at him.

“Fuck you, Kane,” she spat out. He laughed.

“Strike one. Let's go inside, get this over with.”

“I'm going inside. You can go fuck yourself.”

“I see. I've hurt you. Interesting,” his voice was quieter still, his eyes wandering over her face. She shook her head.

“No, just enlightened me. If I'm so fucking stupid, so fucking annoying, so not worthy of your fucking respect, maybe you should just find someone else to play with,” she told him.

“Not yet. You may be stupid and annoying, but you're one hell of a lay,” Jameson told her, his smile wide. She rolled her eyes and climbed out of the car.

Tate was mad, though she wasn't sure why. She knew that Jameson didn't care about her – why was she angry that he had said it out loud? Because it made it real. When they were alone together, lazing around his library, he made it easy to forget. He would just talk with her sometimes, laugh with her. Made it seem like he actually liked her, for more than just her abilities in bed.

Stupid girl.

“What are you doing!?” she demanded, when he got out of the car on the other side.

“You were right about one thing. I agreed to go, so I'm going. Can't have you holding it over my head later. Say a lot of things about me, but I'm not a quitter,” Jameson told her as she came around to stand next to him.

“But I don't want you here anymore,” she said. He shrugged.

“Don't really care. What's the apartment number?”

Her vision started turning a little red. Never had she dealt with such a stubborn man. If she wanted to go left, he went right. If she went right with him, he decided to go left. Sometimes it turned her on. Other times, it just made her want to kill him.

Her game had been a bad one, a bust. Jameson had spent the whole day doing her “normal” things, and he hadn't acted normal at all. Deep down, she had thought maybe it would all humanize him a bit. Mistake. Now she wanted to make him hurt. Make him bleed a little. She didn't know if it was possible, but when she looked over his shoulder, something gave her the idea to try.

“Ang!” she called out, waving her arm in the air. Jameson turned as she pushed past him.

“Kitty-cat, how're things? Haven't seen you in a while,” Ang called back, still a couple buildings down from her. She jogged the distance to him.

“Too long of a while,” Tate replied, throwing herself in to his arms.

“Well, you could -,”

She covered his lips with her own, swirling her tongue through his mouth. He sat her on her feet, clearly a little shocked, slow in kissing her back. She put on a good show, running her hands along his shoulders and clawing down his chest. He finally managed to break the kiss, gently pushing her away. She winked up at him.

“You're my best friend,” she teased. He glanced behind her.

“Oh, are we onto the 'make-him-jealous' phase of the relationship?” Ang asked, eyeballing Jameson. She shook her head.

“No, we're onto the 'make-him-piss-blood' part. He hurt my feelings. I want to hurt his pride,” Tate explained.

“Glad to be of service.”

They walked up to Jameson hand in hand. The reception between the two men was cool, at best. Ang smiled his shit-eating grin, wrapping an arm around Tate's waist. He knew he was the more cherished between the two. Jameson smiled back in a lazy manner, letting his eyes wander over Ang's wiry frame and then over to Tate's smaller form. He knew he was the one she was going home with that night – and any other night. They both knew what she was like in bed. It was like being in the middle of a very loud silent-argument. She felt like her hair was going to stand on end from all the tension.

“Inside! Everybody inside, chop chop,” she ordered, scooting both men up the stairs ahead of her.

Of course it was super fucking awkward. Her friend Rachel – the girl she had covered for to cater the Kraven and Dunn event, thus the person responsible for the fucked up relationship Tate now found herself in – was the one throwing the dinner party, and it was mostly a bunch of twenty-somethings; all people who worked the same kind of jobs, led the same kind of lives. Jameson stuck out like a sore thumb. Originally, Tate had thought that would be part of the fun. But it just made things weird. He was quiet and taciturn, didn't even try to pretend to be interested in anything or anyone.

It didn't help that Ang took her statement very seriously and took every opportunity to touch her inappropriately. Jameson watched, that cool, disdainful look in his eye, but he didn't say or do anything. Just smiled. It made her a little nervous. She escaped in to the kitchen where most of the other girls were; Tate was normally a dude kind of lady, would rather hang out with the boys. Not that night. She chugged pinot grigio, wishing it was whiskey, and just hoped that Ang and Jameson would kill each other, curing all her frustrations.

Dinner was finally served. Jameson took a seat towards one end of a large table. They hadn't spoken a word directly to each other since she had kissed Ang, and Tate hesitated about which seat she should take. Jameson solved the dilemma when he yanked on her arm, forcing her in to the chair next to him. She didn't argue. Just drank more. Ang sat across from them and tried his hardest to flirt, but when she stopped responding, he turned his attentions to Rus, who became all giggly and red. Tate glared at her.

Stupid, normal girl. Bet she could just go out and have normal, boring sex. Bet no one calls her a dumb cunt – and if they did, bet she wouldn't be such a weirdo that she'd like it.

Jameson lightened up over the food, actually laughing and talking with some of the guys next to him. It made Tate feel a little better, up until he took her glass of wine away. Didn't even look at her, just reached out and grabbed it, moving it to the other side of his plate. Apparently, she was done drinking.

Asshole.

She helped clean up, and while she and Rachel washed dishes, everyone gathered in the living room. Ang was telling one of his “a day in the life of a wannabe porn star” stories, and everyone was laughing. When she peeked her head out, even Jameson had a smile on his face. She smiled and ducked back in to the kitchen. At least he was pretending to have a good time. Maybe that would gentle the blow that would come later.

“Hey, Rach,” Tate said, pressing her wrist to her forehead. “Do you have any aspirin or anything? I have a killer headache.”

“In my bedroom, I have some tylenol in the bathroom – maybe some stronger stuff, I don't know what's all in there. Help yourself. Go lay down, if you want,” Rachel offered, rubbing her back. Tate smiled and wandered down the hall.

Rachel's room was small, but she had an en suite, which Tate would kill for in her own apartment – even a half bath. She found the tylenol, but on another shelf in the medicine cabinet, she found some vicodin. Thank god. She took one pill and washed it down with the glass of wine she had snuck out of the kitchen.

She had pushed the bedroom door mostly closed behind her, left all the lights off, but she didn't lay down. She wandered around Rachel's room, not prying, but peeking through the stuff that was out. Standard pajamas, no lace or leather. Her closest didn't show a hint of kink. There was a dresser along one wall, with a bunch of jewelry on top of it. Tate picked through it, holding up earrings and moving to a mirror that was on the wall at the foot of the dresser, looking herself over.

Tatum O'Shea, nice, normal girl. Pshaw, right.

The door creaked and opened, light from the hall spilling inside. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched Jameson walk towards her. She didn't say anything, just grabbed a necklace off the dresser and moved back to the mirror. She struggled with the clasp and he walked up behind her, taking the necklace from her fingers.

“Too cheap,” he commented. Tate stared at his reflection while he clasped the necklace.

“You think?” she asked, pressing her hand against the jewelry. It was several strands of pearls, of varying lengths, all connected as one at the ends.

“Yes. They're fake. I remember you wearing another set of fake pearls, once. You need real ones,” he told her. She smiled.

“I'll put that on my to-do list. Rent, utilities, pearls,” she joked, reaching back and unhooking the necklace. As soon as she removed it, his hands took its place, his thumbs hooked around the back of her neck and his fingers splaying down to her collar bone.

“I hurt you,” Jameson repeated his statement from the car. She threw the necklace onto the dresser.

“A little bit. I'm mostly over it,” she replied.

“I don't think you're stupid, Tate,” he started, and she held her breath, her eyes locked on his in the mirror. Jameson, apologizing? No way. “I think the way you live is stupid. Maybe I hide a little, but you're running away, too. You are better than all of this, smarter than all of them, and you know it.”

“Those are my friends,” her voice was soft.

“Can you honestly tell me that sometimes you don't want something different?” he asked.

“Who doesn't?” she responded. “It's knowing the worth of what you have. Fake pearls are just as good as real pearls, if they're given with good intentions and love. If Ang gave me the gaudiest, ugliest, tackiest, strand of fake pearls ever, I would love them more than any set of real pearls my parents ever gave me. Ang loves me. So good or bad, stupid or smart, those people care about me. I care about them. I could go back to Harvard tomorrow, and I would still be friends with these people, Jameson.”

He stared at her for a while, his grip getting harder. Almost like he was pushing down on her shoulders. He looked a little angry, and she wondered if maybe honest candor could get to Jameson more than childish games.

“If Angier gave you pearls, huh. And what if I gave you pearls? What would they mean to you?” he asked. She scrunched up her nose. The metaphor was starting to get awfully convoluted.

“Depends.”

“Oh what?”

“On how much they cost. You don't love me, so to be impressed, that price tag better be huge,” she halfway joked. He smirked at her.

“So, if I got you a $50,000 strand of pearls, and Angier got you some shitty fake ones, his would mean more to you, because he 'loves' you?” Jameson clarified.

“There are pearl necklaces that cost $50,000!?” Tate almost shouted her response.

“There are ones that cost a lot more than that. At least I know I can aim a little lower if I want to impress you,” he smirked. She swatted at his leg.

“Shut up. And don't be jealous of Ang, he just likes to play with me,” she told him.

“I'm not jealous. And it looks more like you like to play with him.”

“It's a mutual kind of thing.”

“So I played your game. I came downtown. I came to your dinner. I watched you kiss two guys. Do I win?” Jameson asked, his fingers massaging her skin. She sighed.

“Do you ever lose?” she replied.

“I keep trying to tell you that, I never lose,” he said.

“We'll see about that, I still have some -,”

“Do you trust me, Tate?” he interrupted.

“Yes,” she answered without hesitation. He looked a little surprised.

“Really?”

“Yes. You've never done something to me I didn't ask for, or didn't want. As far as I can tell, you've never lied to me. You have been upfront about everything and anything. Sometimes I don't like you very much; sometimes, I think you're the biggest dick I've ever met. You're rude, and mean, and spiteful half the time. But you never said you weren't – you've always claimed to be those things. So yes, I trust you,” she explained. He laughed.

“The things you say, Tate. Sometimes it's like talking to a man. I wonder if that's why you're so easy to talk to,” Jameson wondered out loud. She raised her eyebrows.

“I'm easy to talk to because I'm like a man?” she asked. He nodded.

“A little bit,” he told her.

“I have awfully nice tits for a dude,” she laughed, putting her hands over her breasts. He leaned close, his mouth against her ear.

“Stop talking. I came to dinner. I win. I get to extract payment,” he said.

With an abrupt shove, he pushed her to the side. She fell against the dresser, catching herself with her hands before she could face plant on the wood. She went to push herself up, but his hand pressed down on the center of her back, holding her in place.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“Whatever I want. You said you trust me,” he pointed out, and she felt his other hand brush against the fabric of her skirt.

“I do, but I don't want to have sex in my friend's bedroom,” Tate told him with a laugh.

“Why not? And what makes you think we're going to fuck?”

“Um, I was in a similar position last week, and you fucked the hell out of me, that makes me think we're going to fuck. And I don't want to be disrespectful. This is her house, her party; she thinks I'm laying down with a migraine. The door is open, anyone can see us,” she told him.

“You're shy, Tate?” Jameson laughed. She snorted.

“No, but as I've been saying, these are my friends. I don't want to -,” she stopped talking as he lifted her skirt up. It was long and flowy, went to just past her knees. He draped the material over her back.

“I'm not going to fuck you. That would be giving you a treat. You've been very bad. I'm going to do whatever I want,” he informed her, and she could feel her underwear sliding off of her butt.

Her argument caught in her throat. Lifting her head up off the dresser, she was facing the door – she could see down the hall. The living room was just to the right, and she could see the edges of a couple peoples backs. It was dark in the bedroom, and she and Jameson were towards the back of it. If anyone turned around, they probably wouldn't be able to see anything. But if anyone came down the hallway ..., not good. She took a deep breath.

“Jameson, I don't think we should do this,” she started, but then ended in a gasp as two of his fingers slid inside of her.

She wasn't sure how this wasn't giving her a treat. He wasn't getting anything out of it, he was standing just enough back from her that she couldn't even reach him. She swallowed a groan and bit in to a table runner that covered the length of the dresser. He hooked his fingers a little, almost massaging her insides.

“Don't hear any arguing now,” Jameson's voice was dark behind her. Tate shook her head.

“We shouldn't ..., do this,” she whispered, though her words had no conviction.

“You want this. Say stop, and I'll stop.”

She pressed her lips together and hummed softly. Bit her tongue. Anything to keep from crying out. His other hand grabbed onto her hip and pulled her back a couple inches, enough so he could work his arm between her and the dresser. She made a high pitched squeaking noise when that hand reached her front. Dipped in to wetness. Spun her in to outer space.

“Jameson,” she whispered his name, almost a moan.

“You're awfully ready to play for someone who says she doesn't want to do this,” he pointed out, and she laughed.

“You started it, in the car. Mean man,” she joked, and then really did moan. She flicked her eyes to the door. No one seemed to have heard her.

“Always mean. Remember that. Jesus, Tate, how are you still so tight? All these years, and you're still the tightest pussy I've ever had,” he groaned, working his fingers faster.

“Kegels. Every day,” she replied, and then had to bite down on the runner again. She clawed her nails down Rachel's dresser.

“God, talk about being disrespectul. What about you is respectful, Tate? Your slutty mouth? Or your wide open legs? I'd only been back in your life for two days, and you fucked me. Easy fucking girl. Did Angier get it that easy?” Jameson asked. She knew he wasn't, but he sounded like a jealous lover. It drove her wild.

“Easier,” she lied. His fingers were working on her so fast, she felt like she was being cut in half. Two Tatums. Which one would he want? She was pushing back against him, pushing for the edge, for the orgasm. It was very close.

“Fucking bitch,” he swore.

“You shouldn't be surprised.”

“What am I going to do with you? Fucking slut. Fucked him while I was gone. Couldn't last three days. How much does it take to satisfy you?” Jameson demanded.

Maybe he is jealous ...

“Maybe more than you've got,” she taunted in a breathy voice, gasping for air.

He pulled away and yanked her back from the dresser. She waited for the swearing, the crushing fingers, the angry mouth. But none of that happened. He backed her up, pressed her butt against the dresser and her front to his chest. She looked up at him, breathing heavy, rubbing her thighs together.

“If you are very good, when we get home, I will let you finish this,” he told her, smoothing his hands over her hair.

“Huh?” she asked, dumbfounded. He smirked down at her.

“That's all you get, baby girl. You'll learn not to push me,” he whispered, before leaning down and kissing her.

Tate moaned and wrapped her arms around his waist, held him to her. She loved the way Jameson kissed. For an aggressive guy, sometimes he could be very gentle with his mouth. His lips moved over hers, his tongue against hers, quiet and soft. It made her heart flutter. She sighed and ran her hands down to his pants, ran her fingers along his belt, began pulling at the buckle. But then he pulled away, so fast she actually stumbled. He patted her cheek and then strode out of the room.

What. The. Fuck.

She was so close to coming, it was uncomfortable to walk. Her underwear was still around her knees. She thought she might have spontaneously developed asthma, it was so difficult to breathe right, and her heart was pounding out of her chest. Worst of all, she still had a room full of friends to get through before she could leave. She probably had her “well fucked whore” look on her face; Ang would take one look at her and know exactly what had happened. Fuck.

Well played, Mr. Kane. Well played.

She went in to Rachel's bathroom and cleaned herself up. Patted her cheeks with cold water to calm down the serious flush she had going on. Seriously considered just getting herself off right then and there. But Jameson's words came back to her, about letting her finish at home, and she was never one to spoil her appetite.

She finished up, humming to herself as she left the bedroom. Weston was so far away, she wondered if she could convince him to disrespect Sanders enough to get it on in the car. She didn't know why, but she loved trying to make Sanders uncomfortable – mostly because she was pretty sure it wasn't possible. She walked down the hall, smoothing her hands down her skirt, thinking of some other possibilities, when someone hissed at her.

“What are you doing!?”

She turned to see Ang standing in a bedroom doorway. She smiled and opened her mouth to respond, when he suddenly grabbed her by the arm and dragged her to him. She was wearing a pair of absurdly tall cork wedges – she was practically as tall as Jameson – and she stumbled in them, falling in to Ang's chest. She tried to push herself away, but he had a death grip on her arm.

“What's going on? I told you, no more hanky panky for a while,” Tate laughed, but when she looked up, he wasn't smiling.

“What is wrong with you? One second, you're all over me, the next, you're letting him talk to you like you're some sort of insect while he violates you,” Ang growled. She winced.

“Oh god. You saw?” she groaned. He nodded.

“Yeah, I fucking saw. He had his hand so far up inside of you, I thought he was checking your tonsils. What the fuck, Tate? You're at a dinner party with your friends, and you didn't even have the goddamn decency to close the fucking door?” Ang snapped at her. She was a little blown away.

“Um, forgive me, but half an hour ago, didn't you grab my breasts and proclaim to everyone within hearing that I had the best tits you've ever seen?” she pointed out.

“It was a fucking joke, Tate, with people who know us and know how we are. If I'd known how okay you are with really being a slut, I wouldn't have bothered with your tits; I would've just fucked you on the dining room table,” he spat out. She gasped.

“Ang! What is wrong with you!?” she demanded.

“What's the big deal? You let him do it. When is it my turn?” he asked.

“What the fuck! Where is this coming from!? You have never had a problem with me sleeping with other guys,” she pointed out, yanking her arm free from him. He ran a hand through his hair.

“Because. You let some guy you've only known for like two weeks give you a pap smear at your friend's dinner party, in an open room, with an open door. You don't even really know him,” Ang told her. She shook her head.

“I knew him for two years, and everything else is none of your goddamn business,” she hissed.

“Maybe if I treat you like a piece of shit, just fuck you whenever and wherever I want, you'd fucking listen to me once in a while,” he hissed back. She slapped him.

“Enough.”

They both whipped their heads to the side. Jameson was standing in the doorway, his hands in his pockets, that perfect, bored, detached expression on his face. Tate was embarrassed to be caught fighting about him. Ang didn't look embarrassed – he looked pissed. When Jameson started to walk in to the room, Ang surged forward. Tate was quick to get between them.

“He's right, enough! Just stop!” she said loudly, hoping no one in the living room would hear. How embarrassing.

And this is why we don't engage in sexual activity at our friends' polite social gatherings.

“You know,” Jameson started, clearing his throat. “It seems that you really have something to say to me. I've been here, waiting all night for this – I knew it was coming. But instead, you took it out on the person that you knew wouldn't really fight back.”

She watched the anger roll over Ang's face. Watched his whole body tense up, a flush creeping up his neck. Her reaction was automatic, she lifted a hand and pressed it to his chest, rubbing gently. It never failed to calm him down. Both men cut their eyes to her, and she winced.

“No one is fighting. Ang, you're being a dick. If you want to talk, we can talk, later. If you want to keep being a dick, well, then we can talk about that later, too. But for now, this is over,” she stated. He looked down at her for a long while, and then nodded, taking a step back. Jameson laughed.

“It may be over with her, but not with me. If you ever treat her like that again, you and I will be having a talk. Understood?” Jameson demanded, his eyes like ice cycles as he stared at Ang.

“Are you fucking kidding me!?” Ang all but yelled. Tate put her hands on Jameson's chest and began pushing him out of the room.

“We're leaving,” she growled, forcing him in to the hallway.

To her surprise, he didn't fight her. He grabbed her hand and pulled her behind him, making a beeline for the door. As they gathered their coats, Tate managed to smile and act halfway normal. Jameson didn't say a word, just walked out the door. Tate said goodbye, made up some excuse about him having a work emergency. As she stepped out onto the stoop, she saw Ang emerge from the bedroom. She glared at him and then turned away, hurrying down the steps.

“Well, that went better than expected,” Jameson commented in a dry voice, once they were in the car. She let out a frustrated yell.

“I can't believe he did that!”

“He's jealous.”

“But why!? I have literally fucked guys in front of him. He has been there during boyfriends and break ups and quickies and coyote-uglies ...,” her voice trailed off.

“Because I'm the first guy that's actually threatened him,” Jameson explained. She turned to face him.

“Is that why you're not more upset? He said you treated me like shit,” she pointed out. Jameson laughed.

“I do treat you like shit, about half the time. I'm not upset because you're in the car with me, and he's in that apartment, alone. Winning,” he said, running his fingers through her hair.

“You're winning all kinds of things tonight,” Tate said. He pulled her close.

“I told you, I always win.”

She pressed him back in to the seat and straddled his lap. It was like she was suddenly starving for him. She kissed and licked at his mouth, made fast work of getting his jacket off. But when she started to undo his belt, he grabbed her wrists and pinned her hands behind her back. She mewled in protest.

“I don't want to wait till Weston,” she breathed, leaning against him and running her teeth down his neck.

“Ms. O'Shea's apartment, Sanders,” he said in a loud voice.

She was surprised. He never wanted to go to her apartment. He hated where she lived, hated that part of town. She almost thought he was going to just drop her off, prolong her punishment. When they got there, though, he climbed out of the car with her and followed her up the stairs.

“Are you staying the night?” she asked, feeling giddy as she undid all the locks on the door.

“For as long as I want,” was all he replied, pushing the door open and brushing past her.

He moved ahead of her in to the room. Her apartment was tiny, two bedrooms and one bathroom – no tub, even. The kitchen was big enough for maybe one person to comfortably cook in; a small person. But it was clean, and it was cute, and she could afford her share.

Sometimes.

“I don't usually bring people here,” Tate said, running her tongue across her bottom lip as she shut the door. She felt like she had cotton mouth. Even after all the time they'd spent together, he still had the ability to make her nervous.

“No?” he asked, stopping in the middle of the living room. She shook her head, dropping her purse onto a chair.

“No. It's like ..., my space. Me. I've never slept with a guy here. Not even Ang,” she blurted out.

“That's a surprise.”

“We did it in the hallway once, outside the door. He threw -,”

“Jesus, Tate, as often as you talk about this guy, I'm beginning to think maybe I should fuck him, see what the big goddamn deal is,” Jameson snapped. She laughed.

“Maybe you should. He'd probably like it,” she told him.

“Oh, I'm sure he would.”

“Can I watch?”

“Tatum. Come here.”

It was a command and she heeded it. When she got to his side, he ran his hand up her arm, past her neck, in to her hair. When he got to the back of her head, he made a fist, bunching up her hair. But he didn't pull. She stared at him.

“What are you waiting for?” she asked.

“If I hear his name, one more time tonight, I swear to god, I will make you regret it,” Jameson told her in a quiet voice.

Looks like someone else is jealous. New game?

“What if I don't say his name, and just refer to him?” Tate asked. The grip on her hair tightened, pulling a little.

“Tate.”

“You said 'hear his name', so technically, I could just -,”

He used the fist in her hair to shove her forward. She stumbled in to the hall and didn't need anymore prompting. She pushed open her bedroom door, barely sliding her skirt off before he grabbed her from behind. They crashed in to her dresser and she threw her arms out, catching their weight.

“Why do you like to push me?” he groaned, lifting her hair so he could bite at the back of her neck.

“Because I like it when you push back,” she whispered.

He turned her around and yanked her tank top over her head. It was all push and pull after that. She unbuckled his belt and shoved his pants to the floor. He shrugged out of his shirt and she pushed him back, onto the bed. She quickly slid her panties off and then straddled his lap, letting her shoes fall to the floor. She didn't waste any time, just grabbed the base of his dick and sat down on it. She let out a shriek, holding herself still on him.

“Sometimes I think you don't even need me to be mean to you – you do a good job all on your own,” Jameson chuckled in her ear. She reached for the back of his head and grabbed a handful of hair, pulling.

“Shut. Up.”

“I get what you're doing, you know. I know when you're baiting me,” he informed her. She rocked her hips against his, and was rewarded with a fluttering of his eyelids.

“Really? Then why do you usually take it?” she asked, her voice a little breathless as she moved her hips faster.

“Because this is all on my terms, and sometimes I like to indulge you,” he replied.

She couldn't respond. When she was on top with him, he hit spots inside of her that might have actually been portals to other dimensions. She couldn't think, couldn't breathe. Just gasped and pushed and pulled. But after a couple minutes, something wasn't right. She was perilously close to coming, but he was still sitting very still. Hands on her hips, silent. Jameson was never silent.

“What are you waiting for?” she gasped against his mouth.

“You're upset. I'm angry. It's too easy,” he replied, trailing his lips down her shoulder. She laughed.

“You're too easy, Mr. Kane.”

He playfully glared at her.

“That fucking mouth. Sometimes, I swear, you're just seeing if I'll ever actually hit you,” he chuckled.

“Do it.”

She didn't know who was more surprised, him or her. But she had said it. She stopped moving, looking in to his eyes. He had said it as a joke. Did she really want him to hit her? It was like another challenge to her. He didn't think she could handle him, didn't think she could take it. She didn't think he'd ever actually go for it, ever stop restraining himself.

“Baby girl, I don't want to hit you,” Jameson murmured.

Tate slapped him.

Once again, shock on both their faces. She hadn't hit him hard, it was more noise than anything else. But his eyes were like fire when they came back to hers. She would have laughed, if she hadn't been so nervous.

What is wrong with me?

“At least one of us isn't scared,” she tried to cover up her nerves. He gave an evil, dark laugh. Satan was in the room.

“Now that is a fucking lie,” he hissed.

She slapped him again.

I'm suicidal.

“It feels good to be the one in charge for once, Kane. At least one of us isn't a pussy,” she snapped at him.

“Tatum, I'm not fucking around, don't -,”

She slapped him hard, and without hesitation he slapped her back. Before her head could even fully snap to the side, he had a hand cupping her jaw, pulling her back to stare at him. His eyes blazed in to hers. He hadn't slapped her hard, not really. But still. Her heart rate doubled.

“Do not ever fucking hit me again, got it?” he said in a slow, even voice. She looked down at him, her eyes hooded. She felt high.

“I can't make any promises.”

He swung her around, slamming her in to her mattress. She cried out as he pushed in to her, one of his hands immediately holding her down by the throat, the other grabbing onto her thigh. She gasped in time to his thrusts.

“Fucking Tatum. Goddamn. Fuck you. Fucking tried to hit me in the car. Fucking hit me in here. Who the fuck do you think you are? Who the fuck do you think you're dealing with?” Jameson demanded.

“You. Only you,” she moaned, raking her nails across her breasts.

“Stupid fucking bitch, I can't believe you made me hit you,” he hissed.

If she would have been able to comprehend what he was saying, she probably would have slapped him right then. Just for emphasis. But she couldn't comprehend anything – she was being pounded in to one of those other dimensions she had thought about earlier.

“I think ..., you liked it,” she breathed, arching her back away from the bed. His hand moved from her throat to her breast bone, pressing her down hard in to the mattress.

“No shit. Fuck. Fucking kissed him. I couldn't fucking believe it. I almost dragged you in to the car, fucked you right in front of him – you'd probably like that, wouldn't you? Fucking kissed him in front of me, what were you thinking? Stupid fucking slut,” he growled.

Ah. It all came back to Ang. She was angry at Ang and angry at herself – so she wanted to be treated badly. Jameson was angry at Ang and angry at her – he wanted to treat someone badly.

We are a match made in Hell. He may be Satan, but I'm Lillith.

He pulled away and spun her around, forcing her onto her stomach. She didn't have a chance to move before he hiked her hips in to the air and slammed in to her, his dick bottoming out on the first push. She screamed, pounding a hand against the wall across from her. It was pain. It was sexy. It was aggressive. She loved it. She tried to prop herself up, and he pushed her back down, a hand on the back of her head. She reached a hand back to touch him, and he grabbed it, pressing her hand against her face. She couldn't see anything. Could only feel.

All she felt was him.

“I want you to come, Tate. Are you going to come for me?” he snapped from behind her, letting go of her head and dragging his nails down the length of her back.

“Yes, yes,” she cried out.

“You always come for me.” He kept dragging his nails down the exact same path, over and over.

“Yes.”

“It's more than you deserve, whore.”

“Yes.”

“You're so good to me,” he murmured. She let out a sob.

“Oh my god!”

She came, all those Kegel exercises she had told him about kicking in and locking his dick in to place. He went as deep as he could and then stopped, one hand holding onto her hip. She screamed and panted, pounding one hand on the mattress. The orgasm lasted forever, shredding her. Making her ache. The whole time, he raked his nails down that path on her back. Peeling away a layer of skin, exposing a piece of her soul. Stealing it from her. Or just taking it back.

Houston, we have a problem.

While she was still trembling and trying to figure out what the hell she was feeling, he pulled out of her. She didn't have the energy to ask what he was doing; she just collapsed, sucking in air. After about a minute, she felt a hand on her ankle and she was suddenly yanked off the bed. She clawed at her bedding, taking a sheet down with her. She landed in a heap on the floor, the blanket falling over her shoulder. By the time she got her bearings, she saw Jameson sitting down in a chair in the corner of her room.

“Now that that's done,” he said in a calm, soft voice, planting his feet widely apart and putting his hands on his knees. His erection jutted straight up and she had trouble not staring at it.

“Um ..., what?” Tate managed, her voice hoarse.

“You are going to crawl over here, on your hands and knees. And you are going to suck my dick, like your life depends on it. If I decide to come for you, you are going to swallow every last drop. You're not going to move. Understood?” he told her.

She didn't answer. Instead, she just started crawling.

Tatum O'Shea, always such a nice, normal girl.