“Oh my god, that sounds like her,” he chuckled. Tate nodded.
“I know! I've got a hundred more, she -,” Tate started, but she was gesturing with her glass, and champagne sloshed all over her front.
“Oh jesus, I knew this was going to happen,” Jameson shook his head, but he was laughing. Tate snorted, holding her wet shirt away from her chest.
“Then you shouldn't have given it to me,” she replied. He stood up.
“I tried to take it away. C'mon, I'm sure Ellie has something you can wear,” he said, gesturing for her to follow him. She got out of her chair.
“Oh no, she'll kill me, I'm not allowed to wear her stuff,” Tate told him, following him across the living room and back in to the bedroom.
“Who cares? She owns so much shit, she'll never know. Just grab something, her stuff is in there,” he explained, pointing to a section of the wardrobe before walking back out of the room.
Tate stared in to the wardrobe for a while, letting her eyes wander over the clothes. Everything Ellie owned was expensive; from a designer. From a young age, Tate had been taught not to touch. Jameson had just given her free reign. She snorted and dove in, yanking back the hangers. She laughed and pulled down a silk blouse – it looked ridiculously expensive.
Perfect.
She spun around and threw the shirt on the bed, stumbling as she did so. She didn't think she was drunk, but she was feeling a little light. Spinny. She laughed to herself, curling her fingers around the hem of her shirt and pulling the wet material up. She went to yank it over her head, but something happened. The shirt's tag got caught in a string of pearls she was wearing, which then got tangled in her hair, and she was stuck with her arms in the air, struggling to pull the shirt one way or the other.
“Oh my god,” Tate laughed, stepping back and forth.
She lost her footing and stumbled clear across the room. She rammed in to something, a dresser, and moved so her butt was against it. She was really laughing now, struggling not to hyperventilate with the shirt covering her mouth. Her elbows were pinned above her head and she tried to reach the back of her neck with her fingers, arching her back. Her fingernails were just brushing the top of her spine when she heard something.
“What are you doing?”
She went stock still, her laughter dying. Jameson was in the room, and pretty close to her, judging by the sound of his voice. Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god. With her shirt up over her head, she was standing there in just her bra and khaki skirt.
“Um, I got stuck,” Tate offered in a small voice. He chuckled, and he was even closer than before – right in front of her.
“Obviously. Help?” he asked. She managed to shake her head.
“No, I think I -,” she started, but then felt his fingers at the neck of the shirt. He pushed it up, exposing her mouth and nose, but then left it there. She took deep breaths.
“Are you drunk, Tate?” he asked, talking slowly. She shook her head again.
“No. I mean, I don't think so. I'm just stuck,” she replied. He laughed and she felt him pulling at the neck of the shirt again. A couple tugs, and the strand of pearls broke. She could feel them running down her body, some catching in her bra while the rest clattered to the floor. The shirt came free from her head and Jameson pulled it away, holding it in his right hand. He was staring down at her. She struggled to control her breathing.
“You're very different from Ellie,” he told her in a quiet voice. She rubbed her lips together and nodded.
“I know,” she replied.
Tate knew she should move, should grab her shirt, do something to cover herself. Run for the bathroom. She should not be standing in front of her sister's boyfriend, only wearing a black lace bra. He dropped her shirt as his eyes wandered down her body, and she found that she was frozen to the spot, unable to move a single muscle.
“Family heirloom?” he asked, and then reached out, tracing a finger down her chest. He ran it down her cleavage and she thought she might faint. But then he held his hand up, and he had a pearl pinched between his fingers.
“Present. From Drew,” her voice was just above a whisper. He examined the pearl.
“He's cheap. It's not real,” he commented. She almost laughed.
“What?”
Jameson let the pearl drop and his attention went back to her. Tate still couldn't move. Had even stopped breathing. He was looking at her like she was dinner. She couldn't believe it. Twenty-three year old Jameson Kane was looking at her, really seeing her, for the first time ever. It was wrong, so wrong. She tried to think of Ellie, but couldn't make herself. She could only see his eyes.
“You should leave this room,” Jameson told her, his hands gliding onto her hips. Her skin jumped at his touch and she could feel an electrical current pass between them. She gave a full body shiver and nodded.
“I know,” she breathed. His fingers spread as his hands moved to her back, up to her shoulder blades.
“Ellie's my girlfriend,” he reminded her. As if she needed it.
“I know.” Apparently her impressive vocabulary had deserted her. His hands slid back down, all the way to her butt. She put her hands on the dresser behind her, bracing herself.
“This isn't just me.” He'd said it as a statement, but she knew it was a question. She was feeling it, too.
“I know,” she whispered.
“If you want to run, I suggest you do it now,” he told her.
“Why?” she asked, and he leaned in close.
“Because I eat girls like you for breakfast,” he hissed in her ear. She shivered again.
“Then stop holding onto me,” she challenged, shocking herself.
Maybe it was the champagne, maybe it was him – Tate wasn't ever that bold, not in real life. Maybe that was it, she felt like she was in a dream. Jameson Kane, looking at her, not Ellie. Touching her, not Ellie. It couldn't be real. He was too ..., much. Everything. Too much for her. He couldn't want her, not in real life.
“Baby girl, this is nothing. If I didn't want you to get away, you wouldn't be able to,” he chuckled. She took a deep breath, preparing to tell him off, to tell him to let her go.
“Maybe I don't want to get away,” she whispered.
She hadn't meant to say that, hadn't even thought it. But it was out there, she coudn't take it back. Jameson groaned and his mouth dipped to her neck. She gasped when his lips touched her skin, and then moaned when his lips were followed by his teeth. She closed her eyes and let her head drop back.
This is wrong. WRONG. He belongs to your sister. You're the devil. Evil incarnate.
“Tatum, if you don't get the fuck out of here, I'm going to rip your clothes off, bend you over this dresser, and fuck you like you've never been fucked before,” he growled at her, his voice angry and sharp. His words shocked her. She pushed him away.
“You act like this is my fault!” she snapped at him. His eyebrows went up, but he kept his hands on her hips.
“You're the one who was getting drunk in my kitchen, babbling on and on about hating her sister. You're the one who's half naked in my bedroom,” he pointed out. She gasped.
“I never said I hated her! And you got me drunk! What does that say about you!?” she yelled. He laughed.