“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.
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.
She had spoken to Ang a couple times since New Year's, but only briefly. Short enough conversations that she was able to get away without confessing her sin to him, which she was grateful for. She spoke to her sister a couple times, as well. Her baby was due in a little over two months. It was going to be a boy. Tate wanted to ask her all about it, but her sister was surprisingly short on the phone, as well. They were still working on the whole let's-be-friends-because-we're-sisters thing, but it was obvious that it wasn't working out too well.