Not Satan. Not Lillith. Eve was created from Adam's rib. We're part of each other. That's why I can't get away. That's why he can't get away. I'm not his subject, he's not my lord and master. We're the same.

Getting philosophical during sex usually wasn't her thing, but apparently it worked for her, because Tate came so hard that when she bit down on his earlobe, she drew blood. He roared and pulled back, his fingernails biting into her throat as he grabbed it, forcing her down onto the couch. He held her there while she shook and cried, her whole body ripping apart around him. He finally stilled, but she didn't stop coming for another solid twenty seconds.

“No,” she breathed when she finally felt like she could again. “No, I wouldn't.”

Without a word, he picked her up from the couch. She squealed, clinging to his shoulders as he walked them across the room. She wasn't sure what his intentions were, until she saw that he was walking around the desk. Back to where it all began. He practically dropped her onto it, forced her back down hard against the wood, and began thrusting into her again.

“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.