“Jameson. If you knew some of my stories. One time Ang and I got kicked out of a fancy restaurant because he crawled under the table and went down on me during the whole first course – last night was nothing scary to a girl like me. I can handle anything you can dish out,” she assured him.

“There is a big difference between me going down on you, and me calling you the 'dumbest cunt I've ever fucked'. It has been my experience that most women will say they're okay with something, and after the fact not be okay with it at all,” he said, his fingers massaging her skin. A shiver ran through her body at his words.

“I'm not most women,” she reminded him. “It's all fun to me. A game. Sometimes, I'm the dumb cunt. Sometimes, you'll get to be.”

“I very much fucking doubt that,” he snorted. She started laughing.

“I don't have time for this, Jameson,” she managed to say. “We can play some more on Sunday, I have to go home now.”

Tate started to move to get off the bed when he yanked her forward. Suddenly, his mouth was over hers, and she was gasping in to him. Both his hands went to the back of her head, drawing her forward. She followed, straddling his lap and pressing her own hands against his chest.

They hadn't kissed at all the night before – she hadn't even realized it till after she had woken up. Their lips had been all over each others bodies, but no kissing. She hadn't thought it a big deal at the time. Now it seemed like a very big deal.

Tate had forgotten what kissing him was like, like he was stealing all her breath away. Sucking it right out of her lungs. She moaned, scooting as close to him as she could get, rubbing herself against his chest while she coiled her arms around his neck. She could feel her heart palpitating, and if she hadn't been so lost in the moment, lost in the taste, and scent, and feel of him, she would've gotten nervous. Heart palpitations weren't a good thing, when it was only supposed to be games between them.

His hands dropped to her spread knees and he slid them up her thighs, under her dress. The palpitations got worse. Just as he was discovering she wasn't wearing any underwear, the bedroom door opened behind them. Jameson pulled away a little, but didn't take his eyes off of hers.

“The car is ready, sir,” Sanders' clipped voice came from the doorway. Jameson stared at her for a second longer and then flicked his eyes over her shoulder, his hands continuing their journey under her dress.

“Twenty-minutes, Sanders,” he replied, his gaze going back to Tate's. She smirked down at him.

“Very good, I'll wait downstairs.” And the door clicked shut, just before Jameson started to slide her skirt up over her butt.

“You're very authoritative, Mr. Kane,” Tate breathed, licking her lips.

“You have no idea.”

And then he was pinning her to the bed, forcing his tongue between her lips and his knee between her legs.

Why did I bother getting dressed?

*

When Tate finally got home, she rushed around like a mad man. Stopped in at the temp agency to tell them she was off the market for a while. Called Ang and left him a voicemail that pretty much consisted of just squealing in to the phone, and then hopped in the shower.

She had stayed much longer than twenty minutes in Jameson's room. It was closer to a whole hour later when she finally got out of the bed. After taking a shower together, arguing over whether or not it was appropriate for her to wear his clothing instead of her just-had-sex-in-it dress, him punishing her for arguing, and then finding clothing of his that worked for her, it was actually hours later when she finally left, closer to three. Her shift at the bar started at six.

She came out of her bathroom and walked straight in to a body. Tate screamed, slapping Ang across the face, not realizing it was him. He grabbed her arm before she could swing again.

“Jesus, starting a little early,” he said. She yanked her hand away.

“You scared the fuck out of me! What are you doing here!?” she demanded. Ang had a key to her apartment, but she hadn't been expecting him. They usually didn't see too much of each other on the weekends.

“I'm not fluent in stupid-girl-speak, I have no idea what your voicemail was about, and I had a shitty day, so I thought I'd stop by,” he explained. She frowned up at him, her anger vanishing in an instant. He looked kind of upset, and it took a lot for something get under Ang's skin.

“You had a shitty day? I'm sorry,” she said, and then led him in to her room. He stretched out on her bed while she rummaged through her closet.

“Yeah. Pedro backed out of the film, so they're pulling the whole shoot. And then my grandma stopped by. You know how joyous that can be; 'Angier, when are you going to become a respectable person!? You're going to burn in hell!' - one of my all time favorite speeches of hers,” he told her. Tate threw some clothing at the foot of the bed and then sat down next to him, rubbing her hand over his flat stomach.

“You know she's just an old bitch. Why do you let her get to you?” she asked. He shrugged.

“She just does. I can still remember when she used to bring me over to her house, bake me cookies and shit. Now I'm not even allowed to go over there,” he grumbled.

“Well, fuck her, then. She's missing out on the most amazing person I've ever met,” Tate replied. Ang rolled his eyes and looked at her.

“Like it's so easy for you to have your family hate you,” he pointed out. She blinked in surprise.