“Hmmm, we'll have to try for it another day,” Jameson groaned, dropping his head to her shoulder. She felt his teeth against her skin, fangs to her jugular, claws to her heart. He bit down, once. Twice. A third time, so hard, she thought he was going to take out a piece of her.
He already did that, a long time ago, baby girl.
She came, hard. She clenched her thighs against his waist, pressed her face to his chest, her hand to his jaw. Her fingers dug in to his cheek. He held completely still while she shook and moaned, his heart beat the only thing keeping her grounded to earth. She felt like she had just been shot out of a cannon.
“So easy,” he murmured.
He shoved her away and Tate collapsed against the desk, taking deep breaths. He started pounding away again, lifting her legs high, resting her calves on his shoulders. Then his hands were on her breasts, covering them, pressing down on them. She completely let go, relaxed every muscle, just let him do whatever he wanted to her. The desk began to jolt around and move forward; she couldn't even imagine how much the oak monstrosity weighed, that's how hard he was pushing in to her.
Jameson came so hard, she could feel it. Felt his shaft tighten, swell. Felt the muscles in his shoulders strain and cord up underneath her calves. She let her legs fall to the side and he collapsed on top of her. All of his weight. He obviously wasn't worried about crushing her.
Just like last time.
Tate wondered what else would be like last time. She loved her some dirty, rough, sex – but getting kicked out of bed was never a fun experience. She didn't even mind if a guy hustled her out, but that was really the only part of her experience with Jameson that she didn't recall with pleasure. The way he had treated her afterwards. Not so much his words, but his indifference. Like she hadn't just rocked his world off its axis, the way he had done to hers.
“Scared, baby girl?” he suddenly breathed against her chest. She laughed.
“Not the word I would use,” she replied, rubbing the back of her hand across her forehead.
“And what word would Tatum O'Shea use?”
“Fucked.”
Jameson laughed and pushed himself off of her. She waited for it, the indifference, but it didn't come. He pulled his pants up, left them undone, and then grabbed her arm, pulling her so she was sitting upright. She felt like her body was made of jell-o. He cocked up an eyebrow and fixed her bra for her, then slid her dress back over her arms. He looked at her for a second, traced his finger along her jaw, and then wrapped an arm around her waist, pulling her off the desk.
“No tears,” he mumbled, looking down in to her eyes. She laughed.
“Nope.”
He turned her around and zipped up her dress. While she slipped her underwear back on, he grabbed her forgotten drink and refilled it. She chugged it down in a couple gulps and he made her another. She did the same thing to it, watching him over the rim of the glass.
“If that's how you fuck sober, it'll be very interesting to see what you're like drunk,” Jameson laughed, pulling his shirt back on.
“You couldn't handle it.”
“I can handle anything you've got.”
Tate thought maybe he would tell her to go home, order up a cab, or a car, or something. But he didn't. He made her another drink and then grabbed her hand, pulling her behind him. She followed him out of the library and in to the entry way. A light was on in the sitting room. There hadn't been any on when she'd come in to the house.
“Is somebody here?” she asked. He glanced back at the room as he led her up the stairs.
“Sanders. He works late in there sometimes,” he explained. She laughed.
“That poor man, I probably scared him,” she snickered. She had been screaming like it was a competition, cursing a blue streak. Oops.
“Please. He's walked in on a lot of scenes like that, I doubt he even notices it any more,” Jameson snorted as they reached the second floor. He dragged her down a hall, past a bunch of doors.
“Fuck a lot of women in your library?” Tate asked. Jameson looked over his shoulder at her.
“Jealous?”
She laughed.
“No. You fuck women in libraries. I fuck men in odd, semi-public locations. Po-TATE-o, po-TOT-o,” she replied. He laughed and finally stopped them in front of a large door at the end of the hallway.
“Well, I feel left out. A desk and a bed seem kinda boring in comparison,” he chuckled, pushing open the door.
“I didn't want to say anything,” she said with a straight face, and he laughed again before leading her in to his bedroom.
It. Was. Huge. She dropped his hand and walked foward, taking it all in, while he kicked the door shut behind him. He had a huge king size bed. Walk in closet. Expensive, heirloom looking furniture. She walked over to a side table, running her fingers across expensive looking cuff links and watches. Everything was dark, every inch of the room screaming with masculinity. With him.
Tate downed the rest of her drink and slowly turned around to face him. He was still in front of the doorway, his arms crossed, watching her. She sat her glass down on the table and slipped the top of her dress back off her arms. Peeled it over hips. Dropped it to the floor and kicked it aside. Stood in front of him, a hand on her hip.
“So. Fuck a lot of women in here?”
~6~
Tate yawned and stretched, unable to help the wince that followed. She felt sore just about everywhere. It was delicious. She opened her eyes, focused on high ceilings with ornate crown molding. She turned her head to the right – day light was streaming in a window next to her. She turned her head to the left – Jameson was on the other side of the king sized bed, sleeping on his stomach. She smiled and sat up.
It had been a pretty amazing night. She hadn't really known what to expect. Maybe rougher sex and less talking. The way it had all gone was better, though. Like he had said, they were getting reacquainted. Best not to get in to the crazy shit the first time they slept together. He had been almost gentle with her in his bedroom, and she could tell he was holding back for her. Prepping her. His words still had bite, though; a promise of what was to come.
Tate rubbed at her neck, working the kinks out with her fingers. She let her fingertips dance along the tops of her shoulders, and on the right side, she could feel a raised welt. She let her fingers play over it for a minute, trying to figure out exactly what it was, when she remembered him biting her.
Glancing at him, she slid out of the bed and scampered across the room, in to the bathroom. She closed the door and looked at herself in a full length mirror. Her eye makeup was everywhere, she looked like a panda. Or really, with the combination crazy bed head, a punk rocker that had escaped from the '80's.
She leaned in close, examining the bite mark. He hadn't broken the skin, but it looked ugly. It made her feel warm. She turned around, looking over her shoulder, trying to see her butt. There was no bruising, but one side was distinctly redder than the other. Her back also had red marks going down its length. Jameson had sharp claws. When she turned to the front again, she could see bruise lines forming at the tops of her thighs – she had known those would show up. She then got right up against the mirror, looking over her jaw. She had smacked the desk pretty good, but no marks. That was good. She liked it rough, but she didn't like walking around with a black eye. People asked too many questions.