~8~

Tate snorted and rolled onto her stomach. Stretched her arms out. When she didn't encounter another body, she opened her eyes. She was alone in the bed. She propped herself up, looked around. She was in a sea of black sheets and pillows, and completely alone. The drapes were drawn over all the windows, but one was letting a slice of bright sunshine into the room. She rolled over onto her back.

After their bath together, Jameson had wrapped her in a blanket and moved them upstairs. They watched fireworks from the bow. Had sex on the top deck. By the time they headed back downstairs, Tate was emotionally and physically drained. Jameson led her to his room and she collapsed on his bed. But right as she was dozing off, she felt his fingers walking down her spine. Lightly scratching back up. Scratching was good, so she had woken up. Played with him a little longer.

You're going to lose.

Tate shook her head and slid to the edge of the bed, throwing the sheets aside. She had work to do. She had to harden her heart. Prepare herself. There was still three weeks left in Jameson's little game. Sex was going to make it a lot harder for her to resist him, and now, thanks to a stupid anchor with a loose chain, not having sex was out of the question. They'd had sex all night, and she was already wondering where he was so they could start again. Not good. She could not lose.

She heard voices outside, and she was caught off guard. They were in the middle of nowhere, how were there people on the boat!? Tate tip toed to the window and peeked out. She was looking at his speed boat. Beyond it, another boat. They were back in the marina. She glanced around, looking for a clock. It was almost noon! Jameson had driven the boat back into town while she was sleeping.

She found his robe and put it on before wandering upstairs. But Jameson wasn't there. He wasn't anywhere on the deck, or up in the wheelhouse. But while she was up there looking, Tate saw where he was; he was on the other side of the speed boat, sitting in a tiny row boat, messing with its engine.

She wandered back into his room, smelling at the edge of the robe. It smelled like him, of course. She had always liked his smell. Expensive cologne and aftershave. Rich. Male. Heady. It gave her an idea.

She padded over to some built in wardrobes and yanked open the doors. One was full of normal clothing – jeans, t-shirts, polo shirts, shorts. The other held his suits. That was the Jameson she knew, the one she recognized, the one she could handle. Tate pulled out a shirt, ran her fingers down the sleeve. Balenciaga. She shivered and let his robe fall to the floor before pulling the shirt on, reveling in the feel of a $400 garment resting against her skin. She looked for a tie next. The first one she grabbed was a Barney's, but she figured her shirt deserved something even more high class, so she pulled out one by Ann Demeulemeester. Ooohhh, $250. Jameson might shit a brick.

She pulled her hair up into a knot on top of her head, then wiggled into a pair of bikini bottoms. Done. Tate skipped upstairs, then tip toed down the gangplank, hoping Jameson wouldn't see her. He didn't, and she made her way over to where he was working. His back was towards her, and he was completely absorbed in what he was doing. The top of the engine casing was off, and he was practically elbow deep inside of it. She shivered and sat down on the edge of the cement, dangling her legs over the side. She cleared her throat.

“I wondered when you'd make an appearance,” he said, not turning around.

“You should've woken me up,” Tate replied.

“I know how you are, you were probably freaking out when you woke up. Frankly, I'm amazed you're not halfway to the airport right now, running back to Boston. Fuck,” Jameson hissed, yanking his hand out of the mess as if he had touched something sharp.

“What are you doing?” she asked with a laugh. The row boat was old, wooden, with peeling paint. A piece of shit. It had two bench seats stretching across the middle, and a pair of ancient oars rested in the bottom of it.

“I bought this off a guy this morning. I figured you and Sanders could use it to tool around in, if you wanted. If I can get this motor working,” Jameson explained. She laughed again.

“Oh, I'm sure Sandy will love this plan. Permission to come aboard?” she asked.

“By all means.”

He didn't offer to help. Shocker. Tate slid off the cement, trying to balance on her toes. When she felt secure, she let go and stepped into the boat. It rocked under her, but didn't throw her, so she sat down on the open bench. Straightened out her tie. Rolled up her sleeves.

“Why don't you just by a new engine?” she asked. He snorted.

“Because this one might still work. I know you think I'm some rich asshole, Tate, but if something can be fixed, I don't just go out and buy a new one anyway,” he snapped. She raised her eyebrows.

“Nice tone. Sounds like someone else woke up freaking out this morning,” she called him out. Jameson finally laughed.

“This motor is a bitch. I finally get you to be compliant, and then something else gives me shit. Story of my life,” he joked, finally turning around.

Tate wasn't sure who looked more shocked, him or her. Jameson's eyes were wide as he took in her outfit, but her jaw dropped as she took in what he was wearing. Glasses. Jameson. In glasses. They were narrow black frames, and the glare from the sun hid his blue eyes.

“You wear glasses!?” she exclaimed.

“Contacts. The question is, what the fuck are you wearing?” he asked.

“I never knew you wore contacts, and I never saw a pair of glasses in your house,” she argued.

“They were in there, I assure you. Why are you wearing my clothing?” Jameson asked again.

“I'm sorry, I can't. Glasses,” Tate mumbled.

It changed his face so much. He looked so serious. Scholarly. Like a sexy professor. A whole new encyclopedia of fantasies and fetishes poured through her head. Did she pack a pleated skirt? How quickly could she get one? Would Jameson be in to role playing? He would be, once he saw her dressed up as a naughty school girl ...,

“Tate,” he snapped his fingers in front of her face. She reached out and slid the frames off of his face. Inspected them.

“Why are you wearing them now?” she asked, turning them over in her hands.

“Someone shoved me into salt water, then I slept in my contacts. My eyeballs feel like they've been stepped on,” he replied, glaring at her. Tate glanced at him.

“Do you need them to see?” she asked. Jameson shook his head.

“I'm not blind, I can see. They just help,” he replied, his eyes wandering down her body. She licked her lips and glanced at the oars.

“Let's take this baby for a spin,” she suddenly suggested. He laughed.

“I suppose you didn't notice, but all this shit around my feet? That's the engine. This baby isn't going anywhere,” he assured her. Tate rolled her eyes.

“And what are these?” she pointed out, tapping a pointed foot against an oar. He raised his eyebrows.

“You want me to row your ass around this marina?” he clarified.

When Tate tried to put the oars in the water herself, Jameson's manly pride kicked in and he took over. She was sitting with her back to the bow, so she leaned back, resting her elbows on the sides of the boat while she put her feet in his lap. She put his glasses on and closed her eyes, soaking in the sun.

“See? This is nice,” she told him, sighing. He grunted.

“Easy for you to say. I'm doing all the fucking work,” he pointed out. She laughed.

“What are all those muscles for, just show? Row faster,” she said saucily.

“Watch it.”

He kept it up for quite a while, she was impressed. But after they were well away from the harbor, Jameson had to stop. He had sliced his finger open on the engine earlier, and a small stream of blood was running down his forearm, mixing with the engine grease that was coating him from finger tip to elbow. He let the waves carry them farther out to sea while he inspected the wound.

“We should've brought an anchor,” Tate commented. Jameson flicked his eyes to her.

“So you could finish the job?” he asked. She laughed.

“Big bad Jameson, so scared of me,” she teased.

“I'm always scared of you. What's with the outfit?” he asked. She slid her hand down the tie, waving the end of it at him.

“You don't like?”

“I like it very much – hence why I bought it. Looks good on you.”

“Thank you.”

“Tate. I'm letting you wear clothing that probably costs more than your entire wardrobe. I rowed you out to the middle of nowhere. What's your game?” he asked. She sat upright, made a production of straightening the tie.

“As Freud would say,” she started, putting on a heavy Austrian accent, “tell me about your mother.”

“Excuse me?” Jameson asked, sitting upright. Tate adjusted his glasses on her nose, looking over the top of them to see him.

“Tell me about your relationship with your mother,” she asked, again in an accent.

“Why the fuck do you want to know about my mother?” he demanded. Tate sighed.

“Jameson, you wanted to prove to me that your not the devil, right? Had some big grandiose plan to convince me that being with you would be better than anything that could possibly be waiting for me at home. We stay on your boat, we hardly ever go anywhere, unless I bitch. We fight. We have sex. So far, I can't see how anything is different from before,” she pointed out.

“You never used to have a problem with the way we were at home,” he countered. She glared.

“It became a big fucking problem right around the time you brought your girlfriend home.”

“Which I have been trying to tell you, I nev-,”

“I don't care. I'm bored, this is all boring. More of the same. You don't wanna answer my question? Fine. Let's go back so we can sit around and do nothing,” Tate challenged him.

“Boring, huh? When has your baseball player ever shown you this good of a time? Does he talk about his mother?” Jameson asked, his tone snide. She cocked up an eyebrow.

“I've already met his mother.”

It wasn't a lie, Nick's mom had come to Boston one time. Tate had bumped into her in the hallway.

Her ploy worked. Jameson stared at her for a second, his lips set in a hard line. She expected him to argue. To tell her to go fuck herself. She didn't necessarily expect him to give right in, she had planned on having to needle him. But then he moved, kicking pieces of machinery out of the way and sitting on the floor of the boat.

“Come here,” he said, reaching a hand out for her. She took it.

He helped her to sit between his knees, then arranged her legs so her feet were on either side of his hips, her knees bent. He rested his hands on her legs, feathering his fingers along the insides of her thighs. Tate wasn't sure what was going on, but she was beginning to feel short of breath. To go from not touching him for so many months, to him touching her whenever he felt like it, took some adjusting. She tried not to drool.

“Your mother,” Tate reminded him.

“Why do you want to know about my mother?” Jameson asked.

“I don't know anything about you. Why not start there,” she answered. He nodded, looking out over the water.

“My father had some passport trouble, while he was traveling. She worked at the embassy in Argentina. That's how they met,” he started.

“Your parents met in Argentina? That's neat,” she said. He glanced at her.

“Yeah, 'neat'. He stayed long enough to get her pregnant. When she realized she was having a child, her family kicked her out,” he explained.

“Your mother was actually from Argentina?” Tate was a little surprised. Jameson smiled at her.

“Soy Argentino, señorita,” he replied. He was part Argentinian. Well. Who knew?

“I had no idea.”

“I look like her.”

“She must have been pretty,” Tate replied, and he laughed at that one.

“She was very pretty. She got ahold of my father, he brought her back to America. They got married. Six months later, I came along. Nine years later, she died from lung cancer,” Jameson encapsulated everything. Tate rolled her eyes.

“Did you not get along with her?” she asked. He looked surprised.

“We got along great. Why would you ask that?” he questioned. She shrugged, leaning against the bench behind her.

“I don't know. Trying to figure out why you like to treat women the way you do,” she responded. Jameson laughed.

“You think I like to treat women like shit because I hated my mother?” he clarified. She shrugged again.

“Maybe.”

“You hate your mother – is that why you want to be treated like shit?” he pointed out. She blinked in surprise.

“I ..., no. I don't know,” Tate hadn't really thought about it.

“What's your favorite color?” Jameson suddenly asked. She was caught off guard again.

“Huh?”

“Your favorite color. What is it?”

“I don't know. Black? Gold?” she prattled off. He nodded.

“Why do you like gold?” he pressed.

“Are you okay?”

“Shut up and answer the question. Why do you like the color gold? Specifically. Think about it. Why,” he stressed. She looked at him like he was crazy, but she thought about it.

“Because ..., I like it. When I look at it, it pleases me, aesthetically. I don't know why, but it just does,” Tate explained as best she could. Jameson nodded, digging his fingers into her thighs and dragging his nails up towards her knees.

“When I call you a 'stupid cunt', it pleases me, physically. I don't know why, but it just does,” he copied her answer to make his point. “Why do people always need a reason? I hate my mother, so I treat women like shit? You hate your dad, so you find guys to treat you like shit? No, Tate, I didn't hate my mother. I got along great with her. Loved her very much.

“I'm not acting out my psychological problems in bed. It is possible to like kinky shit just because you like it. If it seems like I treat women like shit, it's because I treat everyone like shit; women, men, orangutans, everyone. I'm not some damaged person, I'm just spoiled. I'm used to getting my own way, and when I don't, I tend to throw a temper tantrum. I have no problem admitting this – I have been getting my way long enough to expect it to just happen, and I have enough money to normally ensure that it does happen. It's as simple as that. So, sorry to disappoint you, I'm just plain old fashioned kinky. I like weird sex, simply because I like how it makes me feel.”

Temper tantrum. I thought bringing Pet home was some well thought out, elaborate plan to hurt me because he's a sadistic bastard. But he's really just a spoiled brat. A goddamn temper tantrum ...

“You should really work on that whole spoiled thing. Your temper tantrum nearly drove me insane,” Tate managed a laugh, though she felt very much like crying. Jameson nodded.

“I know. I think about that everyday. You have very effectively taught me that it is one thing to want things my way,” he started in a soft voice, staring her very directly in the eyes. “But quite another to ignore the ways of everyone else. I hurt you, and I'm still finding it difficult to forgive myself. If you had died, Tate …, there are no words. I would have been very sad. And not just because I had done something bad, I want you to know. I would have been sad because my world is a very lonely place without you.”

So many unshed tears. Tate was glad she was wearing his glasses, she felt like they were hiding her emotions a little bit. She took deep breaths through her nose, tried to stay calm. They were very sweet words. Words that soothed the gaping hurt in her soul. But the devil is very good when it comes to dealing with damaged souls.

I wanted to learn about him so I could hate him more. I didn't expect his answer to make me want to forgive him. Cheating bastard.

“We were talking about your mother,” Tate drew the conversation away from the heavy stuff. Jameson sighed and looked back over the water, wearing a look on his face that she couldn't quite decipher. Annoyance? Hurt?

Those two shouldn't look similar …, only on you, Satan.

“My mother and I got along great, she was an amazing person. My father wasn't exactly big on being involved in family issues. He wasn't even there when I was born. My mother is the one who named me,” he told her.

“Oh yeah, you said your middle name was her last name,” Tate remembered the first time they had run into each other in Boston, at his firm's opening party.

“Technically, Kraven is part of my last name. I have several middle names.”

“You have more than one middle name?”

“Yes. I'm a thoroughbred,” he joked.

“What's your full name?” she asked. He sighed and dragged a finger back down her thigh, following its path with his gaze.

“Mi nombre es Jameson ..., Santiago ..., Agustin ..., Kraven Kane,” he said it slowly, tracing the first inital of each name on her skin.

He's branding me.

“You have five names,” she commented softly. He nodded and glanced at her.

“I know. It took a long time to memorize, when I was little,” he chuckled. She couldn't imagine him ever being little.

“Santiago. I like it. Can I call you Santi?” she teased.

“Only if you want to get slapped.”

“Ooohhh, tempting.”

“Is this really okay, Tate?” Jameson asked, going back to scratching his nails up and down her legs.

“What do you mean?”

“This. Day before yesterday, you were over me. Last night, you were ready to say you wanted to go home. Today, you're sitting here, flirting with me, half naked in my clothing. I am a little suspicious,” he warned her.

“Sometimes, I just need a good fucking to put me in my place,” she laughed.

“Tatum.”

“I don't know,” she was finally serious. “I'm just tired, Jameson. I'm tired of fighting, and I'm tired of arguing, and ..., and I missed you. I hate to admit it, but I did.”

She watched him carefully while she talked, tried to judge whether or not he believed her. His eyes were narrowed, wandering over her face. She swallowed thickly and stared right back. Prayed for him to believe her.

He should – you're technically telling the truth. Weak bitch.

“So. That's what you wanted to talk about? My sexual proclivities?” he asked, his fingers starting to massage her. Tate shrugged.

“Yeah, amongst other things.”

“I never knew they bothered you.”

“Obviously, they don't – I love them. I was just curious, if there was something else there,” she replied.

“And that's why you wanted to ask about my mother?” he asked. She nodded.

“Yeah. I don't know, I used to wonder if you hated women. I thought maybe there was a reason,” she told him. Jameson laughed and grabbed her ankle, lifted her leg up so he could nibble at her calf.

“I don't hate women, Tate. I love women,” he said, kissing his way to her ankle. “I love the way they feel, their skin, their smell. The way they taste, the sounds they make.”

“Clearly. I just wanted to get to know you better,” she continued. He sat her leg down and grabbed her by the hips, scooting her even closer to him.

“So what else do you want to know, baby girl?” he asked, his eyes hooded as he looked down at her. Tate licked her lips and ran a finger along the collar of his shirt.

“Mmmm, how many women have you fucked since me,” she breathed. Jameson laughed and moved his hands to her neck, slowly undoing his tie.

“Hmmm, how many, how many,” he wondered out loud, pulling the tie over her head and tossing it behind her.

“Less than ten?” she asked. He looked upwards, like he was thinking hard, and took the glasses off of her.

“I lose track of these kinds of things, so easily,” he mumbled. He sat his glasses down beside the engine parts and then went to work on the buttons of her shirt.

“Less than twenty?” Tate pressed. It had started out as a tease, but now she wanted to know. Needed to know. Jameson finished unbuttoning and spread the shirt open, running his hands over her breasts.

“Tatum,” he whispered, leaning her backwards till she was laying in the bottom of the boat.

“Hmmm,” she purred, lifting her hips as he slowly pulled her bikini bottoms away.

“I haven't slept with one single other woman since you.”

With words like that, she would give him anything. They could play all the games they wanted, and he would always win. It was his board game, his dice, his cards. She never stood a chance against him.

Tate had slept with a lot of guys in a lot of interesting locations, but she could safely say that in the middle of the day, on a tiny row boat, in the middle of the Mediterranean, was a first.

 

*

 

“Your color has improved,” Sanders commented, when he came to see them later in the day.

“You think? I've been soaking up as much sun as possible,” Tate replied, holding out her arms to examine her skin.

“I wasn't talking about your tan,” he told her. She laughed.

Jameson had set a table up on the top deck. Very intimate. However, he obviously hadn't counted on Sanders crashing the party. He had glared at him the whole time while they all ate. It made Tate laugh. Jameson had finally stomped away, in search of something stronger than champagne and water.

“It was a good New Year's party,” she replied. Sanders quirked up an eyebrow.

“Really? I was under the impression that it was just the two of you,” he said. She smiled at him and waggled her eyebrows.

“It was.”

“Good. That took long enough,” Sanders said, looking out over the ocean.

“Sandy,” she started, glancing at the stairs, listening for Jameson. “Why do you think Jameson and I are so good together?”

“Because you are,” he replied simply. She rolled her eyes.

“Seriously. Us being together is obviously a big deal to you. But, he doesn't want a girlfriend. I told you, he's never gonna really care about me. We're not gonna, like, be your parents, Sandy. He's going to leave me at some point,” Tate warned him. Sure, she planned on leaving Jameson before that ever happened, but she didn't think that needed to be said out loud. Sanders cleared his throat.

“I don't think of you as my parents. I have parents. Jameson is my guardian. You are my best friend,” he corrected her. She smiled brightly, pleasantly shocked.

“Really? Me? God, I love you, Sanders,” she gushed. He still wouldn't look at her.

“I want you two to be together because you make Jameson happy. He makes you happy. If you would both stop trying to assume what each other are doing and thinking, and just ask each other once in a while, things would be much better between you,” he informed her.

“You should be a marriage counselor,” she pointed out.

“Oh god.”

“I just don't think it's that easy, though. He's playing a game. At the end of this month, what, we're going to ride off into the sunset together? I don't think so. I'm not holding my breath for him to change,” Tate said. Sanders shrugged.

“That shouldn't be a problem, because he already has.”

Before she could question him further, though, Jameson came back up the stairs. Her eyes got wide as she saw the bottle he was carrying. He stared back at her while he took his seat, putting the bottle in the middle of the table.

“Scared?” he asked, giving her a wolf grin. She snorted.

“Terrified,” Tate answered honestly, her eyes traveling over the black and white label.

“I would just like to say, I think this is a bad idea,” Sanders piped up. Jameson glanced at him.

“No one asked you. Besides, this is for me,” he replied. Sanders cleared his throat and stood up.

“I think I should leave. I have everything arranged for Paris, sir. We leave in seven days?” Sanders clarified. Jameson nodded, leaning back in his chair.

“Yes. Did you book the hotel room for Angier?” he asked. Sanders nodded.

“I did, and one for myself. Are you sure you don't want us all in one suite?” he double checked.

“Positive. I never need to share a dwelling with Angier. My generosity has its limitations.”

“It seems to me that it would be more cost effective if -,” Sanders started, but Jameson held up a hand.

“We'll talk about it tomorrow. Go home,” he snapped. Tate wondered what the big deal was with not wanting to share a suite. It was already surprising enough that he didn't keep Sanders on the boat. Why the need for so much privacy?

I knew it. He's gonna sell me in to sex slavery.

“Very well. Good night. Good night, Tatum,” Sanders said, then hurried down the stairs.

“That guy,” Jameson grumbled.

“Is a very, very good guy,” Tate finished for him. He snorted.

“He's something, that's for sure. So, I figured, since we're conquering your fears,” Jameson started, and he reached out and grabbed the bottle of Jack Daniel's. Unscrewed the cap. Tate licked her lips.

“I haven't had any serious kind of alcohol since that night,” she warned him. He nodded.

“I know. Sanders kept me well informed. You don't have to drink tonight, but I wanted you to have the option. I just want you to ..., feel safe. Around me,” he told her, not looking at her as he poured a shot.

“Oh my god, Jameson,” she laughed. He glanced at her.

“What?”

“That was really sweet.”

“Fuck off.”

“And I have never felt safe around you, so you can stop trying,” she teased him.

“You once told me that I didn't scare you,” he reminded her, sipping at the whiskey.

“That was a long time ago. A Danish beauty and a temper tantrum have taught me otherwise,” Tate replied. Jameson sighed.

“Never gonna stop, are you.”

“Probably not.”

He took the shot in one go, and then poured another. She raised her eyebrows, and it occurred to her that she had never seen Jameson drunk. Not once. He liked to drink, and drank often, but never to excess. She was suddenly very curious.

“How about,” Tate started, sliding the bottle towards herself. “For every shot I take, you take two.” Jameson narrowed his eyes.

“Sounds dangerous.”

“Chicken.”

He took his second shot, staring at her the whole time.

“Alright. Let's do this.”

She poured herself a shot, tried not to smell it. She knew if she smelled it, it would be that night all over again. She shuddered and tried not to think about it. Tate looked at him, concentrated on Jameson's eyes. He'd had new contacts delivered to the boat and his glasses were hidden away again. She could see his baby-blues without any hindrance. She stared at him while she took the shot.

“One down. You owe me two,” she informed him.

He snorted and took them back to back.

I'm so fucked.

Her tolerance was much lower than it used to be, Tate knew, but she had also eaten a large dinner. She took another shot a couple minutes later, then one more more about ten minutes after that; she figured she wouldn't need to do anymore. She'd had three shots – Jameson, eight. After his last one, she could definitely see a difference in him. She tried to focus, keep her head clear. She was a little drunk, but only just a little.

“Feel it yet, baby girl?” Jameson asked, sitting his shot glass upside down.

“Yes. Had enough?” she asked back, nodding at his glass. He shrugged.

“I think you've had enough,” he replied. He hadn't taken his eyes off of her for about ten minutes. They were glued to her face. He wasn't slurring, but his eyes were hooded, his posture relaxed. He kept his arms folded across his chest.

“I think so, too,” she agreed, laughing lightly. He ran his tongue across his bottom lip, slowly, and she swallowed a groan.

“Are you drunk enough to let me be bad to you?” he asked.

“You're always bad to me.”

“Baby girl, you haven't seen bad in a really long time.”

You ain't just whistlin' dixie ...

“Jameson,” she breathed. He raised an eyebrow, his eyes on her lips.

“Hmmm?”

“Do you think I'm pretty?” Tate asked, then hiccuped. He burst out laughing.

“Are you serious right now?” he asked in return. She nodded, hiccuped again. Maybe she was more than “just a little” drunk ...,

“Yes.”

“What a stupid fucking question. Of course I think you're pretty. You're goddamned stunning, Tate. I think you're one of the sexiest fucking women I've ever met,” Jameson replied bluntly. She beamed at him.

“Thank you. What's your favorite part of me?” she asked, leaning on the table.

“God, you're one of those kind of drunk girls,” he groaned. She shrugged.

“Unfortunately. My ass?” she guessed.

“Your pussy.”

“Something visible, please.”

He thought for a while.

“I love your lips, how they look, what you can do with them. Your eyes, when you put all that shit on,” Jameson began to stand, leaning over the table. “But your body ..., mmm, Tate, your body. Everything from your neck to your knees, I want to completely devour.” He swept his arm across the table, sending all the glasses and plates and silverware crashing to the ground.

“Good answer,” Tate whispered. He grabbed her by the back of the neck and pulled her forward, forcing her onto the table top. She knelt in front of him.

“What did you think, the first time you saw me?” she asked as his hands raked through her hair.

“Which time?”

“At your office building, at that party.”

“I thought, 'I want to fuck that caterer'.” She laughed at him. “Then when I realized it was you, I thought 'I want to fuck Tatum O'Shea.'”

“What did you -,”

“Stop talking about stupid shit.”

He kissed her. Sloppily, which was a new experience, coming from Jameson. His lips covered her own, almost entirely, and she could taste the whiskey on him as his tongue filled her mouth. He pulled her roughly against him as his fingers dug into her scalp. Pulled at her hair. Made their way to the back of her neck, where he gripped hard enough for her to the feel the burn of friction. She leaned against him, and the table lurched forward, causing him to stumble to the side. Tate flattened herself as much as she could, not relishing a fall into the ocean from that height.

“We shouldn't do this,” she panted. Jameson nodded, stepping back up to the table and grabbing her arm.

“I know, com'ere, I'll throw the table overboard,” he suggested, trying to pull her down. She laughed.

“No, that's not what I meant. We shouldn't do this, not while we're drunk,” she explained. Now he laughed.

“Fuck that. You don't get to sit there and just talk about shit like that. I'm going to fuck you tonight,” Jameson told her plainly.

“Um, I think I have a say in it, and I say, no thank you,” Tate replied with a snicker. He pulled her close and swayed towards her.

“You really think you have a say in it?” he breathed in her ear.

“I know I do,” she said back. He shook his head and clucked his tongue, stepping away from her.

“Stupid, stupid girl. Always making me prove you wrong,” he sighed, heading towards the stairs. She gaped as he disappeared down them, leaving her sitting on the table top.

“Excuse me!?” she asked out loud, looking after him.

Was that it? He was just giving up? It was sexy banter. Tate was fully prepared to fuck his brains out. He just had to work for it a little. Had things really changed that much between them? She slid off the table and followed him.

She made it to the stairs in time to see Jameson reach the upper deck. He was lifting his arms over his head, peeling his shirt off. He dropped it to the ground and kept moving. She hurried down the stairs, grabbing his shirt as she swept across the deck.

He took off one shoe at the bottom of the next set of stairs, and another shoe as he went below deck. Tate kept following, wondering how far this show was going to go, picking up the trail of items he was leaving. He pulled his wallet out of his pocket, tossed it over his shoulder. Then his phone hit the floor, right outside his bedroom door, which still didn't shut because of the broken frame. He undid his pants and managed to step out of them before he got to his bed, where he promptly moved to kneel on the mattress. Jameson slowly turned to face her, but he wasn't looking at her, busy concentrating on removing his watch.

“Tatum,” he said, his voice syrupy thick. Like a lion purring. She dropped his clothing to the floor.

“What?” she asked, leaning against his door frame.

“Is it my turn to ask questions?”

“Depends on the questions,” she replied. He finally loosened his watch and dropped it off the side of the bed.

“How many men have you fucked since me?” he asked. He yawned and linked his fingers together, stretching his arms above his head. Every muscle he had flexed and strained with the act. Tate's mouth went dry in an instant.

“I'm, uh ...,”

“Staring. You're staring,” Jameson told her, stretching his arm across his chest, gripping it by the elbow. Different muscles stretched and moved.

“Yes, I think I am.”

“Answer the question, please.”

“How many times have you fucked Pet, since me?” she countered. She couldn't stand the thought, couldn't bear the idea. In her tipsy state of mind, things were even blurrier than normal. She didn't want to hear that he had touched the other woman. Or any other woman. Tate wanted to be the one. His only one.

Scary thought, baby girl. Still sure it's a game?

“How many times have you fucked Nick, since me?” he responded.

Even in her drunken state, Tate knew better than to answer that question. She had told Jameson that she hadn't slept with anybody, but he still assumed that she and Nick had a relationship. It kept him on his toes; jealous, distracted. Nervous. She needed that kind of energy, if she wanted to win.

“I don't know why you're so insecure, Jameson. It's always a 'who's got a bigger dick?' contest with you,” she evaded answering.

“I know it's not a contest – if it was, I've already won, so I'm not worried. I'm not insecure, just curious. I haven't touched Petrushka, inappropriately, since last June. Before you and I even ran into each other, I'd like to point out. Now answer my question,” he demanded. She snorted.

“You spend a month with her in Berlin, pretending to be her boyfriend, and you didn't hit that, not even once?” Tate challenged him, the liquor making her bold.

“Not even once. And I wasn't pretending to be anything. I wouldn't need to pretend to be her boyfriend to get her to fuck me,” he corrected Tate. She rolled her eyes.

“Yes, I'm clearly well aware of how good you are at not being a boyfriend and fucking people,” she snapped.

“You never said it bothered you. In fact, you said it was fine. If something changed, and it wasn't fine, you should've said something,” Jameson told her in a soft voice. He then slowly leaned forward onto his hands, basically doing a push up.

“I did say something. You just never said anything back,” she reminded him. He rolled and stretched out onto his back.

“You want to be my girlfriend, Tatum?” he asked, his voice light.

“No.”

“Sure sounds like it.”

“I don't think I have what it takes to be Jameson Kane's 'girlfriend'.”

“Hmmm, I think you were built for it.”

As he laid there on the bed, wearing only Etiquette Clothier boxers, looking like something out of a sexy men's magazine, Tate had a realization. Jameson Kane was trying to seduce her. He had never really done that before, not back in Boston. Back then, she had always been easy pickings. She had never even pretended to not want him, so it had never been an issue. Now here he was, half naked, spread out like a buffet, and saying things she had always wanted to hear.

Resisting Jameson had been impossible when she had been trying to convince herself that she hated him. As she made her way across the room and crawled onto the bed with him, she wondered if she would ever truly be free of him.

Or if she even wanted to be free.