“Um, I was in a similar position last week, and you fucked the hell out of me, that makes me think we're going to fuck. And I don't want to be disrespectful. This is her house, her party; she thinks I'm laying down with a migraine. The door is open, anyone can see us,” she told him.

“You're shy, Tate?” Jameson laughed. She snorted.

“No, but as I've been saying, these are my friends. I don't want to -,” she stopped talking as he lifted her skirt up. It was long and flowy, went to just past her knees. He draped the material over her back.

“I'm not going to fuck you. That would be giving you a treat. You've been very bad. I'm going to do whatever I want,” he informed her, and she could feel her underwear sliding off of her butt.

Her argument caught in her throat. Lifting her head up off the dresser, she was facing the door – she could see down the hall. The living room was just to the right, and she could see the edges of a couple peoples backs. It was dark in the bedroom, and she and Jameson were towards the back of it. If anyone turned around, they probably wouldn't be able to see anything. But if anyone came down the hallway ..., not good. She took a deep breath.

“Jameson, I don't think we should do this,” she started, but then ended in a gasp as two of his fingers slid inside of her.

She wasn't sure how this wasn't giving her a treat. He wasn't getting anything out of it, he was standing just enough back from her that she couldn't even reach him. She swallowed a groan and bit in to a table runner that covered the length of the dresser. He hooked his fingers a little, almost massaging her insides.

“Don't hear any arguing now,” Jameson's voice was dark behind her. Tate shook her head.

“We shouldn't ..., do this,” she whispered, though her words had no conviction.

“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.