Reparation (The Kane Trilogy, #3)(52)

“Probably. Wake me up if I fall asleep,” he told her, carrying her out of the library. She hooked her ankles together behind his back.

“Never do.”

“I am going to fu-ck you so hard, just for this attitude.”

“Promises, promises.”

He made good on his word, not stopping till she was panting and listless underneath him. And even then, he dug deep into his reserves, and managed to get another orgasm out of her with his tongue. Then he made her go down on him; made a mess coming all over her and the bed.

While she went to take a shower, he kicked the comforter to the floor and slipped between the sheets. He didn't care about taking a shower. He wanted to slip into a coma for a couple hours. Or days. But just as he was about to, something caught his eye. A light from the closet was glinting off something silver on the nightstand. He rolled closer and turned on a light. A picture frame, one that hadn't been there before he'd left. He picked it up and looked it over.

He didn't know where she had gotten it, but it was a picture of the two of them, kissing in the rain. He couldn't remember the time, but it looked like last fall. He ran his fingers down the glass, across her face.

She's stunning.

She had said she was in love with him. He had said it was okay. He hadn't said it back. She said that was okay. He was still a little blown away by it. By his reaction as much as by hers. From the very beginning, he hadn't wanted a relationship with her. He had told her that, from the very start.

The first time around, when Tate had admitted to having feelings for him, he had freaked the fu-ck out. Jameson could admit that now. She couldn't just like him – she would want something, in return. Something he might not ever be able to give. Too much. He would give her anything else; sex, money, diamonds, gold, whatever else. But he couldn't make a promise if he didn't know whether or not he could keep it.

This time around was different. He had worked to get her back, fought for her. That in itself was its own kind of promise. In Paris, when she'd had her breakdown over the pearls, that's when he had realized. Any kind of game they had been playing, he had long since won. She wasn't over him. She had never been over him. In fact, she was so much farther down the rabbit hole than either of them had guessed, she probably couldn't make it back out. Somewhere along the line, she had fallen in love with the devil. And being the devil, of course, Jameson had known.

He rolled onto his back, holding the picture above him. It was a good photo, it kind of encapsulated their relationship. Tatum doing something stupid, like standing in the rain, getting soaking wet, when she could've gone inside. Jameson holding an umbrella over her, trying to shield her from the damage she had experienced while waiting for him, but a moment too late. Them meeting in the middle. Kissing. Touching. Not asking for anything, not demanding anything. Just being themselves.

“I thought you'd be unconscious by now, the way you were complaining,” Tate laughed, rubbing a towel over her hair as she walked out of the bathroom. He glanced at her.

“Where did you get this?” he asked, holding up the frame. She sat down on her side of the bed and looked at it.

“Oh, Sandy did that. I printed it out, and he saw it, asked to put it in something. I didn't realize he'd left it in here,” she said.

“Where is it from?” Jameson asked, looking at it again.

“Like last September, I think. Maybe the end of August. We're outside of your work,” Tate told him.

“Who took the picture?”

“I don't know. It was online.”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah. You're an 'international playboy', paparazzi loooove you,” she teased him. He grunted.

“fu-ck off.”

“It's true,” she pressed. He frowned.

“I don't like people taking pictures of us,” he grumbled. She stretched out on her stomach next to him, a large towel still wrapped around her middle.

“Why? Embarrassed to have me as your 'play thing'?” she asked with a laugh. He didn't quite know what she meant by that, or really care.

“Don't be fu-cking stupid. You're part of my life, I like to keep that private. Other people aren't fit to witness us,” he snapped. She smiled big at him, and his satanic heart skipped a beat.

“You are so sweet sometimes,” she said softly.

“Shut the fu-ck up.”

“Alright, fine then. Don't look at it,” she snapped, reaching for the frame. He held it out of her reach.

“No, I like it,” he said. She stretched across his chest, clawing at his arm.

“Apparently not, all you've done is bitch about it,” she grumbled, her towel falling loose.

“You have gotten way too lippy lately. Don't think I haven't noticed. Refer to me, or anything I do, as 'bitch' again, and I'll teach you who the bitch around here really is,” he warned her, but he smiled as he switched the frame to his other hand. She laughed as well, swinging her body the other way, till she was almost completely on top of him, still reaching for the picture.

“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.”