“But I thought this party was for me.”

“It is.”

And then he was inside of her. Tate cried out, her shoulders arching away from the couch. His hand came down against her breast bone, pressing her down flat, then he leaned forward. Kissed her softly.

“Do you want to be untied?” he whispered, his lips against hers.

“I want you to do whatever you want,” she whispered back.

He slammed his hips against her so hard, she actually shrieked, and her hands automatically jerked against the tie, yanking the entire end table forward. A lamp wobbled and fell to the floor, but Jameson didn't seem to notice. Just kept fucking her.

Oh wow, he's been saving up for this …

On a technical level, Tate didn't know how to describe the sex they had; it wasn't “making love”, that was for sure. At least, not the way most people thought of it. When they really got going, there was always at least some small, sharp sting of pain, with a thick layer of pleasure blanketing it. Perfection. Jameson was simply too big, in every sense of the word. On top of her, inside of her, his hands against her. He took her over and overflowed her and she spilled over with him.

Absolute perfection.

This is how we make love.

“Jesus, Tate, I tell you to shut the fuck up, and you start screaming even louder,” Jameson hissed, pounding into her. Tate tried to respond, but couldn't catch her breath. She tried to reach her arms towards him. That's why she hated being tied up – she wanted to touch him, to always be touching him.

“It's the only way your hear me,” she finally managed to get out.

“Is that a fucking joke? How could I ever not hear you; you never stop talking.”

“And you never listen.”

He slapped her across the face.

He's pulling out the good stuff awfully early – he must want this over quickly.

“Watch how you fucking speak to me,” he growled. Tate shook her head, straining her hips towards his own.

“I'll speak to you any way I fucking want,” she pressed. He slapped her again, and then his hand was tight around her neck. Squeezing. Almost choking.

“Goddamn, Tate, you're mouth,” he moaned, his mouth moving to her breast. Biting. Kissing. Samesies.

“You love it,” she panted, her whole body starting to shiver.

“I know,” he whispered, his tongue tracing a long line from her cleavage clear to the hollow in her throat.

“Jameson, Jameson, please,” Tate cried out.

His hand moved away from her throat and he yanked at the tie, pulling her hands free. Tate's fingers immediately went into his hair, scratching and pulling. Jameson growled and pulled away from her, leaning back on his knees. His hands gripped onto her hips and his thrusts turned almost brutal.

“Taking you longer than I thought it would, Tate,” he chuckled, glaring down at her. She scratched her nails down his chest, really digging in, ripping a button off his shirt.

“What can I say? Old age has made you soft,” she teased.

Jameson didn't hold back when he slapped her that time, and Tate really did scream when she came. She could feel every single muscle she had lock into place, even causing Jameson to cry out. He pumped twice more into her, then he was coming, too. She shuddered and gasped for air, wrapping her body around him when he fell onto her chest.

“Holy fucking shit, Tate,” he breathed. She managed a laugh.

“I know.”

“I must be an old man, cause I swear to god, one of these days, your pussy is gonna kill me.”

“I'll be sure to have that put on your tombstone.”

He laughed as well, then kissed her breast bone.

“Thank you, Liebe.”

“You're very welcome, Love.”

Tate held him even tighter. Her head was spinning from the alcohol and exertion. Her thighs were shaking like she'd just run a marathon. Her neck was stinging and her cheek was burning. All her old favorites. She pressed her face into his hair and breathed him in.

“I love you,” she whispered.

“I know, baby girl.”

“And you love me, too.”

“More than words can express.”

“Good. Now get off of me, you weigh a ton.”

Jameson snorted and blew a raspberry on her chest. She shrieked, tried to push him off, but he just blew another one. It devolved into giggling, then arguing, then threats, and soon enough his tongue was in her mouth and she was using her feet to pull his pants away from his legs.

“Fuck, Tate, at this rate we'll be here all night,” Jameson whispered, his teeth sharp against the line of her jaw. She nodded.

“Sounds good to me,” she replied, panting as two of his fingers reduced her to a pool of wetness. She was ready to beg him to fuck her again, when the door to the room started to open.

“Sir, I don't think these -,” Sanders' voice began to say.

“Don't come in here!” Tate and Jameson shouted in unison. There was a pause, then the door slowly swung shut. Once upon a time, Sanders walking in on them in compromising positions had been funny. Now, they both made an effort to spare him from any more embarrassing or awkward moments.

Jameson helped her to her feet. Gave her a wolf-grin when it took her a moment to stand right. She slapped him in the chest before going about getting dressed again. She couldn't find her bra, though, so she just put her shirt on, then got back into Jameson's jacket. While Jameson buckled his pants, she skipped over to the door and let Sanders inside.