He loved the heat.

“What the fuck are you doing? I've been looking for you,” he snapped, his eyes searching the room for her.

“Yeah, and I've been waiting for you,” she replied. His eyes snapped towards his desk chair. She had her back to him, and he could see her bare feet propped up on a bookshelf.

“I am not in the mood for bullshit, Tate. It was a long flight, and I -,”

“Hey, I finally found them!” she interrupted him.

“Huh?” he asked, too tired to even be annoyed.

“Your glasses! I haven't seen you wear them since that day in Spain. I found them, by the computer,” she said.

“I honestly couldn't give two fucks. I'm going to bed,” Jameson growled, but before he could make a move, Tate swiveled around in his chair.

“I think they look better on me,” she told him, smiling at him, his glasses sitting on the bridge of her nose. His eyes wandered over her form and he groaned.

“Baby girl, why do you do this to me? I'm tired,” he moaned, slipping his tie over his head.

“I'm not doing anything,” she replied, leaning back in his chair and stretching her legs over his desk.

“I'm sore, and I'm mad at the world, and I just want to be pissed off at everything, and you do this,” he grumbled, unbuttoning his shirt as he walked towards her. She smiled up at him.

“Well, you can be pissed off at me. Sometimes, I think it's more fun.”

She was wearing his glasses, the Cartier necklace he had bought her from her ballplayer's auction, and nothing else. Not a stitch of clothing. Her hair was piled up on her head in a messy bun, and she wore heavy eye makeup behind the glasses, but that was it. He grabbed her by the ankles and swung her legs around, spinning her in the chair so she was facing him.

“You're going to have to do most of the work, baby girl. Mr. Kane is very, very tired,” he warned her, pulling her legs apart and walking up between them.

“Don't I always?” she replied as he leaned down close to her.

“Shut the fuck up. I'm too tired for your lip,” he growled, gripping her hips and scooting her forward.

“Maybe you're too tired for anything fun,” she said, then squeaked as his fingers dug into her flesh. He yanked her forward, his hands going under her ass as he picked her up.

“Probably. Wake me up if I fall asleep,” he told her, carrying her out of the library. She hooked her ankles together behind his back.

“Never do.”

“I am going to fuck you so hard, just for this attitude.”

“Promises, promises.”

He made good on his word, not stopping till she was panting and listless underneath him. And even then, he dug deep into his reserves, and managed to get another orgasm out of her with his tongue. Then he made her go down on him; made a mess coming all over her and the bed.

While she went to take a shower, he kicked the comforter to the floor and slipped between the sheets. He didn't care about taking a shower. He wanted to slip into a coma for a couple hours. Or days. But just as he was about to, something caught his eye. A light from the closet was glinting off something silver on the nightstand. He rolled closer and turned on a light. A picture frame, one that hadn't been there before he'd left. He picked it up and looked it over.

He didn't know where she had gotten it, but it was a picture of the two of them, kissing in the rain. He couldn't remember the time, but it looked like last fall. He ran his fingers down the glass, across her face.

She's stunning.

She had said she was in love with him. He had said it was okay. He hadn't said it back. She said that was okay. He was still a little blown away by it. By his reaction as much as by hers. From the very beginning, he hadn't wanted a relationship with her. He had told her that, from the very start.

The first time around, when Tate had admitted to having feelings for him, he had freaked the fuck out. Jameson could admit that now. She couldn't just like him – she would want something, in return. Something he might not ever be able to give. Too much. He would give her anything else; sex, money, diamonds, gold, whatever else. But he couldn't make a promise if he didn't know whether or not he could keep it.

This time around was different. He had worked to get her back, fought for her. That in itself was its own kind of promise. In Paris, when she'd had her breakdown over the pearls, that's when he had realized. Any kind of game they had been playing, he had long since won. She wasn't over him. She had never been over him. In fact, she was so much farther down the rabbit hole than either of them had guessed, she probably couldn't make it back out. Somewhere along the line, she had fallen in love with the devil. And being the devil, of course, Jameson had known.

He rolled onto his back, holding the picture above him. It was a good photo, it kind of encapsulated their relationship. Tatum doing something stupid, like standing in the rain, getting soaking wet, when she could've gone inside. Jameson holding an umbrella over her, trying to shield her from the damage she had experienced while waiting for him, but a moment too late. Them meeting in the middle. Kissing. Touching. Not asking for anything, not demanding anything. Just being themselves.

“I thought you'd be unconscious by now, the way you were complaining,” Tate laughed, rubbing a towel over her hair as she walked out of the bathroom. He glanced at her.

“Where did you get this?” he asked, holding up the frame. She sat down on her side of the bed and looked at it.