Separation (15 page)

Petrushka. Went. Ballistic.
Started shrieking at the security guard in some language Tate didn't quite recognize, maybe Russian. There was a flurry of activity and several more guards showed up, along with important looking suit-man. All the while, Pet kept shouting, pointing an accusing finger at Tatum. Tate just smiled back, gave a small wave. By then, Jameson had leaned away so he could take in the commotion, though both his arms remained around her waist.

“Your girlfriend is a real catch,” Tate commented, watching as the security team began bustling Pet away. Jameson snorted.

“Yeah, and what's even stranger –
I don't have a girlfriend,
” he replied, and then she felt his tongue tracing along the neckline of her shirt. She glanced down at him.

Her heart was skipping beats, she was pretty sure. She had been kissing him for show, to piss off Petrushka. Tate didn't really want to be doing this, not with him. She should let him go, get off of him. Go take twelve cold showers, then fly the fuck back to Boston. She could work out the reappearance of her sex drive with Ang, just like old times.

But she couldn't move.

“
Jameson,
” she breathed his name. He lifted his head, but didn't look at her. He kept his eyes on her chest.

“Hmmm?” he replied, lifting a hand and tracing a finger along her breast bone. Down in to her cleavage. Pulling slightly at her shirt. She licked her lips.

Do not do this. Do not do this. Do not do this.

“We shouldn't do this,” she whispered. He quirked up an eyebrow and finally looked at her, his intense blue eyes boring holes into her head. Into her soul. She had never handled his stare very well. He continued slowly rubbing his finger up and down her skin.

“And why is that?” he asked, his eyes hooded and sexy. Tate cleared her throat, looked away from him.

“Because I don't want to.”

“I wasn't the one who just sexually assaulted another person while they were in the middle of a conversation,” Jameson pointed out with a laugh.

“Yeah, but I only did that because of
her,
” Tate admitted. His finger stilled, then moved, tracing along the edge of her shirt until his whole hand was cupping her breast. She closed her eyes. It felt like it had been so long since anyone had touched her like that. Since
he
had touched her.

“Really. That was a pretty dirty game to play, baby girl,” Jameson said in a low voice, his palm gliding back and forth. She took a deep breath and opened her eyes. Stared down at him.

“
I learned from the best,
” she whispered.

He stood up abruptly, but held onto her, so she couldn't fall. Tate's legs went out from under her and she had to stay on her tip toes as Jameson forced her backwards. Out of the VIP. Down the narrow little hallway, past the bathrooms. He stopped by the last door, a large “
SALIDA
” sign casting a read glow over both of them. All the oxygen rushed out of her lungs as she stared up at him.

Satan is most definitely back.

“You didn't learn well enough,” Jameson growled at her, his hands on her hips, fingers digging in to her flesh.

“How so?” she breathed.

“You're still a horrible fucking liar.”

His mouth was on hers, punishing her with his roughness, and she was powerless against him. Like always. Any sort of self preservation flew out the window.
Coherent thought
flew out the fucking window. She wasn't pain, anymore. She wasn't hurt, or memories, or anger. She was just Tatum again. Tatum with Jameson.

Finally
.

She moaned and pressed her hips against his, dug her nails in to the back of his neck. His hands pressed flat against her waist, then slid up her body until they were covering her breasts, squeezing before they worked their way back down to her butt. She pushed back against him, and he let her move them across the hallway, till it was his back against a wall.

Tate was back on her tip toes, her teeth skimming the corded muscles in his neck. Tongue trailing along his clavicle. Jameson's hand was in her hair, but it was gentle, and he turned them again, so she was once again pinned between him and the wall. She moaned loudly, and his mouth was back on hers like she had called for him. Tate couldn't get enough. She had always been an addict, and he was a drug. She wanted more. More than that, more than he was giving.
All
that he had to give.

She felt his hand on her bare thigh, and then he was roughly grabbing at her, lifting her leg to his hip. Trying to get closer to her, as close as their clothing would allow. She stretched her leg out, pressing her toes against the wall across from them. Jameson sunk his whole body down, kissing his way to her breasts, and then he grabbed her butt, lifting her as he stood up straight. Her legs went around his waist. She felt drunk. She felt
wasted
. She didn't care where she was, or what she was doing. As long as it went on and on and on and on and …,

“You're coming home with me,” Jameson breathed against her mouth. Tate nodded, running her hands down his chest, pulling at his shirt, working her way underneath.

“Yes,” she whispered, groaning when she felt skin beneath her fingertips. She scratched her nails around to his back.

I know this land.

“No more bullshit,” he continued, kissing her throat. He lifted one hand away from her ass, skimmed his fingers along the waistband of her shorts.

“No,” she shook her head, mimicking his movements as she trailed her fingers around his belt.

“I want you. You want me,” he stated, moving his fingers to the top of her shirt and yanking it down, exposing all of her cleavage, down to her bra.

“
Yes,
” Tate agreed. Her hands were on auto-pilot, sliding his belt out of its buckle. This was her job, after all. She was so good at it.

“It has been three months, Tate,” Jameson groaned, raking his fingers across her breasts.

“
Oh my god.
”

“I'
m
going to be inside of you tonight. We can't stop this.”

“I know. I want ...,”

She was in a dream. A love-drunk haze, it had always enveloped her when she was in Jameson's presence. Tate had been stupid to think that a simple near-death experience had cured her of it. His lips, his body, his words, none of that could snap her out of it. But his hand. His hand, creeping onto her throat, seemingly of its own volition,
that
stopped her.

He felt it, too. She could see it in his eyes. It was like they were both waking up. Jameson's absolute favorite body part, on
any
woman, was the throat. Tate knew this, because her favorite body part for him to touch was her throat. It was like a calling card, a stamp,
a brand
. At night, she would dream about his fingers around her throat. Pray for them. Sure, before him, she'd had men grab her by the throat. But no one did it
quite
like him. He did it like it was something he
needed
to do, like he had to do it because he
owned
her.

Probably because he does.

Her feet hit the ground with a thud. Tate stared at him, her hands still gripping his belt. One of his hands was still on her ass. The other rested
just
below her throat, pressed across her clavicle, his index finger stretched halfway up her trachea.

Such a sexy word
.

“Too much for you, baby girl?” Jameson asked in a soft voice, a smile on his lips as he gently tapped his finger against her throat. She swallowed thickly, tried to collect her thoughts in a flash.

“No. I'm just not going to suck your dick in some Spanish night club,” she replied.

Oh, there's some bravado! Almost sounded believable, too! A for effort, you stupid bitch
.

“You were about to,” Jameson called her out. Tate snorted.

“Then why aren't I?” she asked, letting him go. He finally stepped away, and she hated that she missed his warmth.

“Because. You're scared of me. I'll have to work on that,” he told her.

“I'm not scared of you,” she argued. He laughed.

“You're terrified. But sometimes, that can make things interesting. Let's go home,” he said, and then he just walked away, leaving her standing there alone in a horny, confused, breathless, puddle.

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.