“I'm sure you did like it. I should've charged,” she growled at him before stomping over to her luggage. There was clothing strewn around, and Tate began picking stuff up, throwing it all into the suitcase.
“Didn't know you were still into that. What are you doing?” he asked, moving to stand behind her.
“Packing, what the fuck does it look like I'm doing?” she snapped.
“And where, may I ask, are you packing to go?” Jameson continued.
“Anywhere. Anywhere that's not here, anywhere that's not around you,” Tate replied.
“And why are you running away?”
“Because! I don't want to be here when the next surprise visit pops up!” she yelled at him.
“I did not plan this. You heard that guard, she lied to get in here. I can promise you, it will not happen again,” Jameson assured her.
“I couldn't give two shits if it did. I'm gonna take Sanders and we are getting the fuck out of here, and you and Ms. Denmark can have your sick, weird, love-hate relationship on your own fucking time,” Tate swore, bending at the waist and shoving the last bit of clothing into her bag, trying to force the suitcase shut.
“Awfully mean talk for someone who was just fighting over me,” he pointed out, and she felt his hand run over the edge of her hip. She wiggled away from him.
“I wasn't fighting over you!” she yelled, straightening out her t-shirt, trying to regain some dignity.
“Sure looked like it,” he called her out. She felt a blush creep into her cheeks.
“Well, you weren't doing anything about her! One of us had to be a man,” Tate sneered at him. Jameson laughed and stepped up close to her.
“Maybe I should take lessons,” he replied. She nodded.
“Maybe you should.”
He pulled her close, and she jumped on him. They fell to the ground, pushing and pulling at each others' clothing. He ripped her shirt, but she figured it didn't really matter, because it was actually his shirt. The panties, though, were slightly disappointing. She had spent a lot of his money on them.
“I thought you were running away,” Jameson taunted while she yanked his boxers down his legs.
“Shut the fuck up,” she snapped, dragging her teeth along his thigh as she crawled back up his body.
“I think that's my line.”
“You know, I can think of better uses for your mouth than being clever.”
“My, my,” Jameson chuckled, laying flat on the floor and putting his hands behind his head. “Someone wants to wear my shoes, apparently. Go ahead, Tate. Be the heavy. Let's see how good you are at it.”
Tate was angry, and she wanted to take it out on somebody. She was angry at Pet, and she was angry at Jameson, but most of all, she was angry at herself. She was still hyped up. It was like Petrushka was there in the room, and Tate suddenly had something to prove. She wasn't in the mood for his attitude or his smart-ass comments.
“Please. You have it so easy,” she sneered at him, hooking her nails into his chest and then slowly dragging them down. He hissed.
“You think so?” he whispered, his eyes falling shut. She scratched her hands back up to his shoulders and repeated the process.
“All you do is say a couple dirty words, get grabby with your hands. Big fucking deal,” she pointed out. He managed a laugh.
“According to your pussy, it's a very big fucking deal,” he teased.
“You think that's so special? I can do what you do.”
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.