“Then how would you get me to return?”
He didn't say another word. He simply picked up her bottle of Jack and carried it out of the room with him.
He knows me so well ...
*
Jameson glanced around, realizing he hadn't seen Tate in a while. The sun had long since set, but no one had left the barbecue yet. Pecan pie, hush puppies, and ambrosia were being passed around by waiters, and drinks were still flowing. Everyone seemed to be laughing and having a good time.
Everyone except the host, because he can't find the hostess. Where the fuck is she?
He strolled around the pool and finally found her. She'd changed into her evening outfit – a ridiculous cocktail dress that didn't fit the casual theme at all. It was also cheap, obviously from some store in a mall somewhere. The top was strapless and tight, while the skirt was short, almost sticking out at her sides. It reminded him a little of a ballerina. A cheap, slutty, ballerina.
She wore that for me. God, she's perfection.
His appreciation of her dress was spoiled, however, when he realized who she was talking to – Rich Klimas. They were near the end of the pool, and she kept taking steps backwards, clearly trying to end the conversation and get away. Klimas took no notice and simply matched her step for step.
It was fun for a moment, watching Tate be uncomfortable. She so rarely was – at the bar, if she'd been caught in the same situation, she would've simply told him to fuck off. But in Jameson's world, surrounded by his coworkers and colleagues, he knew she felt hindered. She didn't want to do anything that might embarrass him.
Stupid girl. All these years and she's yet to figure out I'm not easily embarrassed.
“Tate,” he said loudly, finally walking up next to her. “There you are.”
“Thank you,” she gushed, the relief obvious on her face. “I was just coming to find you.”
“Jameson!” Rich said, smiling big. Jameson cocked up an eyebrow. Were they on a first name basis now? “Tate and I were just talking – you know, it turns out Tate and I went to the same prep school! She was a couple grades above me, and I transferred out after my freshman year. But what a coincidence. We were just talking about getting together sometime and comparing high school horror stories.”
Tate's jaw dropped. Clearly, this was news to her. But before she could ruin the moment and say she had no intention of comparing anything with Rich, Jameson spoke over her.
“Sounds like fun. Mind if I borrow my wife for a moment?” he asked, smiling congenially as he cupped his hand around Tate's elbow.
“Only if you promise to give her back,” Rich chuckled, toasting his glass in jest.
“Twenty minutes and she's all yours,” Jameson assured him.
He didn't wait for a reply – he steered Tate back into the conservatory. They went down the first row of flowers, stopping in front of the roses. When he let her go, she turned to face him.
“Okay, first of all – he came up and spoke to me. I tried to get away, and I didn't flirt at all. Second of all – we never talked about getting together. And third of all – did you just say 'borrow my wife' out loud? For reals?” she asked, still in shock.
“I never realized walking away from someone was such a problem for you, Tate,” he said, glaring down the length of his note at her.
“Oh, shut up,” she grumbled, turning to look out the window. “So what did you want to 'borrow' me for? I'm hoping this stimulating conversation isn't why.”
“I don't understand why you feel the need to talk to someone you don't even like,” he kept harping on the subject.
“Not all of us are like you, Jameson. Some of us feel bound by social etiquette to be polite, and particularly so when we're dealing with a guest we invited into our home,” she replied. He almost laughed.
“Bullshit. You're rude to me all the time, and I own this house.”
“When you talk, you make my brain hurt.”
“Then you're getting an idea of how I feel almost all the time.”
“Why are you picking a fight right now?” she abruptly asked, looking at him again. “It's been a good party, I've behaved myself, you've pretended to be a decent human being. I'm pretty sure all your little peons are totally impressed with your awesome home, so what reason could you possibly have to be mad?”
“Maybe I don't need a reason,” he replied in a soft voice, stepping closer to her and dragging his finger up the center of her cleavage, across her chest, and scratching up her throat. “Maybe I just think it's fun.”
*
Tate knew this side of him very well. As Jameson's fingers gently wrapped around her throat, she let her gaze slide away. Looked outside.
“Jameson,” she breathed. “You have a backyard full of guests standing maybe fifty feet away.”
“You're becoming shy in your old age, Mrs. Kane,” he said, his grip around her throat growing tighter.
“Ooohhh, that sounds like a challenge.”
“Game?”
“Do you even have to ask?”
His fingernails were cutting into her skin when he yanked her close. She gasped but his mouth replaced oxygen, his tongue blocked her air flow. She moaned and pressed herself against him, smoothing her hands over his chest.
She never got tired of it. His body, his mouth, his hands. And especially his voice. Each time was was still exciting. Different. Intense.
“Is this the point you wanted to prove?” she asked in a breathy voice as she backed up onto a table full of flowers.
“I don't have to prove shit to you,” he growled, pulling at the top of her dress, forcing it down under her strapless bra.
“Maybe not to me,” she panted, practically ripping apart his belt and whipping it away from his pants. “But you sure feel the need to prove yourself to a lot of other people.”
“Shut the fuck up, Tate.”
“And to a lowly junior broker? Pathetic, Jameson.”
A hand was in her hair, yanking back hard. She let out a cry of pain, then groaned when she felt his teeth against the side of her neck.
“I thought I told you, this is all fun to me,” he hissed, both his hands moving down her body and working their way under her skirt. When his finger curled around the top of her underwear, she pulled back a little.
“Jameson, the door is open,” she whispered, glancing at the exit to the backyard. He didn't answer at first, instead taking the time to rip her panties away from her body.
“See? So shy,” he chuckled, his face buried in her cleavage.
He wasn't entirely wrong – Tate was growing more reserved in her “old age”, as he liked to joke. Crazy sex was still okay, but the possibility of getting caught had lost its shine. She liked it best when she was certain they couldn't be interrupted. When she was positive she would have him all to herself, from start to finish.
Not that it would stop her, though. As his hands forced her legs wide apart and his fingers made themselves at home inside her, she forgot all about the door. She moaned again and fell against the window behind her.
“What's … the hurry ...” she gasped. His fingers were moving so fast, she couldn't quite catch her breath.