AUTHOR: Stylo Fantome
** contains a wannabe B-rate porn star, an impersonal personal assistant, and the F-word, A LOT. Also graphic sexual situations and sadomasochistic themes. 96,000 words.**
Eighteen year old Tatum O'Shea is a naive, shy, little rich girl. Twenty-three year old Jameson Kane is smart, seductive, and richer. They come together for one night, one explosion, one mistake, and Tate is hurled into space – no family, no money, and no Jameson.
Seven years later, life is going pretty good for Tate, when she runs into Jameson again. This time, she thinks she's ready for him. She doesn't have a naive bone left in her body, and she can't even remember what shy feels like. Jameson has evolved into Satan – sharp teeth, sharper claws, and a tongue that can cut her in half. It all sounds like fun to a girl like Tate, and she is ready to play, determined to prove that she isn't the same girl he conquered once before. A series of games start, each one more devious than the last.
But the devil likes to play dirty, and she learns that playing for souls is playing for keeps. The lines between games and reality, heaven and hell, get blurry. Can she beat Jameson at his own game before someone gets hurt? Or will he leave her soulless, making him the winner, once and for all?
**WARNING: contains a wannabe B-rate porn star, an impersonal personal assistant, and the F-word, A LOT. Also graphic sexual situations and sadomasochistic themes. 96,000 words.**
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“You started these games,” Jameson reminded her. Tate hiked up her dress a little and
lifted her knee to his desk.
“I didn't realize they'd go on for this long,” she replied, lifting her other knee. She bent
forward and crawled across the desk towards him. He didn't move.
“They're going to go on for a lot longer,” he warned her. She reached out, putting her
hand on his knee.
“For how long?” she asked as she slid her hand up his thigh, moving as slow as possible.
“However long it takes you to realize who the winner will always be.”
“Oh, you're done. Time for good girls to go upstairs and show me how bad they can be,”
Jameson told her.
“I don't think there's very much that's good about me anymore,” Tate laughed.
“I think you have no idea what bad really is.”
“There will never be a ring from Harry Winston. I will never ask you to marry me. I don't
want those things, I never did. I like to have fun, I like to fuck. I don't want to put stars in your
eyes. I'm not that guy. I'm the devil, and I don't have any plans to change.” - Jameson
“If you want to run, I suggest you do it now,” Jameson told her.
“Why?” Tate asked, and he leaned in close.
“Because I eat girls like you for breakfast,” he hissed in her ear.
She smiled and slipped to her knees in front of him.
This, she could do. This, she was very good at.
Love, however, was a completely different story.
“What do you want, Kane?” Tate asked in a low voice. Jameson dragged his eyes away
from her tits and stared her in the eye.
“Call me that name again, and I will punish your mouth,” he warned her. She chuckled.
“Don't make promises you won't keep.”
“Your life story is much shittier than mine,” Jameson told her. She glared at him.
“But probably a lot funner,” Tate countered.
“I highly doubt that. Have you ever had sex with a supermodel while sailing through the
mediterranean on your 250 foot yacht?” he asked. She thought for a second.
“No. I gave a handjob in an Arby's bathroom once, though. Kinda like the same thing,”
she told him with a bright smile.
“I stand corrected. Your life leaves me in awe.”
Tate sat forward, arching her neck to look up at Jameson. He stared straight back at her,
the fire casting shadows on one side of his face, and burning up the other side.
He looks like Satan.
She felt his teeth against her skin, fangs to her jugular, claws to her heart. He bit down,
once. Twice. A third time, so hard, she thought he was going to take out a piece of her.
He already did that, a long time ago, baby girl.
“I have the strangest feelings about you. Like I want to take you everywhere and have you
by my side, but I also want to hold you down. Make you beg and and cry,” Jameson told her.
Tate kept her eyes focused on his, didn't move a muscle.
“Sounds like a pretty good plan to me,” she whispered.
She felt her temperature soar through the roof. Jameson had an uncanny gift that made it
impossible for Tate to be truly mad at him – the angrier she got, the more she just wanted to
have sex with him. He was blessed that way. Or rather, she was cursed.
“I'm not going to fuck you. That would be giving you a treat. You've been very bad. I'm
going to do whatever I want.” - Jameson
“Why do you like to push me?” Jameson groaned, lifting her hair so he could bite at the
back of her neck.
“Because I like it when you push back,” Tate whispered.
We are a match made in Hell. He may be Satan, but I'm Lillith. - Tate
The whole time, he raked his nails down a path on her back. Peeling away a layer of skin,
exposing a piece of her soul. Stealing it from her. Or just taking it back.
Houston, we have a problem.
Jameson watched her sleep for a while, his eyes wandering down the angry scratch
marks on her back, over the bruises on the side of her neck. She let him do so many things to
her. Eventually, Tate would want something in return, and that thought scared him.
“Men are retarded assholes. You make a bad jokeand he looks at my tits, and it's one-
plus-one equals whore,” Tate explained, and Jameson finally laughed.
“I wish I had gone to that school.”
This was her comfort zone. Tate felt like if Jameson was nice to her, if he was sweet
to her, she would forget what was really going on, forget her place in the grand scheme of
things. And he was Satan, after all. He would make sure to put her back in her place. That
would be real pain, and she couldn't handle that, not from him. Not again.
I'm losing this game.
All she could focus on was Jameson's hand. His strong fingers, linked through hers. She
squeezed his hand, so hard it hurt. So hard, she wouldn't be able to let go, not ever again.
Why did everything feel so different?
Because everything is different.
“Do you think there's something wrong with me, treating you the way I do?”
“Not necessarily. It's consensual. Empowering.”
“Yes. You have the power to hold me down, say things, call me names. But I have the
power to say stop. End it all. Your power is an illusion. Mine is real.”
Speaking nice to her, that was too much. Saying sweet things, even in the fucked up way
they had, was more than Tate could handle. She hadn't wanted to care about this man. Not
at all. She had wanted to play with him. Turned out, he was much better at the game.
“I don't want a nice, normal girl. I want a girl who likes to be knocked down and dragged
around. A girl who will let me smack her around and talk dirty to her. I want a girl who will let
me sleep with other girls, and then get so turned on by that fact, she'll blow me while we're
driving down a highway doing seventy-five,” Jameson snapped.
“Sounds like a pretty hot girl,” Tate commented.
“Hottest girl I know.”
This. More than anything, Tate wanted to remember Jameson like this; she loved his
biting words and his stinging hand, but his kiss. His kiss gave her hope.
Indie author, writing anything that pops into my head ... which happens to usually be kinda crazy and a lot dirty. Working out of an undisclosed location in Alaska (where the need for a creative mind is a necessity), I have been writing since ..., forever? Yeah, that sounds about right. I have been told that I remind people of Lucille Ball - I also see shades of Jennifer Saunders, and Denis Leary. So basically, I laugh a lot, I'm clumsy a lot, and I say the F-word A LOT.
I like dogs more than I like most people, and I don't trust anyone who doesn't drink. No, I do not live in an igloo, and no, the sun does not set for six months out of the year, there's your Alaska lesson for the day. I have mermaid hair - both a curse and a blessing - and most of the time I talk so fast, even I can't understand me.
Yeah. I think that about sums me up
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