But she couldn't move.

“Jameson,” she breathed his name. He lifted his head, but didn't look at her. He kept his eyes on her chest.

“Hmmm?” he replied, lifting a hand and tracing a finger along her breast bone. Down in to her cleavage. Pulling slightly at her shirt. She licked her lips.

Do not do this. Do not do this. Do not do this.

“We shouldn't do this,” she whispered. He quirked up an eyebrow and finally looked at her, his intense blue eyes boring holes into her head. Into her soul. She had never handled his stare very well. He continued slowly rubbing his finger up and down her skin.

“And why is that?” he asked, his eyes hooded and sexy. Tate cleared her throat, looked away from him.

“Because I don't want to.”

“I wasn't the one who just sexually assaulted another person while they were in the middle of a conversation,” Jameson pointed out with a laugh.

“Yeah, but I only did that because of her,” Tate admitted. His finger stilled, then moved, tracing along the edge of her shirt until his whole hand was cupping her breast. She closed her eyes. It felt like it had been so long since anyone had touched her like that. Since he had touched her.

“Really. That was a pretty dirty game to play, baby girl,” Jameson said in a low voice, his palm gliding back and forth. She took a deep breath and opened her eyes. Stared down at him.

“I learned from the best,” she whispered.

He stood up abruptly, but held onto her, so she couldn't fall. Tate's legs went out from under her and she had to stay on her tip toes as Jameson forced her backwards. Out of the VIP. Down the narrow little hallway, past the bathrooms. He stopped by the last door, a large “SALIDA” sign casting a read glow over both of them. All the oxygen rushed out of her lungs as she stared up at him.

Satan is most definitely back.

“You didn't learn well enough,” Jameson growled at her, his hands on her hips, fingers digging in to her flesh.

“How so?” she breathed.

“You're still a horrible fucking liar.”

His mouth was on hers, punishing her with his roughness, and she was powerless against him. Like always. Any sort of self preservation flew out the window. Coherent thought flew out the fucking window. She wasn't pain, anymore. She wasn't hurt, or memories, or anger. She was just Tatum again. Tatum with Jameson.

Finally.

She moaned and pressed her hips against his, dug her nails in to the back of his neck. His hands pressed flat against her waist, then slid up her body until they were covering her breasts, squeezing before they worked their way back down to her butt. She pushed back against him, and he let her move them across the hallway, till it was his back against a wall.

Tate was back on her tip toes, her teeth skimming the corded muscles in his neck. Tongue trailing along his clavicle. Jameson's hand was in her hair, but it was gentle, and he turned them again, so she was once again pinned between him and the wall. She moaned loudly, and his mouth was back on hers like she had called for him. Tate couldn't get enough. She had always been an addict, and he was a drug. She wanted more. More than that, more than he was giving. All that he had to give.

She felt his hand on her bare thigh, and then he was roughly grabbing at her, lifting her leg to his hip. Trying to get closer to her, as close as their clothing would allow. She stretched her leg out, pressing her toes against the wall across from them. Jameson sunk his whole body down, kissing his way to her breasts, and then he grabbed her butt, lifting her as he stood up straight. Her legs went around his waist. She felt drunk. She felt wasted. She didn't care where she was, or what she was doing. As long as it went on and on and on and on and …,

“You're coming home with me,” Jameson breathed against her mouth. Tate nodded, running her hands down his chest, pulling at his shirt, working her way underneath.

“Yes,” she whispered, groaning when she felt skin beneath her fingertips. She scratched her nails around to his back.

I know this land.

“No more bullshit,” he continued, kissing her throat. He lifted one hand away from her ass, skimmed his fingers along the waistband of her shorts.

“No,” she shook her head, mimicking his movements as she trailed her fingers around his belt.

“I want you. You want me,” he stated, moving his fingers to the top of her shirt and yanking it down, exposing all of her cleavage, down to her bra.

“Yes,” Tate agreed. Her hands were on auto-pilot, sliding his belt out of its buckle. This was her job, after all. She was so good at it.

“It has been three months, Tate,” Jameson groaned, raking his fingers across her breasts.

“Oh my god.”

“I'm going to be inside of you tonight. We can't stop this.”

“I know. I want ...,”

She was in a dream. A love-drunk haze, it had always enveloped her when she was in Jameson's presence. Tate had been stupid to think that a simple near-death experience had cured her of it. His lips, his body, his words, none of that could snap her out of it. But his hand. His hand, creeping onto her throat, seemingly of its own volition, that stopped her.

He felt it, too. She could see it in his eyes. It was like they were both waking up. Jameson's absolute favorite body part, on any woman, was the throat. Tate knew this, because her favorite body part for him to touch was her throat. It was like a calling card, a stamp, a brand. At night, she would dream about his fingers around her throat. Pray for them. Sure, before him, she'd had men grab her by the throat. But no one did it quite like him. He did it like it was something he needed to do, like he had to do it because he owned her.