Reparation (18 page)

“Why do I always have to fuck 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.

“
Fuck you,
I should make you pray to my dick. That fucking mouth.
Fuck.
Are you this mouthy with
Angier?
” he growled.

“It's always about Ang,” she sighed.

“You're the one always talking about
fucking
him,
and every time I see him, he's bragging about
fucking you
.
Fucker
.
Fucking bragging
. Couldn't have been that fucking good. He should have at least taught you how to shut the fuck 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 fucking 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 fucking bitch
. Fuck you.
Fuck 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.

It felt like they had run a marathon. She and Jameson had wild, roadrunner sex all the time, but this time ..., she felt like she would never be able to walk again. Talk again. Do
anything
, ever again.

Except maybe have sex. She would
definitely
do that again.

“Oh my god. Holy shit.
Holy fuck,
” she panted, pressing her wrist to her forehead.

“Yes,” Jameson breathed in agreement, not moving.

She was very aware that they were in an almost identical position to the first time they'd had sex in his library. Spread out on his desk, him on top of her, both of them gasping for air. Except this time, there was slightly less clothing. A lot bigger orgasms.
Definitely
a lot scarier feelings. Tate cleared her throat. Tried to talk. Had to clear her throat again. Felt her eyes well up with tears.

“That was ...,” her voice was barely above a breath. He chuckled.

“A week is too long, baby girl. See what happens when you make me wait?” he told her, still out of breath, as well. She cleared her throat again.

“So,” she managed to choke out loudly enough to hear, her voice raspy.

“Hmmm?” Jameson mumbled, his hands gliding up and down the backs of her thighs. Her legs were still wrapped around his waist.

“You hate me, huh?” she asked, managing to laugh. A tear slid down the side of her head. He chuckled.

“Tatum, what have I told you about listening to the shit that comes out of my mouth during sex? It's all rubbish,” he replied, the gliding turning to scratching.

“You've said you hate me before, one time. Before you went to Berlin,” she pointed out. He paused for a second, then his hands continued their path.

“That was different. Sometimes ..., sometimes I feel like I do hate you. I didn't want this, I wasn't looking for this, this isn't what I asked for. I wanted someone to play with, not someone for keeps. You changed the game on me,” he said quietly.

“I did?” she replied, another tear escaping. He nodded his head against her.

“Yes, and I don't know this game. I'm not good at this game. I'm learning as I go, and you don't make it easy, when you fight me at every turn. When you change the rules. You change your mind. You make me slip up. I hate that. Sometimes it all makes me wish for the old days. Sometimes, it all makes me hate you a little,” he confessed. She laughed. The tears were free falling now. No turning back.

Not that there ever was
.

“Pity,” she whispered.

“Why?”

“Because it all makes me love you a little.”

“What are the rules?”

“No rules.”

“Shut up.”

“
Fiiiiiine.
”

“What are the rules?”

“No Angiers in the house.”

“Yes. And?”

“No plotting your imminent demise.”

“
And?
”

“No corrupting Sanders.”

“Good girl. I'll be back in four days.”

Jameson leaned down and kissed her. Went to leave, made it a couple steps, then came back.

“What!? I haven't corrupted him yet,” Tate held up her hands defensively. Sanders shifted from foot to foot, tried to blend in with the door frame.

“Any rules for me, baby girl?” he asked, glancing in a large mirror and fiddling with his tie. She batted his hands away and worked at the knot.

“You are shit at doing this,” she grumbled, pulling the whole thing free and starting over.

“
Watch it
. Why are you so good at it?” he asked, watching in the mirror as she deftly tied a knot.

“Fucked a lot of professors,” she replied. He shoved her hands away.

“You're not fit to touch me,” he informed her.

“That's not what you said last night.”

“Last night was a completely different story. Any last words?” he asked. She thought for a second.

“Don't do anything I wouldn't do,” she replied with a smile.

“What a horrible thought.
Be good,
” Jameson kissed her again, then sailed out the door, Sanders carrying his luggage behind him.

It was Monday. He would be back Friday. She had told him she loved him Saturday night. Things hadn't exploded. The earth hadn't swallowed her whole, Satan hadn't carried her off to his temple of doom. Though he did carry her off to his bedroom.

“I know you do, baby girl.”

“When did you know?”

“Paris.”

“How? I didn't even know.”

“You're not very subtle.”

“I'm sorry.”

“Never be sorry, Tate. I never am.”

“Does this change things?”

“No. Not a thing.”

“Please, don't hurt me.”

“I'll do my best.”

“That's all I can ask.”

He had kissed every inch of her skin, practically worshiped her with his mouth. She had felt like dying on top of his desk, but fifteen minutes later, and he had her so super charged, she felt like her fingertips could jump start a jet engine. Just when she was ready to beg for it, he had slipped inside of her, and eased the tension.

And things really hadn't changed. They fucked all weekend, making up for lost time. Sanders was scarred on more than one occasion, by walking into the wrong room at the wrong time. Jameson still called her filthy names, and she still loved it. Still treated her to heavy hands, and she loved that even more. But best of all, when he did say something nice, it didn't hurt. It didn't scar. It just folded in with the rest.

Finally.

“I bought something,” he said Sunday afternoon, striding into his library.

She was back to laying on the floor, stretched on her stomach. There had been an “
incident
” with the couch. It had gotten flipped over and a leg broke off. It was being repaired. Jameson told her she had to be more careful in the future – his shit wasn't cheap. She told him that maybe he shouldn't go around fucking people so hard. He told her to shut her mouth. It just went uphill from there, and then they broke his desk chair.

She had laughed a lot.

“What is it?” she asked warily, sitting up and taking a box he held out towards her.

She recognized it instantly. A vintage Cartier necklace, mostly pearls and diamonds. Purchased by an anonymous buyer over a phone.

“Got it at some stupid auction,” he commented, sitting in his wing back chair. “Don't know why. Waste of money. For some charity function.”

She wanted to cry, but she was trying to make it a habit not to do that anymore. So she game him a blowjob instead. Was practically of equal value, she was sure.

But Sunday evening, he got a phone call. They were still in the library, so she was there when he got it. Something about his offices in Germany. She heard everything, he tried to get out of going. Had even offered to send Sanders in his place. But he was needed. He had to go – it was easy to forget, but he did have obligations. He
had
to go to Berlin.

Of course, a panic attack was the first thing on her mind. But then she calmed down. Saying “
hey, I'm kinda sorta in love with you, you sadistic bastard
” was kind of like making a deal. She had to trust him, to a certain extent. So she just smiled and told him to come home soon. He tried to talk her into going with him, but she told him she wouldn't go for all the tea in China. Fuck that. Letting him go was baby steps. He would have to wait for the giant leaps.

She requested that Sanders stay behind, though, which made everyone happier. Sanders didn't like going to Germany. Jameson didn't like leaving Tate alone. Tate didn't particularly like being alone. So it all worked out.

It really wasn't so bad. That's what she kept telling herself. She tried to ignore the fact that the last time she had confessed her feelings to him, he had run away to Berlin. Awfully big coincidence. But it was just that, it had to be – she would have to trust that it was,
trust him
. So she did her best.

“What should we do without him?” she asked when Sanders finally came home.

“Same thing we usually do when he is not at home,” he replied, walking into the kitchen.

“I'm not making brownies. You called me fat a couple weeks ago,” she reminded him.

“You made me angry. I was provoked into saying that.”

“I didn't provoke shit. You were being
a brat.
”

“Though technically, you are a couple pounds overweight for your height.”

“Shut up! I am not!”

“Well, a couple
more
pounds, and you will be.”

“
I WILL NOT!
”

She laughed and threw flour all over him. A small baking fight ensued. Something about Sanders being messy just did her in. Perfect, pristine Sanders, coated in baking soda and canola oil, made her laugh endlessly. Even when she slipped in the oil and fell onto her back. Even when he dumped an entire ten pound bag of sugar on her. She couldn't stop. He finally pulled her up and dragged her to the bathroom, where he pushed her – fully clothed – into the shower. She shrieked when the cold water hit her.

“
I am not amused,
” was all he said before he stomped out of the room.

But he came back, clean and showered. He changed into pajamas and they enjoyed brownies while they watched a movie in the sitting room. She lamented about cleaning the kitchen, but he told her he would have a cleaning service come take care of it in the morning.

“Sandy, does Jameson know you have spooned with me? Multiple times?” she asked, shoving almost a whole brownie into her mouth.

“Yes. I tell him everything.”

“He doesn't mind?”

“No. Why should he?” Sanders asked, not taking his eyes off the television screen.

“He hates it when I so much as smile at Ang,” she pointed out.

“Mr. Hollingsworth is a threat. I am not,” Sanders pointed out. She nodded.

“Fair enough.”

They woke up the next morning, still on the couch. She was stretched across his chest, drooling. Attractive. He hid his disgust well when they got up, but she still laughed. Then he cooked them breakfast and they ate it outside, shivering in their pajamas. She found herself thinking that some of her happiest moments in life had been spent doing absolutely nothing with Sanders.

“Should I call him?” Tate asked, jumping up and down in the middle of Jameson's bed. Sanders stood in the doorway.

“If you want to,” he replied.

“Of course I want to. But I've never really called him before,” she told him.

“I know.”

“So, I kinda wanted it to be special, the first time I call him,” she tried to explain, jumping high and doing a toe touch.

“You are going to hurt yourself,” Sanders warned.

“
Pffffft
, no I won't.”

“Why would a phone call be special? Are you going to wait for his birthday?” Sanders asked.

“Don't be silly, it's because -,
ACK!
” she hit the mattress wrong and took off at an angle, almost bouncing clear into the closet. She hit the floor with a thud.

“I told you,” Sanders' voice called out to her.

She didn't have to worry about whether or not to call Jameson, though, because he called her.

“Have you been good, baby girl?” he asked. She was in the library and she looked across the hall, watching as people swept and cleaned in the kitchen.

“Uh ..., sure. You could say that.”

“Oh god.”

“Sanders is still in one piece,” she assured him.

“I don't want to talk about Sanders,” Jameson replied.

“What would you like to talk about?” she asked.

“How wet you are.”

“Oh my.”

“I'm waiting for an answer.”

By the time they got off the phone, she was laying on the floor behind the desk, her pants around her ankles. Breathing hard. The phone resting on her chest. She probably should've shut the library door, but she didn't really care.

Not when she was sitting on cloud nine.

The next day she and Sanders hit the town. She didn't want to go shopping, but she did want look into job options. She didn't tell Sanders until they were sitting on a bench, her perusing the want ads in a newspaper. He frowned when he realized what section she was reading.

“I don't think Jameson would like this idea,” he warned her. She shrugged.

“I have to do something, Sandy. I can't just sit in that house all the time, hanging on Jameson's every word. I need
something
,” she stressed, shivering and scooting closer to him.

“Jameson once mentioned that you were accepted to Harvard. That must mean you are smart,” he said. She snorted.

“Thanks, Sandy.”

“Why don't you go back to school? Surely, there is something you are interested in,” he suggested.

“Harvard costs an awful lot of money, Sandy. You gonna float me fifty grand?” she asked.

“If you were serious about going, yes, I would.”

She was shocked.

“I'm not gonna let you pay for me to go to school,” she grumbled, concentrating on the paper.

She hadn't really ever thought of going back to school. Before Jameson, she had been too busy hustling. Too busy having a good time. During Jameson, she couldn't think of anything but him, and after Jameson ..., well, really more of the same. School had never been something on her radar.

But Sanders had a good point. She was smart, or at least she used to be – it couldn't be that hard to get back into the swing of things. She had originally gone to school for political science. Daddy's requirement. She hadn't ever taken the time to think of what she would go back for, if she ever went back.

“Would you let Jameson?” Sanders asked in a soft voice.

“Hmmm. And what should I go to school for?” she asked, letting the paper fold down.

“You are very good with people. You could be a social worker,” he suggested.

“Or a stripper.”

“Sometimes, I'm not sure why I talk to you.”

They walked around after that, and Tate stopped in at a couple bars which were hiring, grabbed applications. But she didn't stop thinking about what he had said. Going to school. Pretty amazing. Something to think about, for the future. She was just taking baby steps towards Jameson. She wasn't about to run and leap into his arms, asking for a hand out that would bind her to him for years.

Later that night, Sanders had to take part in a video conference with Jameson and some suits, around two in the morning. Eight in the morning, Berlin time. Tate laid upstairs in bed, staring at the ceiling. Sanders' voice was a distant murmur in the otherwise empty house.

She couldn't sleep, so she got up and wandered into the sun room. She hadn't spent much time in there, not after she and Ang had been in there. She scooted in behind the computer and stared at the big screen. It was dark. She shook the mouse, and everything turned on, lit up. She chewed on her bottom lip and glanced around.

Tate hadn't looked up anything about Jameson since that night.
The
night. At first, she hadn't wanted to, and now ..., she was scared to, she realized. Scared of what she might learn, might see. She should trust him. She should give him his privacy. She should not care. He didn't waste his time investigating her. Why should she waste her time on him?