She yanked on his shirt and pulled him close, kissing him. Electro-shock therapy, all over her body. Something she hadn't allowed herself to feel, in a long time. She gasped into his mouth, struggling to climb to her knees on the couch. She wanted to be closer; much, much, much closer to him. As close as she could possibly get.

He let go of her throat and quickly pulled his shirt off. He had barely tugged it free of his head before her hands were on his chest, scoring his skin hard enough to leave red dashes on their way down. He grabbed her wrists and yanked her forward, his tongue invading her mouth as he pressed his body against hers, forcing her back into the couch.

“Please,” she realized she was whispering as she fought to kick off her shoes. “Please, Jameson. Please.”

“Apparently little Nick wasn't very good, if you're already begging for it from me,” he chuckled, yanking her shirt over her head.

“Why do you always want to talk about other men when we're fucking? If you want to fuck men, Jameson, it's okay. Can I watch?” she asked while he tried to pull her pants and underwear down. When she lifted her hips, he smacked her on the ass.

“I wouldn't even let you watch me fuck myself, you stupid bitch. You don't deserve a treat like that. Where the fuck were you all day?” he demanded, yanking her clothing free and throwing it over the couch.

“Downtown, with Ang. Then dinner, with Sanders,” she told him, chucking her bra across the room while he slipped out of his own pants.

“I don't like waiting.”

“See? Such a whiny bitch.”

“Watch your fucking mouth,” he hissed, slapping his hand down between her legs. She gasped, and then his fingers were soothing the sting. Slicing through her, like butter. She moaned, letting her legs fall open to him. “Jesus, Tate. I was expecting a battle when you came in here, not an easy fuck.”

“Kind of one and the same with us,” she panted. He slapped her again between the legs and she shrieked, almost coming right then.

“Something's got you all riled up. Did your day with Angier get you all excited?” he asked, burying his middle finger in her. She squirmed around.

“No.”

“You're awfully wet.”

“I usually am.”

“Not without reason. What set you off, hmmm?”

“You. Just you.”

“Good answer.”

His hand was on her breast bone then, pressing her down into the couch. Forcing her down. He propped one of her legs along the back of the couch, and then he was slamming into her. No hesitation, just hips meeting hips in an instant. She shrieked, her hands flying to her breasts, squeezing.

“Oh my ... fuck,” she groaned as he immediately began pounding into her.

“Fucking slut. Spent all day with him. Tried to fuck him in our bed. Probably tried to fuck him in my condo. Who the fuck do you think you are!?” Jameson demanded. She had her other foot touching the floor and he grabbed that leg, held it out away from her body by the knee, forcing himself so deep inside of her, it felt like he was interfering with the rhythm of her heart.

Like that's anything new. Remember the first time you saw him? Heart attack.

“Originally, I wanted to fuck him in here,” she taunted, and the hand on her chest moved to her throat. He wasn't playing around, no butterfly kisses with this hand – he practically squeezed her neck in half.

“You wouldn't fucking dare,” he hissed.

“Didn't have enough time.”

“Stupid whore, didn't have enough balls. Fuck. Fuck you, Tate. Fucking always making me do things I don't want to do,” Jameson growled, his grip on her neck loosening.

“I think you always want to do these things,” she cried out.

“Always,” he moaned.

“I couldn't do it, though,” she whispered.

Why is it that sex always makes an honest girl out of you? Why can't you just fake it, like everyone else?

“Of course you fucking couldn't. I own this pussy, you stupid cunt. You thought you could use it without my permission? Wrong,” he informed her.

“I know, I know,” she breathed. The hand on her throat finally released her, and she gasped in air, only to moan again when his fingers moved to her nipple, pinching it hard.

“I made this pussy. It has belonged to me for the last seven years,” he whispered, letting go of her leg and leaning down on top of her.

“Yes, yes,” she whimpered, squeezing her eyes shut tight. She felt him press his forehead against her temple, his teeth bared against her cheek.

“Mine,” he growled.

“Yours,” she agreed.

“Stupid fucking whore, doesn't even know who she belongs to. Slut. Cunt. You said you wished I didn't exist. Fuck you,” he swore, and she gasped as his hand let go of her breast and slithered between their bodies.

He was talking about when she had screamed at him in the hospital. She was shocked he even remembered the things she'd said. That he ever remembered anything she said. It must have hurt, to have stuck with him for so long.

“I didn't mean it,” she told him, then gasped again as she felt one of his fingers sliding inside of her, right on top of his dick. He was not a small man.

So. Fucking. Full.

“Of course you didn't fucking mean it. I created you, you came from me. If I didn't exist, you wouldn't fucking exist,” he snapped. Realization suddenly dawned behind her eyelids.