Reparation (The Kane Trilogy, #3)(46)

“Of course you fu-cking couldn't. I own this pu-ssy, you stupid cunt. You thought you could use it without my permission? Wrong,” he informed her.

“I know, I know,” she breathed. The hand on her throat finally released her, and she gasped in air, only to moan again when his fingers moved to her nipple, pinching it hard.

“I made this pu-ssy. It has belonged to me for the last seven years,” he whispered, letting go of her leg and leaning down on top of her.

“Yes, yes,” she whimpered, squeezing her eyes shut tight. She felt him press his forehead against her temple, his teeth bared against her cheek.

“Mine,” he growled.

“Yours,” she agreed.

“Stupid fu-cking whore, doesn't even know who she belongs to. Slut. Cunt. You said you wished I didn't exist. fu-ck you,” he swore, and she gasped as his hand let go of her breast and slithered between their bodies.

He was talking about when she had screamed at him in the hospital. She was shocked he even remembered the things she'd said. That he ever remembered anything she said. It must have hurt, to have stuck with him for so long.

“I didn't mean it,” she told him, then gasped again as she felt one of his fingers sliding inside of her, right on top of his dick. He was not a small man.

So. fu-cking. Full.

“Of course you didn't fu-cking mean it. I created you, you came from me. If I didn't exist, you wouldn't fu-cking exist,” he snapped. Realization suddenly dawned behind her eyelids.

Not Satan. Not Lillith. Eve was created from Adam's rib. We're part of each other. That's why I can't get away. That's why he can't get away. I'm not his subject, he's not my lord and master. We're the same.

Getting philosophical during sex usually wasn't her thing, but apparently it worked for her, because Tate came so hard that when she bit down on his earlobe, she drew blood. He roared and pulled back, his fingernails biting into her throat as he grabbed it, forcing her down onto the couch. He held her there while she shook and cried, her whole body ripping apart around him. He finally stilled, but she didn't stop coming for another solid twenty seconds.

“No,” she breathed when she finally felt like she could again. “No, I wouldn't.”

Without a word, he picked her up from the couch. She squealed, clinging to his shoulders as he walked them across the room. She wasn't sure what his intentions were, until she saw that he was walking around the desk. Back to where it all began. He practically dropped her onto it, forced her back down hard against the wood, and began thrusting into her again.

“Why do I always have to fu-ck you, to get you to agree with me?” he demanded, raking his claws down her chest. She managed a laugh.

“The question is, why do you like it so much?” she replied as he gripped onto her hips.

“Are you kidding?”

“Harder,” she moaned, and he complied. The desk began to rattle and shake, edge forward.

Just like old times.

“The question is, why do you make me do it?” he sighed, his head leaning back. She rubbed her hands across his chest.

“Because no man has ever made me come the way you do,” she purred.

“No shit. You don't deserve it. I should make you work harder for it,” he groaned, his hands moving to her knees. Forcing them wider apart.

“You make me work too hard for it,” she countered.

“fu-ck you, I should make you pray to my dick. That fu-cking mouth. fu-ck. Are you this mouthy with Angier?” he growled.

“It's always about Ang,” she sighed.

“You're the one always talking about fu-cking him, and every time I see him, he's bragging about fu-cking you. fu-cker. fu-cking bragging. Couldn't have been that fu-cking good. He should have at least taught you how to shut the fu-ck up,” he snarled, his thrusts getting brutal. She felt another orgasm approaching like a freight train.

“He was a good enough teacher,” she moaned.

“Excuse me!?” Jameson's head snapped down to look at her.

“You should know – you benefit from him every day.”

It hadn't happened since last fall. Not since that very last time they slept together, before the shit hit the fan and hurricane Jameson ripped her heart in two. And hadn't even happened once when he had been busy putting the same heart back together in Spain.

He slapped her across the face and she screamed, coming so hard, her vision went black around the edges.

“You goddamn cunt, don't you ever fu-cking say shit like that to me again,” he snapped at her.

“Yes! Yes! Oh my god, please,” she moaned, not even aware of what planet she was on, let alone what she was saying. He grabbed her by the neck and roughly yanked her forward so she was sitting up. She tried to gasp, still caught in multiple orgasms. His other hand grabbed onto her ass, forcing her closer to him, as close as another human being could get, and he jackhammered his hips against hers, his forehead resting against her own.

“You fu-cking bitch. fu-ck you. fu-ck you. I goddamn hate you,” he growled, and then he was coming.

It seemed to go on forever. He would shudder, pump, release, and it would trigger another wave of pleasure through her own body. She was practically sobbing by the end, her arms wrapped around his waist. When he finally let go of her throat, she fell back onto the desk, and he fell with her. Pressed his head to her breasts while he tried to catch his breath.