“Only for you,” she breathed.
He pulled away from her and she moaned. He forced her onto her stomach, slapping her on the ass before pounding into her again.
Sex between them had always been different, special, because of the innate trust they had in each other. Jameson liked rough sex, liked to have heavy hands and heavier words. He wasn't practicing some “art form” or “lifestyle”, he just got off on calling a woman a cunt and grabbing her throat. Tatum wasn't looking for a “master” or a “sexual advisor”, she just got pleasure of out of being called a cunt and someone grabbing her throat.
For some people, sex was about leading a certain lifestyle, or almost a kind of performance art, and that was completely fine. Jameson believed people should do whatever worked for them, but it wasn't what he and Tate were doing. They were just two people screwing. Fuck safe words – they didn't need them, because it wasn't a game for them. Jameson would never hurt her, and Tate knew that. It was trust. It was sex.
It was making love.
“Oh my god, we should get married again if this is how you're going to act the next day,” Tate moaned. Jameson slapped her on the ass again.
“What the fuck does it take to shut you up?” he demanded, hiking her hips up higher and pumping as hard as he could. She groaned, pressing her hands flat against the headboard and pushing herself back into him.
“Not sure. Maybe you should keep trying,” she panted. He grabbed her hair and yanked, forcing her upwards. She moved her hands to grip the top of the headboard.
“I gave you a fucking wedding. I gave you a fucking ring. I gave you my fucking name. The least you can give me is what I want,” he snapped at her.
“I always give you what you want,” she moaned.
“Always,” he agreed, letting go of her hair and sliding his hand around to her jaw. She turned her head towards him, taking his index finger into her mouth. He groaned as she sucked on it, working her tongue around it like it was his dick.
“Fuck, Jameson,” she cried out as he moved his hand to her throat. Circled his fingers around it and squeezed.
“Jameson, Jameson,” he mocked her. “Now she says my name. Remember when you tried to call me Kane? Now that you share the name, you won't say it.”
“Because it sounds good on me,” she chuckled.
“Fuck you. I made this name, it doesn't mean anything on you, you stupid slut.”
“You may have made it, but I'll make it better.”
Jameson let go of her throat and put his hand in the middle of her back, forcing her down so her face was flat on the mattress. Then he reached around her, forcing his fingers in and around all of her warm heat.
“It's time for you to shut the fuck up and come.”
For once, Tate didn't have any smart ass comeback – she complied. Tate was a full-body orgasm-er, he could watch it take hold of almost every inch of her. Watch as a blush spread across her shoulder blades, just like he knew it would be spreading across her chest. She cried out, dragging her nails down the headboard, and he felt her pussy lock down on him. He growled, dragging his nails down her back, and her whole body shuddered.
When all her muscles had relaxed and she was panting and gasping for air, her head half buried under the pillows, Jameson pulled away. She mewled in protest, moving her face so she could look at him.
“What are you doing, why didn't you finish?” she breathed.
“Oh, don't worry Mrs. Kane, I plan on it.”
Another thing Jameson thought was beautiful about being in a completely open, loving, trusting, sexual relationship – he could come whenever, wherever, he wanted to on Tate.
It's the little things in life.
~14~
Tate rolled over and looked at Jameson. Smiled. He was asleep.
They had spent all day in bed. All day. Well, there was a trip to the shower, and another adventure on the balcony, so not technically all day in bed. But they did stay naked all day, which was pretty awesome.
She held her hand up, looking at her wedding ring in the moonlight. It was a gorgeous ring. Almost old fashioned looking, it had a large pear-shaped stone that was surrounded by lots of little diamonds, and it was all set on a thin, platinum band. But that didn't really matter to her – she had married him thinking that there wasn't any ring.
No, what she loved about the ring was what it symbolized. He had told her that he would never get her that ring, yet there it was; he had asked her to marry him. He had changed. He had given her everything she'd ever wanted. More.
Tate moved onto her side, ready to scratch Jameson awake, when something dinged behind her. She rolled over and saw that the laptop, which was still on the floor, had pinged to life, for whatever reason. The screen was ridiculously bright in the dark room. Jameson grumbled in his sleep and shifted onto his stomach. Trying to keep quiet, Tate slid sideways out of bed, then crawled on hands and knees to the computer.
She was just going to shut it, but the screen caught her attention. She'd totally forgotten about what she'd been trying to look up. She almost burst out laughing, had to cover her mouth with her hand. She glanced back at the bed before pulling the computer closer, scrolling down the screen.
There was a picture of her and Jameson at the top, walking out of a subway station in New York. He was holding her hand and his free hand was held up, blocking the camera flash. There were a couple pictures farther down, of them just two weeks ago, outside of the night club in New York. Tate wearing his jacket, giving the paparazzi the bird. That made her snicker even more. Then of course the oldie but goodie, Jameson and her standing in the rain, him holding an umbrella over her and kissing her.