Reparation(58)

“I'm not scared of a little bitch like you, bitch, so quit bitching and just -,”

“Dammit, Tate,” he started, rolling over on top of her. “Always making me do things I don't want to do.”

“Dammit, Jameson, always bitching about things I don't want to hear about,” she teased back.

“Shut the fuck up. If you want pictures, I would be happy to take some of you,” he groaned, pulling her towel away from her body.

“Really?”

“Sure. Just let me grab a camera,” he started to get up, but she clung to his arms.

“Clothed, Jameson,” she told him. He pushed her hands away, rolled her onto her stomach.

“I don't want pictures like that,” he said, his voice low as he ran his hands down her back. Dug his fingers into her skin. She groaned and stretched underneath him.

“What kind of pictures would you like?” she whispered. He pulled her hips into the air, ran his hand up between her legs.

“This is a particularly nice angle for you,” he commented. She wiggled against his touch.

“God, you're like a machine,” she groaned as his fingers worked their way inside of her.

“A robot,” he chuckled.

“I won't argue with that.”

He slapped her on the ass.

“You argue with me even when I agree with you,” he snapped, taking his fingers away. He held onto her hip with one hand and stroked his cock with the other.

“What are you waiting for?” she breathed, stretching her arms out on the mattress.

“For you to beg,” he replied.

“Please,” she whispered.

“Please what?”

“Please, fuck me again.”

“Why?”

“Because I need it.”

“You don't deserve it.”

“No, but I need it. I want it. Please.”

“Hmmm, let me think about it.”

She chuckled, and one of her hands slid down the mattress. Disappeared beneath her body.

“Not like I really need you, for what I want,” she whispered, and he could see the tips of her fingers between her legs.

“Fuck you,” he growled, and then shoved her fingers away. He pressed himself to her entrance, pushed his dick inside. She gave a full body shudder.

“Yes,” she hissed.

“Shut up,” he snapped, slapping her on the ass again. She squealed.

“God, so much for being tired. You should go out of town more often, if this is how you're going to be when you get back,” she told him. He held onto her with both hands, closed his eyes.

“I am tired. You wouldn't be so fucking chatty if I was myself,” he warned her.

“Big talk.”

“Shut the fuck up, whore. Why do you want me gone so bad, Tate? What did you get up to while I was gone?” he demanded.

“What didn't I get up to would narrow it down,” she laughed.

He smacked her ass until she begged him to stop. Until she was coming.

“You're too easy, baby girl,” he groaned, rolling her onto her back, then nailing her to the mattress.

“I know. Why did I bother taking a shower?” she panted, her fingers working their way into her own hair. He wrapped a hand around her throat, cut his fingernails into her skin. She moaned.

“Tatum,” he breathed, his hips picking up speed. He was very close.

“What?” she gasped, pulling her hair. He squeezed her throat tighter.

“This time, when I come on your tits, you're going to sleep in it.”

“God, you're filthy.”

“You love it.”

“I know.”





~10~


“Spring training officially starts in a couple days.”

“I know, Nick,” Tate replied. “You tell me that every time we talk.”

From across the room, Jameson made a sound in the back of his throat. It had been a little over a week since his trip to Berlin. She was back to living in paradise. Living in orgasm-city, as Ang liked to call it. Things almost felt the way they had last fall. Almost ..., perfect, she hesitated to say.

Everything was awesome. She and Ang were great, saw each other every couple days. Sanders seemed happier than ever, though a person couldn't really tell with him. Jameson even seemed lighter, easier. So when she sat down in the library to check in with Nick, it was with a feeling that all was right in the world.

Which is usually when things go wrong.

“Do you have to talk to your boyfriend in here? I'm working,” Jameson snapped in a loud tone. She laughed and grabbed a remote, turning on his TV.

“I'm sorry, what was that?” she asked, turning it to a random channel and turning up the volume.

“What's going on?” Nick's voice could barely be heard over the television. There was the sound of drawers being opened, and then the TV was put on mute. She glanced over the couch. Jameson was sitting behind his desk, and he waved a remote at her. She crossed her eyes at him.