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  Tate stared into the wardrobe for a while, letting her eyes wander over the clothes. Everything Ellie owned was expensive; from a designer. From a young age, Tate had been taught not to touch. Jameson had just given her free reign. She snorted and dove in, yanking back the hangers. She laughed and pulled down a silk blouse – it looked ridiculously expensive.

  Perfect.

  She spun around and threw the shirt on the bed, stumbling as she did so. She didn't think she was drunk, but she was feeling a little light. Spinny. She laughed to herself, curling her fingers around the hem of her shirt and pulling the wet material up. She went to yank it over her head, but something happened. The shirt's tag got caught in a string of pearls she was wearing, which then got tangled in her hair, and she was stuck with her arms in the air, struggling to pull the shirt one way or the other.

  “Oh my god,” Tate laughed at herself, stepping back and forth.

  She lost her footing and stumbled clear across the room. She rammed into something, a dresser, and moved so her butt was against it. She was really laughing now, struggling not to hyperventilate with the shirt covering her mouth. Her elbows were pinned above her head and she tried to reach the base of her neck with her fingers, arching her back. Her fingernails were just brushing the top of her spine when she heard something.

  “What are you doing?”

  She went stock still, her laughter dying. Jameson was in the room, and pretty close to her, judging by the sound of his voice. With her shirt up over her head, she was standing there in just her bra and khaki skirt.

  Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god.

  “Um, I got stuck,” Tate offered in a small voice. He chuckled, and he was even closer than before – right in front of her.

  “Obviously. Help?” he asked. She managed to shake her head.

  “No, I think I -,” she started, but then felt his fingers at the neck of the shirt. He pushed it up, exposing her mouth and nose, but then left it there. She took deep breaths.

  “Are you drunk, Tate?” he asked, talking slowly. She shook her head again.

  “No. I mean, I don't think so. I'm just stuck,” she replied. He gave a small chuckle and she felt him pulling at the neck of the shirt again. A couple tugs, and the strand of pearls broke. She could feel them running down her body, some catching in her bra while the rest clattered to the floor. The shirt came free from her head and Jameson pulled it away, holding it in his right hand. He was staring down at her. She struggled to control her breathing.

  “You're very different from Ellie,” he told her in a quiet voice. She rubbed her lips together and nodded.

  “I know,” she replied.

  Tate knew she should move, should grab her shirt, do something to cover herself. Run for the bathroom. She should not be standing in front of her sister's boyfriend, only wearing a black lace bra. He dropped her shirt as his eyes wandered down her body, and she found that she was frozen to the spot, unable to move a single muscle.

  “Family heirloom?” he asked, then he reached out, tracing a finger down her chest. He ran it down her cleavage and she thought she might faint. But then he held his hand up, and he had a pearl pinched between his fingers.

  “Present. From Drew,” her voice was just above a whisper. He examined the pearl.

  “He's cheap. It's not real,” he commented. She almost laughed.

  “What?”

  Jameson let the pearl drop and his attention went back to her. Tate still couldn't move. Had even stopped breathing. He was looking at her like she was dinner. She couldn't believe it. Twenty-three year old Jameson Kane was looking at her, really seeing her, for the first time ever. It was wrong, so wrong. She tried to think of Ellie, but couldn't make herself. She could only see his eyes.

  “You should leave this room,” Jameson told her, his hands gliding onto her hips. Her skin jumped at his touch and she could feel an electrical current pass between them. She gave a full body shiver and nodded.

  “I know,” she breathed. His fingers spread as his hands moved to her back, up to her shoulder blades.

  “Ellie's my girlfriend,” he reminded her. As if she needed it.

  “I know.” Apparently her impressive vocabulary had deserted her. His hands slid back down, all the way to her butt. She put her hands on the dresser behind her, bracing herself.

  “This isn't just me.”

  He'd said it as a statement, but she knew it was a question. She was feeling it, too.

  “I know,” she whispered.

  “If you want to run, I suggest you do it now,” he told her.

  “Why?” she asked, and he leaned in close.

  “Because I eat girls like you for breakfast,” he hissed in her ear. She shivered again.

  “Then stop holding onto me,” she challenged, shocking herself.

  Maybe it was the champagne, maybe it was him – Tate wasn't ever that bold, not in real life. Maybe that was it, she felt like she was in a dream. Jameson Kane, looking at her, not Ellie. Touching her, not Ellie. It couldn't be real. He was too ... much. Everything. Too much for her. He couldn't want her, not in real life.

  “Baby girl, this is nothing. If I didn't want you to get away, you wouldn't be able to,” he chuckled. She took a deep breath, preparing to tell him off, to tell him to let her go.

  “Maybe I don't want to get away,” she whispered.

  She hadn't meant to say that, hadn't even thought it. But it was out there, she coudn't take it back. Jameson groaned and his mouth dipped to her neck. She gasped when his lips touched her skin, and then moaned when his lips were followed by his teeth. She closed her eyes and let her head drop back.

  This is wrong. WRONG. He belongs to your sister. You're the devil. Evil incarnate.

  “Tatum, if you don't get the fuck out of here, I'm going to rip your clothes off, bend you over this dresser, and fuck you like you've never been fucked before,” he growled at her, his voice angry and sharp. His words shocked her. She pushed him away.

  “You act like this is my fault!” she snapped at him. His eyebrows went up, but he kept his hands on her hips.

  “You're the one who was getting drunk in my kitchen, babbling on and on about hating her sister. You're the one who's half naked in my bedroom,” he pointed out. She gasped.

  “I never said I hated her! And you got me drunk! What does that say about you!?” she yelled. He laughed.

  “I don't need to get girls drunk to fuck them, Tate,” he told her, his voice low. She snorted.

  “You are such an egotist, I wasn't going to ... do ... that with you,” she replied, stuttering a little. Jameson threw his head back and laughed, taking a few steps away from her.

  “'That'? God, I forget, you are just a little girl,” he laughed at her. Flames raced across her face.

  “And you're just a pathetic excuse for a man, trolling his girlfriend's little sister, cause he can't get anyone else to fuck him!” she yelled, shoving him in the chest before storming out of the room.

  God, she was so embarrassed. What had she been thinking!? She had been playing with fire. Really, Tate was lucky. If he hadn't growled at her, she didn't know how far she would have let him go. Drew had never spoken to her, or touched her, the way Jameson had – it set her on fire. But the things he had said to her. She did feel like a little girl. She felt stupid. She swiped at the tears that were starting to fall down her cheeks. She grabbed her cardigan out of the kitchen and rushed back towards the front door. Jameson was strolling out of the bedroom.

  “I wasn't trolling for you. I didn't even know you were coming over tonight. Like I said, you were the one bitching about how no one likes you, how everyone likes Ellie, asking about our relationship. Sounds like you were trolling for me,” he commented, looking down at her. She sniffled, struggling to right the sleeves on her sweater.

  “Then you're an awfully easy mark, I almost had you. Geez, what a great story that would've been to tell Ellie when she came home, 'hey, tricked your boyfriend into having sex with me
– BTW, he's going to dump you.' Sounds awesome, maybe I'll just call her and say it right now,” Tate threatened. His eyes narrowed.

  “Don't play with me, baby girl,” he warned her. She glared right back at him.

  “You're the one playing games, and you lost. Move,” she ordered, waving her hand at him. He was blocking the door. He folded his arm across his chest and stood his ground.

  “I don't lose,” he replied. She rolled her eyes.

  “God! Whatever! You tried to seduce me, it didn't work, get over yourself! I just want to -,”

  She was shocked when he suddenly grabbed her by the back of the neck, yanking her forward so he could slam his mouth down onto hers. She gave a muffled shriek, pushing against his chest. He moved both of his hands to the back of her head, his tongue forcing its way into her mouth as he started walking them backwards.

  She struggled at first, but it was half hearted at best. Tate knew he was an asshole. She knew it was just a game to him. Just sex. She knew she was doing something very wrong with her sister's boyfriend. She was doing something very wrong with a guy who was not her own boyfriend. She was going to burn in a special place in hell.

  And she didn't care.

  Tatum O'Shea was a good girl. She did the right things. Not because she wanted to, but because people were always telling her she had to, that she must. She dated Drew because her parents had set them up. She started having sex with Drew because he told her that's what couples do. She was going to an Ivy League school, because that's what O'Sheas did. They did not engage in illicit affairs with their relatives' significant others.

  She still didn't care.

  She moaned into his mouth, running her hands under his shirt, pushing it up. He broke away from her long enough for it to go over his head, then his mouth was back on her own. He was demanding, almost punishing, with his kiss. Rough and aggressive. Drew had never been that way with her.

  She loved it.

  “Doesn't feel like I'm losing now,” Jameson growled against her mouth, his teeth biting into her bottom lip as they backed into the couch.

  “Shut up, or I'll still leave,” she threatened, then gasped when his hands covered her breasts. He chuckled.

  “I don't think so,” he replied, one of his hands sliding down her stomach and over skirt. His fingertips brushed against her thigh.

  “I can do whatever I -,” she ended in a gasp as his hand suddenly yanked her skirt up, diving into her underwear.

  “You'll do whatever I say,” he amended her statement. Her eyes squeezed shut and she pressed her lips together, nodding.

  “Yes, yes,” she finally breathed, standing on her toes.

  “You wanted this – from the moment you got here tonight, you wanted this,” he said, his fingers plucking and playing with her like she was an instrument.

  “No, I didn't. I didn't want this,” Tate managed to pant, one of her hands moving to grab onto his wrist. Not to stop him, but to ground herself. To feel him. He chuckled.

  “You're awfully wet for someone who doesn't want to do this,” he laughed at her.

  “Oh god.”

  It was the truth, she knew. She was always like that around him, for as long as she could remember. She had touched herself to many fantasies about him. With Drew, it took a lot of foreplay to get her in the mood. But sometimes just thinking about Jameson was enough that she would have to change her panties.

  “Turn around,” he ordered, but he didn't even give her a chance to comply. He pulled his hands away and grabbed her by the arm, spinning her in a circle. She was still getting her bearings when he started yanking her skirt up over her hips.

  “Are we really doing this?” she gasped, gripping onto the back of the couch.

  “Unless you walk away right now, yes,” he replied, yanking her underwear down her legs.

  She didn't move.

  He put a hand in the middle of her back and shoved her forward, forcing her to bend in half over the couch. She put her hands into the cushions, trying to gain a sense of balance. She felt his hands kneading the flesh on her butt, then he was shoving one, two fingers inside of her. She cried out.

  “Oh my god!”

  But before she could even adjust to that, she could feel his erection. She didn't even make a sound, just held her breath. He was huge, or at least a lot bigger than Drew. She bent completely in half, her face in the couch cushions, her ass in the air. It felt like everything was moving in slow motion, and when he was inside of her, pressed up against her, she sucked in a gasp of air, her whole body shaking. She had only ever had sex with Drew. Nobody else. Until now.

  It occurred to her that she had been missing out.

  “Goddamn, Tate,” Jameson growled. “You're so fucking tight.”

  This was surreal. Having sex with Jameson. Jameson talking dirty to her. How had this happened?

  Then he was pulling out of her. Then pounding into her. Pull. Pound. In. Out. She moaned, made noises in her throat, and managed to push herself upright. She couldn't even think straight. Everything felt so amazing. She'd never had sex like that before, with someone behind her. Drew was not adventurous. Only ever at night. Her laying down. Him on top. Lights always off.

  All the lights were on in Jameson's trendy loft apartment. It wasn't daylight out, but all the shades were open. Anyone in the building across the way would be able to see her having sex. No wait, what had he said; what hadn't she been able to say earlier? Fucking. He was fucking her. She hadn't ever really been fucked before, but she could now see that there was a huge difference. This was much, much better. Jameson Kane could fuck her whenever he wanted, she thought to herself.

  Oh my god, I am fucking my sister's boyfriend.

  “This is wrong, Jameson. So wrong,” she panted out. His hand suddenly came around her throat and pulled her towards him. She had to arch her back to meet him.

  “Then tell me to stop,” he dared her, pressing his face to the side of hers, his teeth bared against her skin. She shook her head.

  “I can't, I can't,” she cried out. He laughed and the hand on her throat went to her ponytail, pulling hard on it.

  “You love this. You've probably fantasized about this. Did you ever? Ever touch yourself while you were thinking of me?” he asked, his fingers pulling at the roots of her hair. She shrieked.

  “God, yes! Yes!” she answered. He laughed again and leaned away from her, but didn't relinquish his hold on her hair.

  “Fuck, Tate, you are so sexy. You should see yourself,” he groaned, his free hand running over her ass. “I knew I should've fucked you a long time ago.”

  She was shocked.

  “You ... wanted to do this ... before?” she managed to get out between thrusts.

  “Are you fucking kidding? I don't know any guy who hasn't thought about trying to fuck his girlfriend's hotter sister, and baby girl, you are definitely a hotter fuck,” Jameson informed her, pulling harder on her hair.

  God, he's talking about fucking Ellie while he's fucking me. So wrong.

  “Oh my god, we have to stop, this is wrong. You're Ellie's ... I'm her ... this is so wrong. Oh my god!” she cried out. He pulled out of her, and she moaned at the loss. But then he was spinning her around to face him, his fingers digging roughly into her arms.

  “Don't fucking say her name again,” he told her.

  “But it's wrong, Ellie could be -,”

  “If you say her name one more time, I'm warning you, I will fuck your mouth,” he growled, and then he was kissing her again.

  It was like getting slapped, when Jameson spoke to her that way. No one had ever spoken to Tate like that before – she couldn't believe it. She knew she should be offended. She wanted to be offended. But she wasn't. If anything, it made her hotter. Did he talk to Ellie that way? She couldn't imagine it. She moaned, wrapping her arms around his neck.

  “I won't say it again,” she whispered, kissing him back. They stumbled into the bedroom, lips attached, hands roaming everywhere. It h
adn't escaped her attention that his kisses seemed just as desperate as hers, just as needy. As if he couldn't get enough of her taste. He wanted this just as much as she did – maybe even more.

  “You're goddamn right you won't,” he snapped, giving her a rough shove so that she fell onto the bed.

  He was on top of her in an instant, his hands everywhere. He pulled the cups of her bra down and lavished attention on her breasts, teasing her nipples with his teeth. His hand was back between her legs, his fingers gliding through her wetness. She moaned and thrashed around beneath him, her fingernails raking across his shoulders, no thought about hurting him. He hissed and brought his mouth back to hers.

  “Jameson,” she breathed against his lips.

  “What?” he snapped.

  “Are we -,” she started to ask, but then he was plunging inside of her. No hesitation, no accomodating her – just full, hard, length, driving as deep as he could go. She screamed his name, her legs moving to wrap around his waist.

  “'Are we' what, Tate?” he asked, his voice breathless as he slammed his hips against hers.

  “Are we going to do this again?” she managed to ask. He pulled himself up onto his knees and grabbed her by the hips, driving into her even harder. Her eyes rolled back in her head.

  “You're going to let me do this whenever I want,” he informed her.

  “Yes, Jameson, yes, yes, yes,” she chanted, scratching her nails down his arms. One of his hands came to rest flat against her chest, between her breasts, pushing her down against the bed. Anchoring her to his thrusts.

  He's going to turn me inside out.

  “You love this, fucking me. Your sister's boyfriend. Winning, right? Don't you think this kind of makes you a slut?” he asked, slowing his thrusts. She started panting again.

  “Yes, I do,” she answered, and the hand on her chest slowly slid upwards, creeping onto her neck.

  “Tatum O'Shea. Perfect, princess, goody-two-shoes, Tate. Who would've thought, a slut,” he swore at her. She moaned, raking her hands across her own chest. His fingers gently wrapped around her throat.