This is what I've been waiting for.

“You keep saying that, but I've yet to see anything happen. I think you're all talk, Kane.”

He spun her around and bent her over, slamming her down on the desk. She let out a grunt – that might leave a bruise. She reached back, pulling at the hand he had in her hair. He let go, but only to grab her wrist. He pinned it down on her back, and then grabbed her other wrist, joining it with the first. He held them together with one hand, pressing down on her so hard, it was uncomfortable to breathe. She tried to turn her head, and her chin dug in to the wood of the desk.

“Such a fucking child, Tate. Fucking games. Do I look like the kind of guy who plays games?” he was hissing behind her, his free hand raking up her thigh and pushing her dress up over her ass.

“You're the one who keeps playing them. You're the one who -,” she started when his hand crashed down across her ass. She gasped.

“This is not a game. You would do well to remember the difference,” Jameson growled. She laughed again, and was almost amazed by her own bravado.

“Maybe you should write me out a game plan, so I can know when you are, and when you aren't, playing around and -,”

His hand was so heavy, she knew he was going to leave a mark. Six slaps. She was crying out by the end, writhing under his grip. She didn't want to play the game anymore. She wanted him inside of her.

He knew what she needed, just like before; just like always, probably. He let go of her wrists and she gripped onto the edge of the desk, next to her head. He was rough as he yanked her underwear down, not even bothering to push them past her knees. He kicked her feet wider apart and she could feel the material pull. Wondered if they'd rip.

Then he was pushing inside of her. She let out a long moan, raising up onto her tip toes, trying to accommodate all of him in one go. She wiggled her hips against him, and then he was pressed completely against her. Solid, warm flesh, inside and out. She let out a deep breath, her whole body starting to shake. He leaned down against her.

“Still feel like a game?” Jameson whispered, his voice full of disdain. Tate laughed and laid her cheek against the desk.

I'm such a glutton ...,

“I don't know. Can't really feel much of anything at all,” she said back in a raspy voice.

He fucked her like she offended him. Like he was angry at her. Pulled her hair, forcing her to raise up off the desk. Slammed in to her so hard from behind, she was pretty sure she was going to have bruises where her legs were pressed against the desk. His dick was brushing against something inside of her; she couldn't tell if it was her cervix, or maybe a G-spot she didn't know about – whatever it was, it made her see spots and little flashes of paradise.

He let go of her hair and while one hand gripped her hip, the other worked the zipper down on the back of her dress. He pushed the material off her shoulders and she managed to lift her arms enough to slide it off. His hand was instantly at her breast, twisting and scratching through the material of her bra. She propped herself up, locking her elbows.

“Holy fucking shit, Tate, you feel even better than I remembered,” Jameson groaned, a hand sliding up to her neck, his fingers wrapping around it and squeezing tight. She managed a nod, her eyes fluttering closed.

“Yes, yes, better. Much better,” she managed to whisper.

He suddenly pulled away and then he was yanking her back with him. She wasn't sure if she could stand on her own. Her panties slid off onto the floor. He turned her and then forced her to sit on the desk, pushed her onto her back. He yanked her legs apart, and then was plunging back inside her.

His hands were on her knees, forcing her legs apart. Her own hands were at her breasts, at his command. He told her where, and how, to touch herself. Called her filthy names. Told her that this was all she was good for, and that was why he had found her again. Because even if this was the only thing she was good for, she was so good, he was the only one worthy of sharing it with her.

For once, she didn't argue with him.

“C'mon, Tate,” he growled, peeling his t-shirt off over his head. “I would've thought you'd be done by now, crying like a girl, coming all over my dick.” She pushed herself upright, hooked an arm around his back to anchor herself in place.

“You'll find ..., it's a little harder ..., to make me cry now,” she told him, running her tongue up the center of his chest. His hands slid down her legs, moved around to grip onto her ass, forcing her even harder against his thrusts. She shrieked, letting her head fall back.

“Hmmm, we'll have to try for it another day,” Jameson groaned, dropping his head to her shoulder. She felt his teeth against her skin, fangs to her jugular, claws to her heart. He bit down, once. Twice. A third time, so hard, she thought he was going to take out a piece of her.

He already did that, a long time ago, baby girl.

She came, hard. She clenched her thighs against his waist, pressed her face to his chest, her hand to his jaw. Her fingers dug in to his cheek. He held completely still while she shook and moaned, his heart beat the only thing keeping her grounded to earth. She felt like she had just been shot out of a cannon.

“So easy,” he murmured.

He shoved her away and Tate collapsed against the desk, taking deep breaths. He started pounding away again, lifting her legs high, resting her calves on his shoulders. Then his hands were on her breasts, covering them, pressing down on them. She completely let go, relaxed every muscle, just let him do whatever he wanted to her. The desk began to jolt around and move forward; she couldn't even imagine how much the oak monstrosity weighed, that's how hard he was pushing in to her.