~6~

She caught up to him outside of the night club. He was putting on his coat, and taking ground eating strides back towards the marina. She had to jog to keep up with him – no easy feat in the towering heels she was wearing.

“Are we having a race?” Tate huffed out, grabbing onto the bottom edge of his jacket to help keep her balance. Jameson glanced back at her.

“Next time, wear sensible shoes,” he replied. She laughed out loud

“Oh, okay. Next time, I'll wear a pair of crocs,” she threatened.

“Why do I bother talking to you,” he grumbled.

They were back to the boat in no time. He hadn't said anything else, but he did slow his pace. Even so, Tate was still out of breath as they made their way onto his yacht, and she was dying for water when they got onto the deck.

It wasn't too late, not quite ten o'clock, and she looked around for Sanders. There were huge glass doors that separated the galley from the main back deck, and during the day they were usually left open, doubling the living space of the boat. They were still open, and she saw a dark figure in front of the stove. But it wasn't Sanders.

“Who the fuck is that!?” Tate hissed, scooting up close behind Jameson and pressing herself against his back. He may have been the devil, but he was also a lot bigger than her, and getting mugged was never a fun experience.

“Qué estás haciendo?” Jameson snapped.

A woman came out of the shadows, answering in Spanish. She was young, probably around Tate's age, or just under. Very pretty. A small conversation in Spanish took place, then Jameson walked away while the young woman walked back to the stove area, throwing lingering looks his way. Tate hustled after him.

“Who is that? Where's Sanders?” she demanded in a low voice. Jameson took off his jacket and threw it onto a chair.

“That is a maid. She was supposed to clean while we were gone, but she got here late. She's just finishing up. Sanders is staying at my apartment,” he replied.

“Sanders is ..., I'm sorry. What?” Tate asked, thrown off guard. Jameson sank into a chair at the table, rubbing a hand over his face.

“I have an apartment, in town. While you were on the phone with your boyfriend, I told Sanders that he would be staying downtown from now on,” he explained. She barked out a laugh.

“Fuck that. If Sanders doesn't stay here, I don't stay here,” she replied. Jameson grabbed her hand and yanked down, forcing her to stumble. While she was caught off balance, he pulled her into his lap.

“I have never been jealous of another man in my entire life, then you come along, and suddenly every man is a threat. Why is that?” he asked while she straightened herself on top of him.

Her breath caught in her throat. Jameson? Jealous? Not possible. He had been angry when she had first slept with Nick, but not because he had been jealous. He had been mad because he had unknowingly shared his favorite toy, that was all. She hadn't asked permission, had only done it to piss him off. And Sanders!? Please.

“Don't be stupid,” Tate snapped, pulling at his arms as they coiled around her waist.

“You're stupid,” he countered, and she had a strong sense of déjà vu.

Talk about a role reversal.

“Stop it. Let me up,” she complained. She was straining against his hold, and he let go so abruptly that she sprang forward, almost falling to her knees. She managed to right herself, then whirled around on him.

“Your wish is my command,” Jameson told her, with a mock bow of his head.

Tate glared and sat down across from him. While she worked at taking her fancy shoes off, the maid wandered back out onto the deck, asking a question in Spanish. Tate didn't need to speak the language to know that every word out of the other woman's mouth was dripping with sexual promise, full of innuendo.

She looked the other girl over, watching as the woman eye-fucked Jameson. She certainly wasn't subtle. It was actually kind of brave, considering the fact that the object of her attention was sitting there with another woman.

“Why isn't Sandy staying here anymore?” Tate asked in a booming voice, cutting right through their conversation as she tossed her shoes over her shoulder. Jameson smiled tightly at the maid before turning back to Tate.

“Because he's in the way,” was all he said. The maid stayed on the deck for a little longer, her eyes bouncing back and forth between Jameson and Tate, before she headed back inside the yacht.

“Sandy is never in the way,” Tate replied.

“Very rarely,” Jameson agreed. “This is a special situation.”

“Special how?”

“You get distracted easily. I don't want anyone else here when I decide it's time to fuck you.”

Tate was a little shocked. That he would assume he had already won, that he thought she would still be that easy. She wasn't ..., was she? No, she most definitely wasn't. Not for him, at least. She sat up straight in her chair, flicking her ponytail off her shoulder.

“Well, seeing as how that's not going to happen, you can just bring him right on back,” she replied. Jameson laughed.

“Tate, you can't kiss me like you did in that club and not put out,” he informed her. She raised her eyebrows.

“I told you, that was just for show,” she bluffed, rubbing at her sore ankles.

“Really. So dry humping me in a hallway, where no one could see us, was just for show,” he laid out the facts. She tried very hard not to blush.

“More like a sick curiosity.”

“Tatum.”

Jameson's voice was full of warning, making her shiver.

“I'm not fucking you. Deal with it.”

He rubbed a hand over his face again, but before he could say anything else, the maid called out to him. He grumbled to himself, then answered her in Spanish. A light laugh floated out onto the deck. Tate tried very hard not to glare into the boat.

“It's been a long night, baby girl. You sure I can't tempt you into a blowjob, at the very least?” Jameson asked, a laugh in his voice.

“Hmmm, probably not. But your maid seems more than happy to be of service. Any kind of service,” Tate replied, not able to keep the bite out of her voice. He laughed some more.

“Ooohhh, now that sounds like jealousy. You don't want me, but no one else can have me? How droll,” he taunted her.

“I don't care who has you – most of America, and I'm sure half of Germany, has had you. Go fuck your maid, see if I care,” she replied.

“Now, I know you don't meant that,” his voice was soft, his eyes wandering over her face. Tate shrugged.

“Jameson, why would anything you do bother me?” she countered. He leaned over the table.

“I think everything I do bothers you.”

“Then you're stupid. Go. Maybe she'll do you better than I ever could and you'll finally leave me alone. Make a night of it,” Tate suggested.

“Maybe I will,” Jameson agreed.

“Maybe you should.”

“You never know when enough is enough, Tate. You push me, and then get mad when I push back. It's counter-productive. It doesn't make sense. Why do you do it?” he asked, his head cocked to the side.

Because I like it when you push back.

“Because,” she sucked air through her teeth, trying to think of something, anything, to say in response. “I'm not the same person anymore. I don't care what you do, or who you fuck. It doesn't affect my life, not anymore than me fucking someone else affects yours. She wants you. You want to fuck somebody. Who am I to stand in the way? Go. I don't care.”

Jameson stood up abruptly and walked away from the table. He looked pissed. Tate was a little shocked, watching him walk into the galley. Her eye sight had adjusted to the dark some, and she could see what was going on inside a little better.

She watched as Jameson walked up behind the maid, leaned down close to her. He whispered something in her ear, but his eyes were on Tate the whole time. The maid threw her head back and laughed. Jameson smiled as well, then kept talking. Talked until she started moving away, towards the back of the boat. He gave one last look at Tate, then followed, his body crowding close to the smaller woman as they disappeared into the depths of the yacht.

Tate sat at the table, feeling small again. She chewed on her bottom lip, glancing around the deck. She wanted Sanders there, wanted to lean on his strength. She really wanted to go inside, press her ear against Jameson's door. Was he really going to have sex with that girl? Right then? While Tate was on the boat? They had done some kinky shit in their previous relationship, but never anything quite like that; Tate was open minded, but she had her boundaries.

What boundaries are there, if you're not together? He can do whatever he wants. Right? Right?

Of course, she had goaded him. Told him to do it. Tate couldn't be mad about it. She had laid it on thick in the club, then things had gotten pretty intense in that hallway. If Jameson hadn't touched her throat, she had no doubt that sex would have been imminent. She had been ready to take his pants off with her teeth. Probably a bad idea. Definitely a bad idea. And she had probably left him more than a little hard-up.

So Jameson having sex with the maid was a good thing. A great thing. Saved Tate some hassle, and would probably calm him down for a day or two. Get him to lay off her. Hell, maybe if she was lucky, the maid would be so good, he would forget all about Tatum. Perfect.

Tate leapt out of her chair like she had been electrocuted and prowled through the boat. She paused at the door to her room, still trying to convince herself that she was just going to bed. But she couldn't do it. She tip toed farther, all the way to Jameson's door. She knew she should let it go, knew that him sleeping with someone else was a good thing. Good, good, great.

But she was a horrible liar, even when it was to herself.

Tatum fucking hated the idea of Jameson sleeping with that girl.

She pressed her whole body to his door, straining to hear what was going on; living in a marina was similar to living in a city. There was always some kind of noise. Boats rocking, bouys squeaking, engines rumbling. Even inside an expensive, hand tailored yacht, noise managed to get in, and she had trouble hearing exactly what was being said.

But Tate could definitely hear voices, muffled as they were. The woman was definitely in his room. They were talking. There was giggling. Possibly a groan from him. Definitely a moan from her. More giggling. Tate wanted to puke. She pushed away from the door, hurried back to her room. Paced up and down the hallway. Took deep breaths through her nose. Tried to remember a happier time, a time when she would've been excited for him to sleep with someone else.

 

“... I want to know everything.”

“Really? You want to know everything? Like how I tied one girl down ..., things like that?”

“Exactly like that.”

 

She had no control over her body. Tate stormed down the hallway and burst through his door, before she'd even coherently thought about it. His room was large, a huge bed in black sheets taking up most of it. Jameson was standing next to it, and the maid was standing in front of him. Both had turned towards the doorway when Tate made her dramatic entrance. Jameson cocked up an eyebrow.

“Yes?” he asked. Tate clenched her hand around the door knob. Took a deep breath.

“I'm bored,” she spit out.

Oh, good one. Very good. Very cool. Breezy, even.

“Hmmm. So hearing about it isn't enough anymore, you want to watch?” Jameson clarified, peeling his shirt off and throwing it to the floor. The maid was asking something in Spanish, but he ignored her, just wrapped an arm around her waist. Tate shrugged.

“There's no TV in my room. You threw my phone overboard. You made Sandy leave. I need something to entertain me,” she replied. He chuckled, his voice low and evil sounding, and moved to kneel on the bed, pulling the maid along.

He grabbed the other girl by the back of the head, pulling her close. He said something softly to her, all in Spanish. She laughed, giving Tate a sideways look, before pressing herself against Jameson. Her hands ran up his sides, her lips pressed to his chest. Tate took another deep breath. Willed away the bile in her throat.

He lowered the other lady to the bed, propped himself up over her, but Jameson's eyes stayed locked on Tate's, a curious sort of detachment sitting in his blue depths. A woman was rubbing her body and her tongue against his bare skin, but he didn't seem to really care. He was entirely focused on Tate.

Maid-lady didn't care one bit. She seemed excited just to be there. She moaned, hissed things in Spanish, put her hands all over his body, ignored the fact that anyone else was even in the room. It made Tate angry. That was her property the woman was touching. In a previous life, Tate could have happily imagined herself sitting on the sidelines, watching Jameson fuck somebody else. But not right now, not when she hadn't had a chance to reclaim what was rightfully hers.

God, I am so fucked up. Ang is right, I should seek therapy.

Tate slowly walked forward, keeping her eyes on Jameson's. Of course, he knew what she wanted. He always knew. He didn't say a word, just crawled over and off of the maid, till he was kneeling at the foot of the bed. When Tatum reached him, he didn't even pause to see what her intentions were, he just wrapped one arm around her waist and yanked her close. His other hand went in to her hair, pinning her in place while he kissed her.

Tate raked her fingers through his hair, digging her nails into his scalp, dragging them all the way down to his back. She felt like she was starving for that moment. She was well aware of the fact that the maid was now pressed against his back, licking her way across his shoulders. Tate couldn't decide whether it was a turn on, or just a nuisance.

She pulled him forward, pulling him off the bed. He took over, moving her backwards, and they fell across the room, her back landing hard against a wall. She gasped against his mouth, slid her leg up and down his, tickled her fingers down his sides. The maid reappeared then, and stepped up to his side. Tried to become part of the act. Wrapped an arm around his shoulders and kissed at his ear.

But when the maid's free hand slid onto Tate's hip, fun time was over. If she was going to be stupid enough to have sex with Jameson, it was not going to be in a threesome, not after having been denied his body for the last three months. She wanted him to herself. This was not an all-you-can-eat buffet. This was dinner for two. And it was suddenly over-crowded.

I'm so much worse than him. He knows what he's doing – I pretend to be ignorant. Poor girl. Shouldn't have been eye-fucking him in front of me. Tacky.

“She leaves,” Tate breathed against his mouth.

She didn't have to say anything else. Jameson pulled away and grabbed the woman by the arm, forcing her away from him. The maid seemed surprised, and she started speaking rapid fire Spanish, her hand sliding up Jameson's chest. He grabbed it, held it away from himself. Tate stepped away from the mix.

“Vayasé, venga mañana y le pagare el doble de su salario,” he told her. Tate understood “salary” and “tomorrow”, but that was it.

Maid-lady understood it all, and didn't like it, apparently. She gestured violently at Tate, her voice loud and rough sounding. She stomped back to the bed, grumbling and glaring, grabbing her jacket and slipping on her shoes.

“Hey, don't give me attitude. You saw me get on the boat with him,” Tate said, not caring whether or not the woman could understand her.

The maid stepped up close to her, and Tate groaned inwardly. Normally, she never had problems with other women. She got along great with most women. She had never once in her life fought over a man. Now, twice in one night, she was finding herself in heated “discussions” over Jameson.

I'm so pathetic.

Tate was fully aware that this little problem was her own doing, but she didn't care – the maid knew that Jameson had a female guest staying on the boat. Had seen her sitting on Jameson's lap, but that hadn't stopped the lady from hitting on him. Tate knew the rules, because she was the maid; she had been in the same position, had been the slutty-help. If she saw a man with another woman, and that man then hit on Tatum – first woman got first dibs. That's just how the slutty-cookie crumbled. Maid-lady could deal with it.

The Spanish woman got even closer, her eyes narrowed. Jameson was saying something in Spanish, his tone not happy. Maid-lady's voice was getting louder, her arm gestures violent. She was hissing at Tate through clenched teeth, and Tate didn't have to speak Spanish to know that none of it was good. She also knew what the words “perra” and “puta” meant; not exactly complimentary, and they were being said, a lot. Still, Tate wasn't going to do anything.

At least, not until the bitch touched her.

When the woman jabbed her pointed fingers into Tate's shoulder, she lost it a little bit. Her grasp on sanity was tenuous, at best. She pulled away from Jameson, yelling at the woman to fuck off. Maid-lady yelled back in Spanish, pushing again. Tate yelled some more in English, daring the woman to touch her again. Jameson snapped at both of them to shut the fuck up. But when the other woman shoved Tate hard enough to knock her back into Jameson's chest, it was over. Tate was done with being pushed around. By Jameson, by circumstance, by life in general, and by whory-maids in particular.

Tate went to shove the woman back, planting her hands on the maid's shoulders. Maid-lady apparently expected that, and began windmilling her arms. Tate ducked her head. She still wasn't much of a scrapper, hadn't been in many fights. But she could fight like a girl with the best of them, so she swung her arms as well, and it turned into an all-out shrieking, slapping, scratching, hair pulling, cat-fight.

It didn't last very long. One strong pull with one arm, and Jameson had them separated. Tate fell back onto the bed while he picked up the maid, carried her shouting form from the room. The door swung shut behind him, and Tate could only listen as he took the maid out onto the deck.

Tate covered her face with her hands, trying not to think about what she had just done, what she had just taken part in. She felt so stupid. So stupid. She wasn't going to do anything sexual with Jameson. She wasn't going to fight over Jameson. She wasn't going to embarrass herself over Jameson. Now, all three had been done in the span of a couple hours.

She heard the door open, but she didn't bother looking. She felt him start to kneel over her. His hands spanned her waist, pushing her. Sliding her back on the bed, over the covers. Then his knees came to rest on either side of her thighs, his hands planted on the mattress next to her head.

“Tate,” Jameson's voice was serious.

“No,” she replied, her voice muffled by her hands.

“Tatum, look at me,” he ordered. She shook her head.

“No.”

He leaned back and she felt his hands on her own. He peeled them away from her face, then moved them to the bed. Pinned them down. Hovered his mass over her own. She wanted him to let go. To feel his weight on her, pressing her down. She hated him. Hated herself a little.

“Why do you play these little games? You're not very good at them,” Jameson told her, his voice soft. She sighed, not meeting his eyes.

“Because I don't want to lose,” she replied.

“You always lose.”

“I know. Odds are, I have to come out on top, at least once,” she tried to joke.

“I don't want to hurt you.”

“You always want to hurt me.”

“No.”

“I'm just a game to you.”

“No. Tatum, it doesn't have to be a game,” Jameson's voice grew quiet, and he lowered his head, his breath hot against her neck. She struggled to remember how to breathe. Tried not to notice how amazing it all was, the things coming out of his mouth.

“I wouldn't be here if it wasn't a game,” she replied.

“Yes, you would. Just like you were at my apartment seven years ago. Just like you were in my office four months ago. This isn't going away,” he warned her. Tate stared at the ceiling.

“I want it to go away,” she whispered. Jameson shook his head, and she felt his lips on her chest.

“Don't say that.”

His mouth moved to hers, and there was nothing she could do about it. Sex between them had never been romantic, not even in the end – Tate was pretty sure she'd never had “romantic” sex. But when Jameson kissed her, she could feel it. However the love songs wanted to put it, that's how she felt it. In her heart, in her toes, in her spleen, in her hair follicles, everywhere. There was no stopping it. It was going to happen. So why not go with it? Why not just give in?

Just sink down, down, down in to that pool. Under, so deep, you won't want to come back.

“Excuse me, sir.”

Jameson pulled away, but he kept his eyes locked on hers. Tate stared, wide eyed, right back at him. She had been perilously close to the edge, and he knew it. He had been one step and a few articles of clothing short of winning their little game. He'd almost had her.

It was too close for comfort.

“Sir.”

It was Sanders, banging on the bedroom door. Jameson sighed and sat up, resting on his heels. Tate stayed laying down underneath him. Didn't move a muscle. Tried to blend in with the bed spread.

“What are you doing here?” Jameson barked out, running a hand through his hair.

“I assume you are aware that there is a very angry woman on the upper deck, throwing all of your furniture into the ocean,” came the reply. Jameson grumbled and slid backwards off the bed.

“It never ends,” he growled before prowling to the door.

Tate stayed laying down, long after he left the room. She could hear the shouting now, the lady cursing in Spanish. Then there were soft footsteps, and suddenly Sanders was sitting on the bed next to her. She heard movement, followed by his hand coming to rest on her knee, his touch light.

“Are you alright?” he asked. She shrugged.

“As good as I was the last time you saw me,” she replied.

“Pardon me, but that wasn't very good,” he pointed out. She finally laughed.

“No, I guess it wasn't, and I'm probably a lot worse now.”

“May I ask what happened?”

“Ran into Pet. Almost accidentally had a threesome. Got into a fight. The usual.”

Sanders actually laughed at that, and it set Tate off. She snorted and chuckled, and he laid down next to her. While her eyes watered and she shook with laughter, she reached over and grabbed his hand. Squeezed it tightly.

“You do have a knack for getting into trouble,” he told her. She nodded.

“That I do. Sandy, tell me what I should do,” her voice fell into a breathy whisper.

“You should stop playing games, both of you. Say how you feel, mean what you say,” he replied bluntly.

“Anyone else would tell me that I need to figure it out on my own,” she told him. Sanders snorted.

“Then it wouldn't happen. The solution seems very simple to me, I don't understand what the problem is,” he said. Tate sighed.

“Because it's not simple, Sandy. I don't trust him.”

“But you trust me?”

“Yes.”

“Then trust me when I say this isn't a game to him.”

She wasn't able to pick his brain anymore, though, because Jameson strode back into the room. He was still shirtless, and now had claw marks going down his chest. Sexy. Tate started laughing again, the hand pressed to her mouth doing nothing to hide it. Jameson glared at her, then at Sanders.

“You. What do you want?” he demanded. Sanders sighed and sat up.

“I was listening to my Bach. Petrushka showed up at the apartment,” was all Sanders said. Tate laughed even harder.

“I can't catch a fucking break,” Jameson groaned, sitting down on the bed on the other side of her.

“I will retire to my room here, for the night. Tomorrow, you can speak with the management of the building,” Sanders informed him before getting up and walking out of the room.

“You can stop now,” Jameson said, but Tate still couldn't get herself under control. It wasn't until his palm pressed against her thigh that she came out of it. She scrambled out from under his touch, practically slithering sideways off the bed.

“It's been a long night. Sandy's right, we should go to bed,” she said quickly, her nerves evident in her voice. Jameson chuckled.

“Scared, scared, scared. You used to be so tough, baby girl,” he told her. She pulled at her clothing, straightening herself out, not wanting him to see how much his words affected her. How badly her hands were shaking.

She hated being afraid.

“Yeah, well, a week in a psych ward can cure you of just about anything.”

Then she strode out of the room, not even giving him a backwards glance.