“You can't just do that! You can't just grab people, and shake them until they do what you want! You can't just -,” Tate was shouting, when he reached out and clamped a hand over her mouth. She went to move away, but his other hand was at the back of her head, holding her in place. He forced her forward, till their foreheads were almost meeting.
“Stop. Yelling,” he growled at her. She tried to tell him off, but it all sounded like womp wuh womp womp from behind his hand. “I am going to take my hand away. You are going to be quiet. Yes?” She managed a nod, and he slowly removed his hand from her mouth.
“DON'T YOU EVER FUCKING -,” she started to shriek.
The hand on the back of her head bunched in to a fist, and before Tate knew what was happening, Jameson was pulling her hair. Snapping her head back. The sting caused her to gasp and her hands flew to his chest. Not to push him away, but to keep herself from falling into him. She was stunned, and by the look on his face, he seemed more than a little surprised, too.
In their past life, it would have been normal. Even expected. Jameson telling Tate not to do something, or she'd be punished. She does it to get punished. He pulls her hair, she loves it. The way other people kiss cheeks or hug, Jameson and Tate had pain. Pleasure. It was second nature to them, a second language. How easy it was to fall back into old habits.
Being with Jameson is like doing heroin. Highly addictive and highly lethal.
She stared up at him, frozen in place. In all their time together, over the course of those two months, she had never felt out of her depth with him, or out of her league. But in that moment, right then, suddenly Tate was that eighteen-year-old girl again, standing with him in his bedroom. Excited. Nervous. Scared. Unsure of herself, of what was going on, of what he was going to do. Back then, there had only been one thing she had been sure of – that she wanted him to do whatever he wanted.
It was unsettling to know that deep down, she still felt that way.
“Scared, baby girl?” Jameson asked softly, his eyes roaming over her face. She cleared her throat.
“Bored would be a better word to use,” she managed to reply. A smile slowly spread across his face, one she hadn't seen in a long time.
Satan, finally.
“It's nice to see there's still some fight left in you,” he told her.
“You have no idea.”
When he lowered his mouth to hers, Tate told herself she could handle it. It was just a kiss. She had kissed dozens of guys. Hundreds. Maybe more, who knew. This was just another man. Another mouth. She held herself still, closed her eyes.
She almost cried. That someone who caused her so much pain, could bring her so much pleasure, just wasn't right. Wasn't fair. His lips were soft, almost gentle, and made to fit her own. The hand he had tangled in her hair let go, his fingers massaging her scalp. She moaned and pressed against him. Tried to melt into him.
Who's winning now?
When he kissed her once more, twice, a third time, she didn't stop it. When his tongue ran along her bottom lip before plunging into her mouth, she didn't stop it. When his hand was back to tugging her hair, she didn't stop it. But when Jameson's free hand slid onto her hip, touched bare skin at her waist, it was like a cattle prod. Tate practically leapt out of her skin. Her eyes flew open and she broke the kiss, gasping in air as she stepped away from him. He chuckled.
“See? Scared,” Jameson whispered, running his thumb across her bottom lip.
Pool. You were half naked in a pool. You could have drowned. He may not have put you there, but he didn't help you get out, either. He doesn't care. He does not care.
“No,” Tate coughed out, then cleared her throat. “No, not scared. Just not that easy anymore.”
“Oh god, then I might just be wasting my time,” Jameson laughed. She glared at him.
“I already told you that you were. Now pick up my shit,” she snarled, pointing at her purse before stomping away.
There. Who's tough shit now!?
*
She certainly felt like shit, when she woke up the next day. Tate felt like she had a hangover. Gross. Headache. Body aches. Self loathing really did a body in; she had tossed and turned for the better part of the night, resisting the urge to find Jameson and finish what they had started.
She had only been there for two mornings, but both times, food had magically been laid out in the galley, buffet style. He probably kept elves chained up in the bilge. She bypassed the eggs and settled on an ungodly amount of bacon and coffee, before heading out onto the bow to join him. He was looking fresh as a daisy, showered and clean shaven. She missed the stubble.
Fucker.
“Morning. You're looking particularly lovely,” Jameson commented, not even bothering to look up from his newspaper. She grunted.
“Shut up. Where's Sanders?” Tate asked around a mouthful of bacon.
“He went on an errand, he'll be back later. Anything in particular you'd like to do today?” he asked.
“I don't know, aren't you supposed to be 'wooing' me, or something? This is all pointless. I mean, so far I've been chastised for shopping, denied lobster, man-handled, and insulted. It's almost embarrassing, how badly you're failing at this,” she taunted him. He folded the paper shut.
“'Wooing' is most definitely not the word I would use, and you used to love being man-handled,” he reminded her as he sipped at his coffee.
“That was before I was man-handled straight into the deep end of a swimming pool.” It was a low-blow, and completely unfair, but she couldn't resist the dig.
“I think we should make up some rules for our little game. No rubbing my past mistakes in my face every five minutes,” Jameson told her. She snorted.
“Fuck that, cause it's not gonna happen. Have you ever had your stomach pumped? Been committed? I'll say anything I fucking want to,” Tate snapped. He rolled his eyes.
“I guess we need to work on trust in our relationship.”
“We don't have a relationship.”
“Let's go on the boat,” he suddenly said. A piece of bacon fell out of her mouth.
“Huh?”
“You don't have any plans today, neither do I. Let's go on a boat ride,” he suggested.
“You're gonna take this behemoth on the water, by yourself?” she asked. Jameson laughed.
“I have, but no. I was talking about the other boat.”
The way she was feeling, Tate didn't think a jaunt on a speed boat sounded like very much fun. But she knew if she protested, he would just get more pleasure out of it. She grumbled and ate more bacon.
“Fine,” she finally spit out.
“Wonderful. I'll get it ready,” Jameson started as he stood up. He picked something up off the table and handed it to her. “Don't forget to put this away, you don't want to lose it.”
She looked up to see him holding out her passport. She slowly took it from him, looking it over. She didn't remember ever giving it to him. Or even taking it out in front of him. It had been in her purse since she'd gotten off the airplane.
“Where did you find it?” Tate asked.
“On the deck, last night. Remember? You told me to 'pick up your shit',” he reminded her, smiling down at her.
Oh god.
“Oh. Yeah. Where's the rest of it?” she asked, glancing around. They were eating at the same table they had been dining at the night before, but she didn't see her bag anywhere.
“Well, since no one has ever said those words to me before, I couldn't quite figure out what they meant. I thought about waking Sanders up so he could explain them to me, but that seemed silly, so I figured I should just sweep it all under a rug,” Jameson replied, strolling across the deck towards the back of the boat. She looked at the floor.
“Jameson. You don't have any rugs,” she called out.
“I know. So I kicked your shit overboard.”
Tate dashed to the railing and looked over the edge. Of course she couldn't see anything. She groaned and let her head
fall forward. He had kicked her purse into the ocean. Of course. Stupid woman. She should've known better. She was lucky he had even bothered to save her passport. God, her keys, her money, her wallet, everything was now at the bottom of the harbor.
At the thought of her wallet, though, she perked up. Jameson's black American Express card was still in her wallet. Ha ha ha. And the day before she had bought three handbags, from three ridiculously expensive designers. The ocean could keep her Kate Spade knock off. Tate started laughing, and didn't stop till she was back in her bedroom.
A shower improved her attitude even more, and by the time she put on some new clothes and went upstairs, she felt human again. Better than human. She felt like herself, and she hadn't felt that way in a long time. She tried not to think about the fact that Jameson had something to do with it.
Like always.
He was sitting in the speed boat with the engine idling, leaning over the side to talk to their neighbor. Tate made her way down the plank thingy and then stood at the back of the smaller boat, waiting for Jameson to finish so he could help her on board. The man he was talking to finally noticed her and smiled, giving a tilt of his head before going back to his own boat. Jameson turned towards her, then stood still.
She was wearing a pair of extremely short denim cut-offs, paired with a slouchy, long sleeve, dolman style top. It draped off one shoulder and was cropped in the front, showing a slice of stomach. She had yanked her hair up in to a messy ponytail and then shoved on a pair of aviator sunglasses, but hadn't bothered with shoes.
“Welcome back,” Jameson blurted out. Tate raised her eyebrows.
“Excuse me?”
“You were hiding behind those Stepford-wife clothes. This is the real you. Welcome back,” he stressed as he walked towards her. She rolled her eyes.
“Clothes don't make a person, Jameson,” she pointed out. He held a hand out to her and she took it.
“No,” he agreed, and helped her down onto the back of the boat. He wrapped an arm around her waist, holding her steady as the water rocked them. “But sometimes they can improve the scenery.”
Tate snorted and pushed away from him. She couldn't be physically close to him, not after what had happened the night before; two more minutes of kissing, and she would've been on her knees. Bent over a table. Laid out flat. All his. She had to stay strong. She would win this game.
“Where are we going?” she asked, plopping into the passenger seat. He cast off from the dock and sat down to her right, behind the wheel.
“Just around. Thought we'd take her out, really open her up,” he replied, easing the boat away from the yacht and slowly pulling away from the marina.
“Sounds oddly familiar,” Tate mumbled, and Jameson laughed.
“Someone decided to be feisty today. I like it.”
They were silent as he made his way around the marina and past the jetty. There were a couple of other boats out and about, some small ones zipping around, and a sailboat in the distance, but that was it. The water was actually pretty calm. It was Marbella's slow season, Jameson explained, that's why the harbor wasn't overflowing with people.
“How long have you been here?” Tate asked, talking louder as they picked up speed.
“About a month and a half,” he replied.
“Living on the boat?”
“No, I have an apartment in town. I was having the boat resealed. It got finished about a week before your birthday,” he said.
“Ah. That's when you planned all this.”
“I had a back up plan,” Jameson assured her. “If the boat wasn't going to be ready, Sanders was going to take you to Denmark.”
“I've been to Denmark. I wouldn't have been as impressed,” Tate replied.
“So you've been impressed. Good to know.”
Dammit.
“How did you talk Sanders into all this?” she changed the subject a little.
“When I left, I made him promise that he would help me. When I told him I wanted you brought to me, he jumped on the idea. Almost everything else was his planning, his doing. I would've just hired a private plane, but he insisted on flying commercial,” Jameson told her.
If they had flown private, Tate would have known Jameson was behind it. Sanders was clever.
“I'm still a little surprised by him, that he would trick me like that. We've ..., grown close,” she started to explain. Jameson snorted and the boat jumped in speed. They were going so fast, they were skipping across the ocean like a stone. Whump, whump, whump.
“Obviously.”
“Not like that. We're friends. He knows how I feel about you. I wouldn't have thought he'd pull something like this,” she tried to clarify.
“And how do you feel about me?” Jameson asked. Tate paused for a while.
“It's certainly not a good feeling,” she assured him. He laughed.
“You know he wants this, right? We're like estranged parents that he's trying to get back together. It's all very sweet,” he told her. She laughed as well.
“We were never together, so it's going to be pretty hard going for him.”
“Tatum,” Jameson's voice was serious as he looked over at her. They were zipping along at incredible speeds, but he kept his eyes locked on her face. “We were 'together' for a lot longer than either one of us wants to admit.”
He yanked the wheel to the left, hard, and she felt her heart drop down in to her stomach. Whether it was from the boat, or his words, she couldn't be sure. Before she could ponder it, he whipped the boat in a tight circle, sending up a huge wave. Tate clung to the railing, struggling to keep from being thrown overboard. Before she could get her bearings, he gunned the engine, and the boat leapt forward, inertia thrusting her back into her seat. She felt like she was in a wind tunnel, a jet engine blasting air and water into her face.
This is amazing.
Jameson had always known how to show her a good time, and not just in the naughty sense. It was like without communicating, he just knew the things she would like; what clothing she would like to wear, what foods she preferred to eat, movies she would want to see. She had never really noticed it before, but when she found herself thinking a ride on a speed boat was the best time she'd had since September, she realized it. In his own backwards, domineering way, Jameson liked to indulge her. Tate was blown away.
This is going to be harder than you thought, stupid girl.
After scaring her a couple more times with some tight turns, and weaving in and out of buoys, Jameson finally slowed down. Took them well away from town and other boats, then threw out the anchor. Tate was about to ask if he was planning on killing her and dumping her body, when his phone rang. He took the call, standing at the very end of the boat with his back to her.
Tate crawled her way out onto the bow, dragging some cushions with her. She had thought they would just go out for a quick spin, so she hadn't brought her bathing suit. She stretched herself out and pushed up her sleeves, rolled up the bottom of her top so it was right under her breasts. Then she yanked up the legs of her shorts as absolutely high as they would go, before unbuttoning the top and rolling it down. She wanted to soak up as much sun as possible before she went home. Winters in Boston were cruel.
She didn't know how long she laid like there that, but it was long enough to almost doze off. She wasn't aware of Jameson until he was standing right over her.
“You can just get naked, Tate. I won't be offended,” he offered. She managed a snort and put her hands behind her head, not opening her eyes.
“Keep dreaming, Kane,” she told him.
“It is a sort of recurring thing for me lately.”
“Dreaming about me naked?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Cause that's all you'll ever have.”
“You always make these threats, you realize,” he started, and she heard him move. He knelt next to her. “That first time, threatening to walk out of my apartment. Then when you came to my office, warning me that we wo
uld never happen. You're like an anti-prophet. By proclaiming that it won't be, I think you're actually hoping it will.”
Tate didn't answer him. Didn't want to think about it. With every person she'd ever had sex with, it had always been just that – sex. Every boyfriend she'd ever had, Ang, an accidental orgy, all just sex. Jameson was the only one it was different with; it had never been just sex. Tate could admit that, even if it wasn't the same for him. It had always been something else to her. If she slept with him again, she would be in danger of getting confused again. She had to keep her guard up.
“I think you like to interpret things however best suits your moods and opinions,” she replied. Jameson laughed.
“Very true.”
They were silent for a while after that. She didn't know what he was doing, because she was too scared to open her eyes and look at him. Then, suddenly, she felt his fingertips against her stomach. Tracing around her hip bone, then lightly up to the edge of her shirt. Back down again. No nails, no scratching, so it was different coming from him, but it still caused her to shiver. She squirmed under his touch.
“How long did she stay?” Tate blurted out.
One of these days, I will have to develop a filter.
“Excuse me?”
“Pet. How long did she stay with you?” she asked, licking her lips nervously. Jameson was quiet for a long time.
“She didn't. I made her leave that night, with everyone else,” he finally replied, his voice soft.
“Poor girl.”
“It was better than she deserved.”
“I saw you with her, in the kitchen.”
“Really?”
“Yes. She was whispering sweet-nothings to you in German,” Tate told him. She didn't know where this was all coming from, she hadn't intended on talking about anything personal with him.
“It's a good thing you don't speak German. There was nothing sweet about what she was saying,” Jameson replied, and his voice was no longer soft.
“Looked pretty cozy to me. She was probably devastated. I know how I felt when I found out you were fucking another woman, it wasn't exac-,”
Separation (The Kane Trilogy Book 2) Page 10