Separation (The Kane Trilogy Book 2)

by Stylo Fantome

  Before he could interrogate her some more, Tate skittered away and hustled into the bathroom. She had to get herself together enough to ask him about Pet. He must have known she was in Marbella. Maybe he was mad because Pet had almost blown his cover, his secret. Maybe the worst was yet to come. Maybe Jameson's sole purpose in life was to slowly drive Tate mad. He had almost succeeded last time. Maybe he just wanted to finish the job.

  Five minutes later, she dragged herself back out of the bathroom, not feeling anymore “together” than before she had gone inside it. She dragged her feet as she walked down the hallway, dreading going back to Jameson. But just as she was about to exit the hall, she almost rammed into someone.

  “I have been waiting to meet you.”

  For someone so pretty, she sounds like she has a dick in her mouth.

  Petrushka was much taller than Tate. Both women were wearing heels, which put Pet at around six-foot-three – easily Jameson's height or taller, and well over Tatum. It made Tate feel even more insignificant. Pet was also even prettier up close than she was in all those pictures on the internet. Tate was getting smaller and smaller by the second.

  “I didn't know you were here,” Tate blurted out. She knew she had no right to be angry at Pet – Jameson had done everything. Pet had been used just as badly in his little game.

  “I knew you were here. It is why I came here. I had to see you, with my own eyes,” Pet replied. Tate swallowed thickly, glancing around.

  “I'm sorry, you know. About ..., how everything happened. I didn't know, just so you know. I didn't know he was bringing you home,” Tate stammered.

  “It was all in good fun, I think,” Pet laughed, as if she knew some sinister joke. Tate was confused.

  “Well, I didn't really see it that way.”

  “That's because you are garbage, you couldn't possibly understand the things that people like us do.”

  Tate was shocked. Here she was, assuming a kind of kinship with this woman. Sure, Jameson had painted a very psychotic picture of the supermodel – but god knew what he said about Tate when she wasn't around; she didn't trust anything that came out of his mouth. Plus, he had used Pet. Didn't that make them, like, sisters-against-the-cause? Judging by the pissed-mist rolling off of Pet, the answer was apparently fucking not.

  “Excuse me?” Tate squeaked, not sure she'd heard right.

  “You, you are ..., are trash. A silly piece of desperate trash. He uses you for his filthy sex, and that is it. He always comes back to me in the end,” Pet talked down at her.

  Tate narrowed her eyes. This was a woman scared, not gloating. Pet was threatened by Tate, that's why she was angry. She wasn't there to brag about what a cruel and sadistic joke it was, Jameson bringing Tate to Spain. Pet was there trying to scare Tate away – because she hadn't expected to see her.

  “Then why is he here with me?” Tate challenged. Pet flicked her wrist dismissively.

  “Because he is perverse. He likes rolling in the mud, he has always been this way,” she replied. Tate stepped up close to the other woman, got right up in her space.

  “You know what? I couldn't give two fucks what you think. What either of you think. He chased me here – not you, who can't seem to stop chasing after him. So who's really the desperate one? Now get the fuck out of my way, before I knock you on your ass,” Tate hissed.

  Pet seemed shocked. She probably wasn't used to someone swearing at her and threatening her with physical violence. Tate took the opportunity to brush past her. She wasn't about to fight over Jameson. He wasn't worth it, on any level.

  Though the idea of bouncing Pet's head off the ground like a tennis ball did hold a certain appeal.

  When Tate got back to the VIP area, Jameson was sitting in the same spot, but leaning backwards over the couch a little, talking to the man in the suit. Tate was pretty sure suit-man was the owner of the club, the gifter of the cognac. She sat down beside Jameson, tucking her feet up under herself. She was feeling hot after her run-in with Pet. Flustered. A little giddy. She had just confronted a nightmare, and instead of melting in to a self-loathing puddle, she had threatened to beat its ass. She felt amazing.

  I can do this. I can win this game. I can knock this game out of the park.

  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw movement. Pet was sidling up to the edge of the VIP section. A new security guard was in place, and she was getting the same turn down Tate had received. As Pet argued with the guard, her eyes flicked to Tate, then glared. Tate glared right back. Then Pet reached out, running her fingers down the lapel of the guard's suit. The man laughed, obviously not immune to Petrushka's stunning good looks. It wouldn't be long before she weaseled her way into the sitting area. How awkward would that be? Jameson would probably love it. Just sit back, sip his cognac, and watch the two women wrestle around on the floor. Awesome.

  Or he could walk away with her, leaving you a broken mess, floating back in that pool.

  No. Tate wouldn't let that happen. Not this time. She was stronger, bolder, better; she knew that, now. The only person who would be broken at the end of this would be Jameson fucking Kane. She would win this game. Without thinking about what she was doing, Tate reached out and grabbed Jameson's head, roughly pulling him away from his conversation.

  “What the fuck do you -,” he started to snap, but he was cut off. Mostly by her tongue in his mouth.

  She moaned and raised up onto her knees, yanking him even closer. One of his arms wrapped around her, the only thing keeping them balanced, what with Tate suddenly leaning all of her weight against him. His other hand still held onto his drink, keeping it out away from their bodies, obviously trying not to spill anything.

  But none of that seemed to catch Jameson off guard or slow him down. He dove in head first, went right along with her and kissed her back, his fingers digging almost painfully into her waist. She broke away to gasp in air, and he pulled her right back in, kissing her like she was priceless cognac, and he wanted every last drop.

  Tate squeezed her eyes shut tight and tried not to think. Tried not to notice how all the nerve endings in her lips were coming alive. Tried not to notice how kissing him made every hurt go away, just a little. It wasn't fair, Jameson had caused the hurts. But it was true. She felt like a live wire that needed grounding.

  As if he could read her mind – which she was pretty sure he could, he was Satan after all – he suddenly gripped her waist even tighter and leaned back into the couch, yanking her around to his front. Tate moved her legs so she was straddling him, and she suddenly, most definitely, felt grounded. Right against the massive bulge in his pants. She moaned into his mouth, raking her nails down his chest.

  Hope you love a show, Pet. Jameson and I know how to put on a good one.

  “A moment, please,” Jameson panted, before pulling far enough away to down the rest of his drink. Then he jumped right back into it, trailing his lips along her neck, down to her cleavage. Tate let her head fall back, her arms wrapped around his neck. She slid her eyes back to Pet and smiled before blowing her a kiss.

  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.

  ~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.