Reparation (The Kane Trilogy, #3)(45)

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 fu-cking 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 fu-cks, 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 fu-cking? If you want to fu-ck 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 fu-ck myself, you stupid bitch. You don't deserve a treat like that. Where the fu-ck 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 fu-cking 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 fu-ck.”

“Kind of one and the same with us,” she panted. He slapped her again between the legs and she shrieked, almost coming right then.

“Something's got you all riled up. Did your day with Angier get you all excited?” he asked, burying his middle finger in her. She squirmed around.

“No.”

“You're awfully wet.”

“I usually am.”

“Not without reason. What set you off, hmmm?”

“You. Just you.”

“Good answer.”

His hand was on her breast bone then, pressing her down into the couch. Forcing her down. He propped one of her legs along the back of the couch, and then he was slamming into her. No hesitation, just hips meeting hips in an instant. She shrieked, her hands flying to her breasts, squeezing.

“Oh my ... fu-ck,” she groaned as he immediately began pounding into her.

“fu-cking slut. Spent all day with him. Tried to fu-ck him in our bed. Probably tried to fu-ck him in my condo. Who the fu-ck do you think you are!?” Jameson demanded. She had her other foot touching the floor and he grabbed that leg, held it out away from her body by the knee, forcing himself so deep inside of her, it felt like he was interfering with the rhythm of her heart.

Like that's anything new. Remember the first time you saw him? Heart attack.

“Originally, I wanted to fu-ck him in here,” she taunted, and the hand on her chest moved to her throat. He wasn't playing around, no butterfly kisses with this hand – he practically squeezed her neck in half.

“You wouldn't fu-cking dare,” he hissed.

“Didn't have enough time.”

“Stupid whore, didn't have enough balls. fu-ck. fu-ck you, Tate. fu-cking always making me do things I don't want to do,” Jameson growled, his grip on her neck loosening.

“I think you always want to do these things,” she cried out.

“Always,” he moaned.

“I couldn't do it, though,” she whispered.

Why is it that sex always makes an honest girl out of you? Why can't you just fake it, like everyone else?