"No tears," he mumbled, looking down in to her eyes. She laughed.
"Nope."
He turned her around and zipped up her dress. While she slipped her underwear back on, he grabbed her forgotten drink and refilled it. She chugged it down in a couple gulps and he made her another. She did the same thing to it, watching him over the rim of the glass.
"If that's how you fuck sober, it'll be very interesting to see what you're like drunk," Jameson laughed, pulling his shirt back on.
"You couldn't handle it."
"I can handle anything you've got."
Tate thought maybe he would tell her to go home, order up a cab, or a car, or something. But he didn't. He made her another drink and then grabbed her hand, pulling her behind him. She followed him out of the library and in to the entry way. A light was on in the sitting room. There hadn't been any on when she'd come in to the house.
"Is somebody here?" she asked. He glanced back at the room as he led her up the stairs.
"Sanders. He works late in there sometimes," he explained. She laughed.
"That poor man, I probably scared him," she snickered. She had been screaming like it was a competition, cursing a blue streak. Oops.
"Please. He's walked in on a lot of scenes like that, I doubt he even notices it any more," Jameson snorted as they reached the second floor. He dragged her down a hall, past a bunch of doors.
"Fuck a lot of women in your library?" Tate asked. Jameson looked over his shoulder at her.
"Jealous?"
She laughed.
"No. You fuck women in libraries. I fuck men in odd, semi-public locations. Po-TATE-o, po-TOT-o," she replied. He laughed and finally stopped them in front of a large door at the end of the hallway.
"Well, I feel left out. A desk and a bed seem kinda boring in comparison," he chuckled, pushing open the door.
"I didn't want to say anything," she said with a straight face, and he laughed again before leading her in to his bedroom.
It. Was. Huge. She dropped his hand and walked foward, taking it all in, while he kicked the door shut behind him. He had a huge king size bed. Walk in closet. Expensive, heirloom looking furniture. She walked over to a side table, running her fingers across expensive looking cuff links and watches. Everything was dark, every inch of the room screaming with masculinity. With him.
Tate downed the rest of her drink and slowly turned around to face him. He was still in front of the doorway, his arms crossed, watching her. She sat her glass down on the table and slipped the top of her dress back off her arms. Peeled it over hips. Dropped it to the floor and kicked it aside. Stood in front of him, a hand on her hip.
"So. Fuck a lot of women in here?"
~6~
Tate yawned and stretched, unable to help the wince that followed. She felt sore just about everywhere. It was delicious. She opened her eyes, focused on high ceilings with ornate crown molding. She turned her head to the right – day light was streaming in a window next to her. She turned her head to the left – Jameson was on the other side of the king sized bed, sleeping on his stomach. She smiled and sat up.
It had been a pretty amazing night. She hadn't really known what to expect. Maybe rougher sex and less talking. The way it had all gone was better, though. Like he had said, they were getting reacquainted. Best not to get in to the crazy shit the first time they slept together. He had been almost gentle with her in his bedroom, and she could tell he was holding back for her. Prepping her. His words still had bite, though; a promise of what was to come.
Tate rubbed at her neck, working the kinks out with her fingers. She let her fingertips dance along the tops of her shoulders, and on the right side, she could feel a raised welt. She let her fingers play over it for a minute, trying to figure out exactly what it was, when she remembered him biting her.
Glancing at him, she slid out of the bed and scampered across the room, in to the bathroom. She closed the door and looked at herself in a full length mirror. Her eye makeup was everywhere, she looked like a panda. Or really, with the combination crazy bed head, a punk rocker that had escaped from the '80's.
She leaned in close, examining the bite mark. He hadn't broken the skin, but it looked ugly. It made her feel warm. She turned around, looking over her shoulder, trying to see her butt. There was no bruising, but one side was distinctly redder than the other. Her back also had red marks going down its length. Jameson had sharp claws. When she turned to the front again, she could see bruise lines forming at the tops of her thighs – she had known those would show up. She then got right up against the mirror, looking over her jaw. She had smacked the desk pretty good, but no marks. That was good. She liked it rough, but she didn't like walking around with a black eye. People asked too many questions.
She tip toed back in to the bedroom, and saw that Jameson was still asleep. She watched him for a moment. His hair was rumpled and cute, his arms akimbo to his head, hands clasped under a cheek. His position made the muscles in his broad shoulders bunch and come together, and she chewed on her bottom lip, tempted to scratch him awake.
She didn't, opting to find her underwear instead. She found her bra hanging from the side of a mirror and quickly slipped it on; she decided her underwear was a lost cause and threw them away. She was shimmying back in to her dress when she heard the covers rustle around.
"Sneaking out, baby girl?" Jameson spoke, his voice scratchy with sleep. Tate chuckled.
"No, I would've woken you up to say goodbye," she replied, struggling with the zipper on her back. Once she had it all the way up, she looked at him. He had pulled himself in to a sitting position against the headboard, hands behind his head. His piercing blue eyes were traveling over every inch of her.
"Ah, but who told you that you could leave?" he asked. She laughed and walked over to the bed.
"I didn't realize I needed permission," she responded, kneeling on the mattress and making her way to his side.
"You need to ask permission for everything."
"Probably not gonna happen, Jameson," she laughed, sitting back on her heels. He sighed and dropped his hands.
"Well at least we broke you of one bad habit. I swear, your mouth must get you in to so much trouble. Very defiant, baby girl. If I had to hear you say 'Kane' one more time," he didn't finish the thought, just sucked air through his teeth.
"I don't see what the big deal is – pretty much everyone else calls you Kane," she pointed out. He leaned forward.
"You're not 'everyone else', you're different. You get to see the real me," he told her.
Her heart leapt in her chest. She was different to him, she got to see the real him. Too much info. She didn't know whether to jump for joy, or head for the hills. Ang had told her to be careful, and she had laughed at him. She should have heeded his warning a little better.
"Well, I'll have to see the 'real you' later – I have to go," Tate laughed. Jameson narrowed his eyes.
"Why?"
"Because, it's almost eleven o'clock. I have to go home, run some errands, shower, get ready for work. I work at the bar Thursday through Saturday," she explained. He nodded and yawned, rubbing a hand over his face.
"Right, right, the shit hole. I'll be in Manhattan this weekend, but I'll be back Sunday. I'll call you," he told her.
"Ooohhh, Manhattan weekend. Lifestyles of the rich and the famous," she teased. He rolled his eyes.
"There's that mouth. Hold on, I'll have Sanders get the car," he said, leaning over and grabbing a phone that was next to the bed.
While Jameson barked orders at poor Sanders, Tate did her best to wipe away the makeup that was under her eyes. She could go in to the bathroom and wet a towel, but it was too much effort. She didn't want to move away from him until she had to go. She swept her hair up in to a ponytail just as he was hanging up the phone.
"Poor Sanders, I don't think you're very nice to him," she commented, pouting out her bottom lip. Jameson reached out and pinched it.
"It works for us," he replied, running the edge of his thumb along her bottom teeth.
"Where did you find him?" she asked, when he let his fingers trace over her lip and down the side of her jaw.
"London," he answered, his fingers moving down to her throat.
"Is that the accent he has? Didn't seem British," she commented. Jameson nodded, his fingers moving around the edge of his bite mark, which was just barely peeking out the side of her collar.
"It's not originally where he's from, but it's where I found him. He was trying to steal from me," he continued, pushing the material to the side and leaning close so he could examine the wound.