“You think that's so special? I can do what you do.”
“Doubtful.”
Tate glared at him and then paused for a second. Of course she was lying through her teeth. It was getting to a point where all Jameson had to do was breathe in her direction, and she had to change her panties. But he didn't really need to know that, she figured. She wanted to make him sweat. Make him nervous. Make him angry.
“Fuck you,” she breathed. His eyes opened to look at her, and she smiled down at him. “That wasn't so hard. I can see why you like it. Fuck you, Kane.”
“Watch your mouth,” he warned her. She laughed and slowly dragged one of her hands up her body.
“You watch your fucking mouth,” she threw it back at him. She scratched her way up past her breasts, across her clavicle, and then slowly wrapped her fingers around her neck. Of course it didn't feel the same – Jameson owned that part of her body, her hand was just visiting. But still.
“What's your game, baby girl?” he said softly.
“Mmmm, no game,” Tate whispered back, letting her eyes flutter closed while her free hand found its way between her legs.
“Whatever this is, it isn't very fun for me,” he pointed out, moving his hands to her thighs. She snorted. It may not have been “fun” for him, but he was obviously enjoying it – she was straddling his hips and could feel his hard on pressing against her ass.
“Stop talking, whore,” she cursed at him, and then gasped, moving her fingers between herself and his stomach. Sliding between her wetness and the sweat on his skin.
“What the fuck did you just say to me?” he demanded.
“Whore. As in, shut your fucking mouth, whore,” she mimicked him, and then gasped again, raising up higher on her knees. She dug her fingernails into her throat, and while it still wasn't as good as Jameson, she could see the appeal of being him. She had wanted to play with him, make him as angry as she had been, but she wasn't angry anymore; she was too close to coming to really feel any sort of way.
“Alright. Play time's over. Stop it, now,” he insisted. She groaned and let her head drop back, her fingers pushing harder against herself, inside of herself. It all felt so different. Angry, not angry. Her in charge, but not really in charge. With him, but not really with him. She just wanted to stop thinking for a second. Stop feeling. Just be numb.
“I think you're forgetting who's in charge right now,” Tate panted, wiggling her hips against him. His hands moved to her waist and held her in place.
“Stop. I'm not doing this just cause you're pissed off at her. You won. She doesn't matter, she's out there. I'm in here. With you.”
Too nice. Nice words are always the worst.
“Liar,” she moaned.
“That's it. I'm not fucking around, Tate. Get the fuck off me, or -,” he started to threaten.
“Stop fucking talking.”
She may have taken the imitation too far, though, when she slapped him across the face, shocking herself a little.
Hmmm, might have pushed it with that one.
His reaction was instantaneous. Jameson's hand was in her hair, pulling so hard she was forced to look straight up and arch away from him. He sat up abruptly, and in a somewhat fluid motion managed to stand up, letting her slide to the floor. But he didn't let her stay there long; with his grip in her hair, he yanked her to her feet.
“Just because you're angry doesn't mean I have to be; why the fuck do you always want to piss me off?” he hissed, pressing his face against hers.
“Because then I know I'm dealing with the real you,” she gasped.
“Shut the fuck up, Tate.”
He bent her in half, slammed her down against the mattress. She was still trying to push the blankets out of her face when he slammed into her. She shrieked, dragging her claws down the covers. She felt one of his hands in the middle of her back, pressing her down. Holding her in place. His other hand gripped onto her hip, pushing and pulling her against his thrusts.
Like my body even needs to be told what to do when it comes to him.
“See? Better, so much better,” Tate groaned, closing her eyes and focusing all of her energy on feeling him.
“Everything I give you is better. Is the best. When are you going to get that through your fucking head?” Jameson snapped.
“Never,” she breathed.
She wanted to taunt him, to tease him. Wanted to make him mad enough to step outside himself, mad enough to really treat her bad. But she couldn't get a word out. He was pounding so hard, she couldn't catch her breath. She wasn't sure what was going to happen first – orgasm, or fainting.
If you're really lucky, both. Because if you needed any further proof that you're never getting away from him, you have it now – slamming into you, over and over again.
Tate screamed when she came, beating her hand on the mattress, begging him to stop. Begging him for more. She was vaguely aware of voices outside the bedroom door, remembered that security was still wandering around the apartment, and she started coming harder. Gasping for air. Sobbing for it.
“Who's the slut now?” Jameson growled, pressing flat against her back as his hips picked up speed. She managed a laugh. Choked on a sob.
History just keeps repeating itself, on and on and on and on and on ...
“For you, Jameson. Just for you,” she whispered, stepping back in time, to seven years ago. A lifetime ago. Not long enough ago.
“Only for me,” he whispered back, and then he was coming, too.
Houston, we're so far beyond having a problem that we're just completely fucked.
~11~
Tatum had been to Paris before, when she was fifteen, on a school trip. Standard, touristy stuff. She liked the city, thought it was very beautiful. It was hard, though. The most romantic city on earth, and she was there with Jameson. Hmmm.
The morning after her stint as an MMA fighter, she had woken up to him sitting at the foot of the bed, talking softly on his phone. His voice did not sound happy.
“If you ever come to my home again, I will get a restraining order. If you ever touch Sanders again, I will have you arrested. And if you ever hit her again, I will be the one who hits back. She is here to stay, she is part of my life. You are not. Get used to it.”
Tate was touched, but at the same time, she also felt kind of bad. Jameson had dragged Pet back into the mix. What had he said the other day? He hadn't slept with Pet since last June. Then he had wined and dined her in Germany during his little sabbatical. The woman was a raving lunatic, a complete psychotic bitch, no argument there, but Jameson was the one who had invited her back into his life.
They didn't speak much about the whole situation the next day. The living room was magically clean, though Sanders looked suspiciously tired. He slept on the plane ride to Paris, and Tate leaned against him, hugging his arm to her chest. He also didn't say much of anything about the incident. There was so much silence going on, she felt like it was deafening.
Their hotel room was amazing. Views of the Eiffel Tower, balconies, a sitting room. He hadn't gotten a penthouse suite, at Tate's request. She thought it was just too much, considering that whenever they were together anywhere, they spent most of their time in a bedroom. Plus, that way, Ang's room and Sanders' room could be on either side. Tate had a shoulder to cry on either way she turned, and she had a distinct feeling that a huge crying fit was imminent.