Degradation (The Kane Trilogy 1) by Stylo Fantome

“That fucking mouth. Sometimes, I swear, you're just seeing if I'll ever actually hit you,” he chuckled.

“Do it.”

She didn't know who was more surprised, him or her. But she had said it. She stopped moving, looking in to his eyes. He had said it as a joke. Did she really want him to hit her? It was like another challenge to her. He didn't think she could handle him, didn't think she could take it. She didn't think he'd ever actually go for it, ever stop restraining himself.

“Baby girl, I don't want to hit you,” Jameson murmured.

Tate slapped him.

Once again, shock on both their faces. She hadn't hit him hard, it was more noise than anything else. But his eyes were like fire when they came back to hers. She would have laughed, if she hadn't been so nervous.

What is wrong with me?

“At least one of us isn't scared,” she tried to cover up her nerves. He gave an evil, dark laugh. Satan was in the room.

“Now that is a fucking lie,” he hissed.

She slapped him again.

I'm suicidal.

“It feels good to be the one in charge for once, Kane. At least one of us isn't a pussy,” she snapped at him.

“Tatum, I'm not fucking around, don't -,”

She slapped him hard, and without hesitation he slapped her back. Before her head could even fully snap to the side, he had a hand cupping her jaw, pulling her back to stare at him. His eyes blazed in to hers. He hadn't slapped her hard, not really. But still. Her heart rate doubled.

“Do not ever fucking hit me again, got it?” he said in a slow, even voice. She looked down at him, her eyes hooded. She felt high.

“I can't make any promises.”

He swung her around, slamming her in to her mattress. She cried out as he pushed in to her, one of his hands immediately holding her down by the throat, the other grabbing onto her thigh. She gasped in time to his thrusts.

“Fucking Tatum. Goddamn. Fuck you. Fucking tried to hit me in the car. Fucking hit me in here. Who the fuck do you think you are? Who the fuck do you think you're dealing with?” Jameson demanded.

“You. Only you,” she moaned, raking her nails across her breasts.

“Stupid fucking bitch, I can't believe you made me hit you,” he hissed.

If she would have been able to comprehend what he was saying, she probably would have slapped him right then. Just for emphasis. But she couldn't comprehend anything – she was being pounded in to one of those other dimensions she had thought about earlier.

“I think ..., you liked it,” she breathed, arching her back away from the bed. His hand moved from her throat to her breast bone, pressing her down hard in to the mattress.

“No shit. Fuck. Fucking kissed him. I couldn't fucking believe it. I almost dragged you in to the car, fucked you right in front of him – you'd probably like that, wouldn't you? Fucking kissed him in front of me, what were you thinking? Stupid fucking slut,” he growled.

Ah. It all came back to Ang. She was angry at Ang and angry at herself – so she wanted to be treated badly. Jameson was angry at Ang and angry at her – he wanted to treat someone badly.

We are a match made in Hell. He may be Satan, but I'm Lillith.

He pulled away and spun her around, forcing her onto her stomach. She didn't have a chance to move before he hiked her hips in to the air and slammed in to her, his dick bottoming out on the first push. She screamed, pounding a hand against the wall across from her. It was pain. It was sexy. It was aggressive. She loved it. She tried to prop herself up, and he pushed her back down, a hand on the back of her head. She reached a hand back to touch him, and he grabbed it, pressing her hand against her face. She couldn't see anything. Could only feel.

All she felt was him.

“I want you to come, Tate. Are you going to come for me?” he snapped from behind her, letting go of her head and dragging his nails down the length of her back.

“Yes, yes,” she cried out.

“You always come for me.” He kept dragging his nails down the exact same path, over and over.

“Yes.”

“It's more than you deserve, whore.”

“Yes.”

“You're so good to me,” he murmured. She let out a sob.

“Oh my god!”

She came, all those Kegel exercises she had told him about kicking in and locking his dick in to place. He went as deep as he could and then stopped, one hand holding onto her hip. She screamed and panted, pounding one hand on the mattress. The orgasm lasted forever, shredding her. Making her ache. The whole time, he raked his nails down that 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.

While she was still trembling and trying to figure out what the hell she was feeling, he pulled out of her. She didn't have the energy to ask what he was doing; she just collapsed, sucking in air. After about a minute, she felt a hand on her ankle and she was suddenly yanked off the bed. She clawed at her bedding, taking a sheet down with her. She landed in a heap on the floor, the blanket falling over her shoulder. By the time she got her bearings, she saw Jameson sitting down in a chair in the corner of her room.

“Now that that's done,” he said in a calm, soft voice, planting his feet widely apart and putting his hands on his knees. His erection jutted straight up and she had trouble not staring at it.

“Um ..., what?” Tate managed, her voice hoarse.