“There was some mention of that. Mostly babbling. I try to ignore him when he gets to the facts.”
“Obviously.”
“Shut up.”
“Nothing happened, Jameson. I'm here,” she pointed out.
“Yes. And you could've been here last night, but you chose to spend it with Angier,” he practically spit out Ang's name. Tate laughed and began taking off her scarf and jacket.
“You know, for such an amazing man who is always going on and on about not worrying or caring or any of that bullshit, you're awfully insecure,” she told him. He finally turned his head towards her, his jaw visible below the wing of the chair. She leaned over the back of the couch, folding her arms.
“Fuck you, Tatum. It's post-traumatic stress, from dealing with you,” he snarled. She snickered.
“Such a bitch.”
She was provoking him on purpose, so she didn't move when he got out of his chair and stalked towards her. She had missed him all week. She wanted him, now. She was ready to let go, to give in to him. He had won, after all. She was finally ready to admit that.
“Care to say that again?” he growled, coming around the couch to face her. She turned around, settling back onto her heels.
“Bitch. I called you one. As in, you're acting like a little bitch. You won, Mr. Kane. I'm here. He's in Arizona. Ang is at home. But I'm here, with you. So stop being a bitch.”
His fingers were around her throat instantly, forcing her back into the couch at first. She sighed, her hand gripping his wrist, fingernails digging into his skin. The harder she dug, the harder he squeezed. She gripped as hard as she could.
“Someday, you will learn to watch your fucking mouth around me,” he hissed.
“Probably not, Kane,” she wheezed out. “You should probably just get used to it.”
“I don't have to get used to shit. So was he any good? Still boring? How about Angier? I know he was always a fave,” Jameson said. She managed a laugh, though it sounded more like snorting, and she trailed her free hand across his chest, gripped onto his shirt.
“If I didn't know any better, I'd say you missed me,” she whispered. He glared at her, but the pressure on her neck loosened a little. She was able to sit up.
“No shit.”
“Aw, poor baby. Sexy secretary not hot in bed?” Tate cooed at him.
“I wouldn't know.”
“Please. I don't believe for an instant that you spent all week alone, especially after firing her,” Tate snorted. He rolled his eyes.
“I fired her because she couldn't file for shit, Tatum,” he snapped. “I'm not entirely sure she even knew how to read. And while usually stupid women tend to be good fucks, no one is as good as you.”
She yanked on his shirt and pulled him close, kissing him. Electro-shock therapy, all over her body. Something she hadn't allowed herself to feel, in a long time. She gasped into his mouth, struggling to climb to her knees on the couch. She wanted to be closer; much, much, much closer to him. As close as she could possibly get.
He let go of her throat and quickly pulled his shirt off. He had barely tugged it free of his head before her hands were on his chest, scoring his skin hard enough to leave red dashes on their way down. He grabbed her wrists and yanked her forward, his tongue invading her mouth as he pressed his body against hers, forcing her back into the couch.
“Please,” she realized she was whispering as she fought to kick off her shoes. “Please, Jameson. Please.”
“Apparently little Nick wasn't very good, if you're already begging for it from me,” he chuckled, yanking her shirt over her head.
“Why do you always want to talk about other men when we're fucking? If you want to fuck men, Jameson, it's okay. Can I watch?” she asked while he tried to pull her pants and underwear down. When she lifted her hips, he smacked her on the ass.
“I wouldn't even let you watch me fuck myself, you stupid bitch. You don't deserve a treat like that. Where the fuck were you all day?” he demanded, yanking her clothing free and throwing it over the couch.
“Downtown, with Ang. Then dinner, with Sanders,” she told him, chucking her bra across the room while he slipped out of his own pants.
“I don't like waiting.”
“See? Such a whiny bitch.”
“Watch your fucking mouth,” he hissed, slapping his hand down between her legs. She gasped, and then his fingers were soothing the sting. Slicing through her, like butter. She moaned, letting her legs fall open to him. “Jesus, Tate. I was expecting a battle when you came in here, not an easy fuck.”
“Kind of one and the same with us,” she panted. He slapped her again between the legs and she shrieked, almost coming right then.