Reparation (The Kane Trilogy, #3)(83)

“I have to tell you something,” she whispered, covering his hand with her own. His lips worked their way down her shoulder.

“I don't care.”

“I think you will.”

“I don't want to hear.”

“I want you to.”

“Stop.”

“I had sex with him.”

Bomb. Dropped. Time stood still. He stopped moving. She stopped breathing. His hand slid away from her skin, and any breath she had, flew out of her body. He stood back from her and she grabbed at the material of her dress, pressed it to her bare chest. He rubbed a hand over his mouth.

“I told you I didn't want to hear,” he sighed. She nodded and sat on a couch, pressing her hands flat against her chest.

“I know. I just couldn't ..., not without saying anything. Later would have been so much worse,” she whispered. He nodded.

“Yes, I suppose.”

“Do you hate me?” she asked, looking up at him. He chuckled and squatted down low, putting his head in his hands.

“I have tried very hard to hate you, Tatum. At various times, throughout a large chunk of my life, I have tried to hate you. I haven't been very good at it,” he told her. She sniffled.

“I was so angry at you,” she said. “I wanted to get over you. The Pet thing, and then Ellie ..., I just ..., he was there. I told him that I didn't want to be with him, that it probably wouldn't mean anything.”

“And what? He wanted his shot?”

Well, it sounds dirty, when you say it like that, Mr. Kane.

“I wanted to forget you. Get over you. He offered to help.”

“Did it work?” Jameson asked, lifting his eyes to hers.

“What?”

“Did he make you forget?” Jameson asked. She chuckled.

“Jameson. No one will ever be able to make me forget you.”

He stood back up and stalked towards her. Grabbed her wrists and pulled her up. He kept staring at her, didn't look away as he worked the dress over her hips and pushed it to the floor. When it pooled at her feet, he pulled her forward, away from it.

“I remember buying you that dress,” he said, pulling her against him. “I remember the first time you wore it. I remember you coming into my room after taking it off, only wearing your underwear and those shoes.”

“Happy times,” she laughed. His arms wrapped around her.

“Hmmm. Was he any good?” he asked, pressing his hands flat against her shoulder blades. She swallowed thickly, staring at him.

“Good enough.”

His hands slid down her back. Worked their way inside the sides of her underwear. Kept moving, pulling her panties down over her hips. Past her thighs. He let them go, and they fell to her feet. She was completely naked, pressed against his completely clothed form.

“Did you follow the rules?” he asked, and it took her a second to figure out what he was actually saying.

“Yes,” she nodded. “I thought of you the whole time.”

“Does he know this?”

“I didn't say it. But I think he did.”

“pu-ssy.”

“Stop it.”

“How many times?” Jameson asked, his hands moving back to her butt. He picked her up, forced her legs around his waist.

“Just one night. I couldn't do it again,” she assured him. He carried her to the couch, and then he sat down with her straddling him.

“You have been very naughty, Ms. O'Shea,” he sighed. She nodded, rubbing her hands down his chest.

“I know,” she agreed.

“And trying to corrupt Sanders? That was especially low,” he added, his voice evil sounding. She winced.

“Would you rather him be with a stranger? At least you know I would take care of him. I would treat him right,” she pointed out. His fingers dug into her waist and she winced again.

“Tatum. I am giving you a lot of get out of jail free cards. If you ever touch Sanders – inappropriately – ever again, I will kill him and maim you,” he warned her. She chuckled.

“You want to keep him in a box forever. You need to stop treating him like some thirteen year old street urchin. He's a man,” she whispered, undoing his belt buckle.

“You need to stop noticing that he's a man,” Jameson growled, leaning back from her as she undid his pants.

“And you may hate Nick, but you should know that he knows I'm up here, right now. He knows, and wished me luck. That man downstairs is better than you or I will ever be,” she told him. He snorted and worked his jeans down his hips from underneath her.

“We'll reassess that in about fifteen minutes,” he told her.

“Fifteen minutes? You've gotten soft in the last month.”

“Shut your fu-cking mouth, Tate.”

His hands were on her hips, guiding her down on him. She moaned and shuddered, scratching at his t-shirt. She was completely naked, and he was still almost completely dressed. It was a bizarre, different sensation. She worked her hips against his, gasping.

“I don't want that life with him,” she suddenly moaned.

“I know.”

“But I don't want what we had,” she pressed her forehead to his. One of his arms wrapped around her waist.