Reparation (The Kane Trilogy, #3)(16)

“You could be having it right now.”

“And ruin the fantasy? No, I'll wait. I'm very glad to know you're okay with all this, it's so exciting! If it's really good, then maybe I'll take him back to the hotel room, and let him touch every inch of my body, put his dick in any orifice he wants. Maybe, if I'm very lucky, I'll get some new bruises to bring home,” Tate said. Jameson's hand went into her hair and pulled, yanking her towards him.

“Sex is one thing. If I see a bruise, we have a problem,” he hissed.

“That's stupid. So I can have sex, just not good sex?” she asked. He glared at her.

“You can have perfectly good sex without someone leaving a mark on you. I get to leave marks – not other men,” he told her.

“Maybe you can have good sex that way, but not me. No, if I'm gonna go out and get nailed, then I'm gonna get fu-cking hammered by some guy. Like, can't walk right the next day,” she laughed.

“I think it's time for you to shut the fu-ck up,” Jameson informed her. She shook her head.

“But it's just getting good, and not like you care, right? I hope whoever it is isn't shy, cause I love going down on a guy in public. Just right there in some dark night club. I'll just slip onto my knees – men seem to love that, don't they? – and press him against a wall, then take every inch of his -,” her voice got softer and softer, all while his fist pulled harder and harder.

“Tatum,” Jameson interrupted, his voice sharp.

“Hmmm?” she purred, trailing a finger up his chest.

“You are not getting a hotel room this weekend.”

“I'm not?”

“And you are not going bar hopping.”

“Boring.”

“And you are most certainly not making every 'orifice' available to some random guy.”

“And why is that?” she asked.

“Because,” Jameson answered, his free hand undoing his belt buckle.

“Because why?”

“Because. If another man ever touches you, I will fu-cking kill him,” he replied simply. Tate smiled broadly.

“I win,” she whispered.

“It's going to be awfully hard to gloat with your mouth full of dick.”

“I'll manage.”

“Bitch.”

She was about to make a witty remark, but then he was forcing her head into his lap and she was a little busy.

If he doesn't want you fu-cking anyone else, that means he's jealous. And if he's jealous, that means he cares. And if he cares, then maybe he really never lied. And if he never lied, then you don't have to ruin everything. And if you don't have to ruin everything, then maybe you can admit out loud that you have most definitely, certainly, positively, absolutely, irrevocably sold your soul to Satan.





~4~


Tate could handle angry Jameson. She could handle mean Jameson. She could handle funny, smart, sexy, witty, foul mouthed Jameson. But there were two versions she had had trouble with, sadistic Jameson, and nice Jameson. Sadistic Jameson had only ever truly come out twice – when he had tricked her into visiting her parents, and big time when he had brought Petrushka home. He could push her around and call her all the names he wanted, but fu-cking with her mind or her heart, that was not okay.

Nice Jameson, though, he was the worst. She didn't trust him. He hadn't come out till so late in the game – she hadn't thought he even existed. When she was always expecting him to be bad, it was shocking to see good. It was like she was constantly waiting for the other shoe to drop, the other hand to swing. Hovering in a state of permanent wincing.

She hated it, and anymore, nice Jameson was around more than any of the others combined. Her conscience was being ripped in half. She would find herself staring at him, moon-eyed, practically worshipping every word that fell from his mouth, and then she would slap herself.

He brought Pet to America. He brought Ellie to Paris. Who's he gonna bring home next? Do you really wanna be here to find out?

It was torture. Sanders wasn't helping, always looking at her sideways, pulling her aside to chat, to assure her that Jameson's intentions were noble and pure. Bullshit. Jameson and nobility didn't dine at the same table, and he had probably been born with a dirty heart, so purity was out of the question.

Kinda like me ...

She was so fu-cked. She just wondered when she would finally throw in the towel and really admit it to herself.



*



“What are you doing?” Sanders asked as he walked into the library. Jameson didn't look away from his task.

“Trying to find the best place for this,” he replied.

Several people were standing in his library, all wearing white gloves. They were from a museum – Jameson had hired them to move and hang his original Mark Rothko painting. He had inherited it from his father, and for a long time, it had stayed at the house in Pennsylvania. When Jameson sold the house, he had the painting moved to the lobby of his offices in New York. He had never thought much about it, other than it was a good investment. But when he opened his firm in Boston, on a whim, he had the painting brought there and placed in his own personal office.

Tatum loved the piece, though she had only ever been in his office that one time, when he had basically propositioned her. She had commented once that she was a fan of Rothko's work, and was impressed that he had one. Very little truly impressed Tatum O'Shea.