“Oh, Sandy did that. I printed it out, and he saw it, asked to put it in something. I didn't realize he'd left it in here,” she said.

“Where is it from?” Jameson asked, looking at it again.

“Like last September, I think. Maybe the end of August. We're outside of your work,” Tate told him.

“Who took the picture?”

“I don't know. It was online.”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah. You're an 'international playboy', paparazzi loooove you,” she teased him. He grunted.

“Fuck off.”

“It's true,” she pressed. He frowned.

“I don't like people taking pictures of us,” he grumbled. She stretched out on her stomach next to him, a large towel still wrapped around her middle.

“Why? Embarrassed to have me as your 'play thing'?” she asked with a laugh. He didn't quite know what she meant by that, or really care.

“Don't be fucking stupid. You're part of my life, I like to keep that private. Other people aren't fit to witness us,” he snapped. She smiled big at him, and his satanic heart skipped a beat.

“You are so sweet sometimes,” she said softly.

“Shut the fuck up.”

“Alright, fine then. Don't look at it,” she snapped, reaching for the frame. He held it out of her reach.

“No, I like it,” he said. She stretched across his chest, clawing at his arm.

“Apparently not, all you've done is bitch about it,” she grumbled, her towel falling loose.

“You have gotten way too lippy lately. Don't think I haven't noticed. Refer to me, or anything I do, as 'bitch' again, and I'll teach you who the bitch around here really is,” he warned her, but he smiled as he switched the frame to his other hand. She laughed as well, swinging her body the other way, till she was almost completely on top of him, still reaching for the picture.

“I'm not scared of a little bitch like you, bitch, so quit bitching and just -,”

“Dammit, Tate,” he started, rolling over on top of her. “Always making me do things I don't want to do.”

“Dammit, Jameson, always bitching about things I don't want to hear about,” she teased back.

“Shut the fuck up. If you want pictures, I would be happy to take some of you,” he groaned, pulling her towel away from her body.

“Really?”

“Sure. Just let me grab a camera,” he started to get up, but she clung to his arms.

“Clothed, Jameson,” she told him. He pushed her hands away, rolled her onto her stomach.

“I don't want pictures like that,” he said, his voice low as he ran his hands down her back. Dug his fingers into her skin. She groaned and stretched underneath him.

“What kind of pictures would you like?” she whispered. He pulled her hips into the air, ran his hand up between her legs.

“This is a particularly nice angle for you,” he commented. She wiggled against his touch.

“God, you're like a machine,” she groaned as his fingers worked their way inside of her.

“A robot,” he chuckled.

“I won't argue with that.”

He slapped her on the ass.

“You argue with me even when I agree with you,” he snapped, taking his fingers away. He held onto her hip with one hand and stroked his cock with the other.

“What are you waiting for?” she breathed, stretching her arms out on the mattress.

“For you to beg,” he replied.

“Please,” she whispered.

“Please what?”

“Please, fuck me again.”

“Why?”

“Because I need it.”

“You don't deserve it.”

“No, but I need it. I want it. Please.”

“Hmmm, let me think about it.”

She chuckled, and one of her hands slid down the mattress. Disappeared beneath her body.

“Not like I really need you, for what I want,” she whispered, and he could see the tips of her fingers between her legs.

“Fuck you,” he growled, and then shoved her fingers away. He pressed himself to her entrance, pushed his dick inside. She gave a full body shudder.

“Yes,” she hissed.

“Shut up,” he snapped, slapping her on the ass again. She squealed.

“God, so much for being tired. You should go out of town more often, if this is how you're going to be when you get back,” she told him. He held onto her with both hands, closed his eyes.

“I am tired. You wouldn't be so fucking chatty if I was myself,” he warned her.

“Big talk.”

“Shut the fuck up, whore. Why do you want me gone so bad, Tate? What did you get up to while I was gone?” he demanded.

“What didn't I get up to would narrow it down,” she laughed.

He smacked her ass until she begged him to stop. Until she was coming.

“You're too easy, baby girl,” he groaned, rolling her onto her back, then nailing her to the mattress.

“I know. Why did I bother taking a shower?” she panted, her fingers working their way into her own hair. He wrapped a hand around her throat, cut his fingernails into her skin. She moaned.

“Tatum,” he breathed, his hips picking up speed. He was very close.

“What?” she gasped, pulling her hair. He squeezed her throat tighter.