“Of course I give a fuck! I was freaking the fuck out! I thought you were dead! Why didn't you say anything!?” she shouted, slapping her hands against his chest.

“You were screaming enough for the both of us. I'm surprised the Servicio Maritimo isn't out here, the way you were carrying on,” Jameson told her, grabbing at her wrists. She yanked away.

“Well, I thought you had died, you stupid fuck! Do you have any idea how horrible that feels!?” she shrieked at him. He glared down at her.

“Yes, you stupid fuck, I know exactly how that feels!” he yelled back.

She gasped, and it was like a dam inside her broke. A wall collapsed. A series of explosions, bringing down all her defenses. What a horrible world it would be, if she couldn't wake up and play with Jameson. Fight with Jameson. Be with Jameson.

Tate practically jumped on him, her mouth on his before her feet had even left the ground. He knew it was coming – he always knew – and his arms were around her, holding her up. Holding her to him.

Jameson stumbled towards the door, pressed her against the wall while he struggled with the door handle. She kept trying to lift her legs, but her stupid skirt was in the way. When they got inside, she let go of him long enough to shove the soaking wet material off of her body, and then Jameson grabbed her again, his hands on her ass, guiding her legs around his waist.

Tate groaned, letting her head fall back while he kissed her neck. He walked them downstairs, holding onto her the whole way. His shirt had a tear at the back, from his adventure with the anchor, and she pulled at it. Ripped a seam across the top, let her hands dive inside, let her nails score across his skin. He hissed, and his lips were replaced by his teeth. They pushed and pulled at each other, bumped into walls, ricocheted off, stumbling around in their need for each other.

He kicked open his bedroom door, breaking the frame, and Tate was suddenly very glad that he had left Sanders on shore. Jameson held onto her hips as he turned around, sitting at the foot of the bed while she pulled her tank top off. His mouth immediately went to her cleavage, while his hands slid up to her shoulder blades.

She pushed him away, forced him back so she could rip his shirt off. It felt like she was in hyper-drive. If she slowed down, not all of her molecules would stop with her, and she would burst into a million pieces. How would Jameson ever find her then?

“This is happening,” he breathed, his lips moving across her face as he reached around and undid her bra. “Please, please, please, please ...,”

Is Jameson Kane begging!?

“Yes,” she breathed back, tossing the bra to the other side of the room. His hands gripped her hips and he rolled them over, moving them up to the center of the bed.

“This was always going to happen,” he told her, working his way down her body. Tate nodded and stretched out underneath him, gripping at the blankets above her head.

“Yes,” she agreed.

She felt his teeth low on her stomach, scraping against her underwear. Then he was biting at the satin, pulling it over her hips. He worked it all the way to her knees before he stood up, yanking them past her feet. He dropped his pants to the floor and then he was covering her again, his hands everywhere.

“I'm sorry I threw you over overboard,” he whispered. Tate managed a laugh.

Is Jameson Kane apologizing!?

“I'm not sorry I pushed you,” she replied. He snorted.

“Yes, you fucking are.”

“Yes.”

His fingers kneaded into her flesh, almost massaging her. It had been so long since he had touched her like that; she practically leapt at the feel of his hands. He left scorched flesh in his wake, a burning sensation in her soul. When his fingers were swimming in and around her, all over her, reaching deep inside of her, she gasped and cried out. Arched away from the bed as his lips covered her nipple. Then he was moving between her legs.

It flashed across her mind that maybe this wasn't the best idea, jumping into sex with Jameson when only an hour ago she had been ready to tell him she wanted to go home – near death experiences were no excuse, she of all people knew that.

But then he was demanding entrance, and Tate had never been very good at denying him. Probably because she never wanted to. His erection pressed against her, pressed inside of her. She dug her nails into his back, hard, and raked them across his shoulders while she gasped. Jameson groaned loudly, pressing his hips tight to hers.

“Fuck,” he whispered, his forehead dropping to her breast bone. She wiggled her hips against him, rotated her pelvis in a circle, and he groaned again.

“Yes,” she whispered back. Chanted. “Yes, yes, yes, yes.”

He moved out, then pushed back in, and she cried out. Even she was surprised by her response to him. In previous times, Tate had always been up for some good sex. Orgasms typically came easily and readily for her, she was very lucky, she knew. But usually some work was required.

Not this time. She felt like she was going to explode, immediately. Like a corked bottle, full of fine champagne and effervescence. Her breathing hitched and she knew she was whimpering, whining. Praying.

“Holy shit, Tate,” Jameson whispered, one of his hands covering her breast. She moved her hand over his, squeezed.

“Please. Please, god, please,” she begged, not even able to move anymore. She felt tiny tremors beginning to run all under her skin.

Suddenly, he was rolling them again. She felt dizzy as she tried to steady herself, her eyes shut tight while she clung to his shoulders. He sat upright with her straddling him, then he put his hands on her knees. He pushed them wider, causing her to slide lower on his shaft. She sank her teeth into her bottom lip and the tremors turned into all over shaking as he slid so deep inside of her, there was no going back.