“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.”