Degradation by Stylo Fantome

Author:Stylo Fantome [Fantome, Stylo]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Amazon: B00M029T4O
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

~8~

Jameson spent most of the next week in Los Angeles. He needed space. He couldn't think straight, not when she was around.

Tate had followed his instructions that night, swallowed every last drop he had to give. Say what he wanted about her life, Tate had gotten some good things out of living on the fringe of society – she gave the absolute best blowjobs he had ever been privileged enough to receive.

She laid on the floor for a while afterwards, and eventually he crawled down next to her. And just chatted with her. She told him that part of the reason she had made him go out on the town, meet her friends, was because she was beginning to feel like his dirty secret, being hidden away in his house.

Stupid. It wasn't that Jameson was ashamed of her; he just didn't like to be around other people. Plain and simple. He hated to leave his house, regardless of whether or not she was there. She didn't even factor in to it. He reminded her that if she thought something was about her, it probably wasn't. She had laughed at him.

She told “scary” stories about her first year living alone in Boston. He told “scary” stories about the first hostile takeover he had overseen. She asked if he'd had any run-ins with her family, and he admitted that he'd dealt with her father several times, but they had never spoken about Tatum, or any of the O'Sheas. It hadn't occurred to him to ask about her, but judging by the way she talked, her father wouldn't have known anything about her, anyway.

Halfway through a very hair raising tale about her getting lost in the worst neighborhood in Boston, they heard the front door crash open. They stared at each other while they listened to a drunk Rusty stumble through the living room. There was some giggling, and then a man's voice. Footsteps down the hall, some light sexy banter. Jameson pressed a hand to Tate's mouth, to keep her from laughing out loud.

When the moaning started, he almost laughed himself. God, how did people have sex like that? “You're so beautiful,” “You're so amazing,” “Oh my god, you're so amazing!” “Oh my god, you're so beautiful!” Moan, moan. Pant, pant. Tate was almost convulsing under his hand, she was laughing so hard. It sounded ridiculous, and worse, it sounded fake. Jameson didn't understand bad sex – why not just stop doing it? But the bed springs kept squeaking, the headboard banging out a dull rhythm.

Jameson had laid himself on top of Tate and began mocking the noises from the next room. She snorted and choked to keep from laughing, tried to push him off of her, but when he pawed at her breast, it stopped being a game. He pushed her legs apart, dipped his fingers in to her, pushed inside of her. She kept her lips together and moaned in her throat.

He whispered that she was beautiful, that she was amazing.

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