“I want you to do it,” Tate panted. He was gripping her hips so hard, he knew there would be bruises.
“I think I am,” Jameson managed to chuckle.
“Hit me,” she breathed. He glared at her.
“No,” he replied. She laughed.
“You're denying me?” she asked.
“Cause I don't think you really want it.”
“Oh, I want it.”
“You're punishing yourself. I don't want to hurt you,” he told her. She shook her head.
“You can't hurt me. I want to be punished. Please,” she begged.
“You're angry at me. I'm not doing something just so you can hold it against me later,” he snapped.
“I'm not her.”
He was suddenly very angry.
“Don't fucking talk about her,” he swore, halting his movements, leaving her impaled on his length.
“Oh, that makes you angry? You talk about every other girl you fuck. Why don't you talk about her? She must have been pretty special to you, Kane,” she said in an evil voice, rotating her hips against his. “Pretty special. An amazing fuck, you said. Was she tight like me? Did she get wet like me?”
“Shut your fucking mouth, Tate,” he warned.
“Two years, she must have been pretty amazing. Do you want to pour hot candle wax on me? Whip me? Paddle me?” Tate asked, letting her head drop back.
God, this woman. If my dick gets any harder, it's gonna kill one of us.
“I want to scar you,” he groaned.
“Hit me.”
“No.”
“This is what I want, Jameson. I want you to do whatever you want. I want to be able to do whatever I want. I'm not her. Just let go,” she urged.
“I can't,” he whispered. She smirked down at him, her hips slowing their movements.
“Fine. If you won't do it, I'll find someone who will,” she snapped. He glared again.
“Watch your fucking mouth,” he snapped back. She shook her head.
“Make me. Ang likes to play, and I trust him. Maybe he'll do it,” she taunted.
“Stupid bitch, you better shut the fuck up,” Jameson growled.
“I'm sure there are lots of guys out there who would do it for me. Some random guy, in a hotel room somewhere. I'll pretend to be that nice, normal girl. Let some guy think he picked up a sweet girl, and then I'll let him fuck me. Fuck me hard; harder than this, harder than you,” she told him.
He slapped her across the face, and the response was instantaneous. She cried out and her pussy clamped down so hard on his dick, he almost came right then and there. Holy shit. He moved fast, slammed her down onto the mattress and then got up onto his knees, holding her hips up while he pumped in to her.
“Goddammit, Tate. Not every fucking thing is about you. I didn't want to fucking do that, you stupid fucking whore. Fucking bitch,” he swore, slamming against her hips as hard as he could. She was shrieking.
“God, it was so good, please say it was so good, it was so good, so good,” she panted. He slapped her again and it drove her wild, caused her to trash and buck underneath him.
It drives me wild.
“Fucking hell, Tate. I'm going to fuck you every night from now on, for as long as I can. Cunt. Whore. Fuck. Why are you so fucking good to me?” he moaned, grabbing one of her legs and resting it against his shoulder. He grabbed her hand, placed it at her wet core, forced her fingers in and around herself. She was like his marionette, his own personal fuck doll.
“Because ..., you're the devil. You need someone to be with. I want to be that person,” she gasped.
“Goddamn, do you let everyone treat you like such a slut?” he said, feeling the sweat pour down his body. He grabbed her ankle, held her leg out away from her body so he could get even deeper inside of her. He wanted to reach places no one had ever been before; places no one else would ever reach again. She suddenly laughed, a low, dark sound.
“You like to think you're the only one, don't you? That you're the only one who fucks me good,” she replied.
“I know I am.”
“Then why am I thinking about a baseball player right now?”
He slapped her across the face, hard, and then grabbed her neck. She started coming, crying out and dragging her nails down his chest. He wasn't far behind her, pumping everything he had in to her before collapsing on top of her chest.
It was a couple minutes before his brain could function again, wrap around what they had just done. He knew he should check on her, make sure she was okay, that what they had just done was actually okay. He pushed himself up over her, but instead of saying kind words, he grabbed her wrists instead, pinned them above her head. Her eyelids fluttered open and she stared up at him. She looked almost stoned. Satisfied. Glowing. Happy.
“Were you really thinking of him?” he demanded. She chuckled.
“Jameson, when you fuck me ..., nothing else exists but you,” she breathed. He leaned down, baring his fangs against her neck.
“Good,” he whispered. She let out a groan.
“That was so good, Jameson. That is officially, without a doubt, the best sex I've ever had,” she said with a laugh.
“Better than Angier fucking you in a filthy alley?” he asked. She laughed harder.
“Stupid man. I lied. You were always the best sex I ever had, I just didn't want to admit it,” she laughed.
“I knew it.”
He kissed her then. A long, slow kiss. He stretched out on top of her, inside of her. Ran his hands from her head to her thighs, and back up again. She breathed in to his mouth, moaned his name, scratched her nails down his back. He started to get hard again, and he backed away. Rolled her onto her stomach, pulled her hips up. A couple minutes later, he laid down flat, pulled her on top of him. Then pushed her off, made her fuck herself for a little while before diving back inside of her.
It was slow, and it was almost sweet, but he liked it. Just being secure in the knowledge that it would be okay to let go and do whatever he wanted, made it easily the second best sex either of them had ever had.
*
Angier Hollingsworth was not in love with Tatum O'Shea, but he did feel a certain kind of possessiveness; he had always thought it was just friendship. Even when she started fucking Satan and stopped fucking Ang, he hadn't thought much about it. Men had come and gone from Tate's life, but Ang had always been a constant.
But then something changed, and he could feel the tide begin to turn. He had been there for the ex girlfriend discovery. Knew about the baseball player. The fight in the kitchen. He had cuddled with her for two of the three days that she had spent hiding in her room. She refused to talk about Jameson, but Ang knew she was thinking about him.
Then Tate went back to Jameson, and Ang didn't see her for a whole week. She texted a lot – apparently they had reached some new plateau in the interesting sex department, and she was living in orgasm-city. Coming in to town to see her best friend was asking too much, and Ang wasn't exactly welcome in the devil's house. He hadn't asked, but he just knew that was true.
He was angry. He felt like he couldn't talk to her about it. He took it out on his coworkers, on the cast and crew of the porno he was working on, on his other friends. It was ridiculous, to be mad at his best friend for being happy, but Ang was mad. He knew it was fleeting. Jameson Kane was the devil. Tate claimed that she knew what she getting into, that she knew he would never love her or want to be with her. She tried to pretend that she felt the same way. But Ang knew better. He always knew better.