“My god, she says something nice to me. I didn't think it would ever happen again.”
“Don't get used to it.”
“Tatum, I want you to know, I always -,”
Stop him. It's too much. You'll overflow. Shut down. Break down. Fall apart.
“Have you owned this boat long?” she interrupted, lifting her head away from him. He sighed.
“Years. I bought it after I left Harrisburg,” he answered.
“Did you -,”
“Tate, since when do you give a fuck about boats?” Jameson demanded. She laughed and stepped away from him.
“Since you tricked me in to staying on one. Very dirty game, Mr. Kane,” she teased him.
“I'm not playing any game.”
Tate almost swallowed her tongue. She didn't know what to say to that, so she chose to ignore it.
“Your bath is full,” she told him.
“Our bath. C'mon.”
It was big enough to fit both of them. She asked for bubbles, and he gave her a dirty look, but he did turn on some jets. Tate pressed him against the side of the tub and then settled herself in front of him, between his legs. He wrapped his arms around her waist and she fought down a feeling of panic.
How can someone who bears such a striking resemblance to Satan be so lovable!?
“God, this feels good,” she groaned, sinking down so the water was up to her chin. Jameson's hands crept onto her shoulders, began massaging her.
“Good. I thought you'd like it. I had it installed before you got here,” he told her. She perked up.
“This tub is new?” she questioned.
“This whole bathroom was completely remodeled,” he answered.
“Why?”
“It was too small before, I wanted enough room for both of us to move around.”
“You had awfully high hopes.”
“Only the highest.”
“Seems kinda extravagant,” Tate told him.
“You deserve it,” Jameson whispered in her ear.
She couldn't handle him talking to her like that, not if she wanted to win this little game. They'd had sex, and they would most definitely be having sex again – like in the next five minutes – but that didn't mean she had lost. That didn't mean she couldn't still walk away unscathed. It was just sex.
Right. Sure it is.
Tate pulled away from him, turned around and laid against him. Jameson kept trying to talk – it was obvious he wanted to tell her things. Things she wanted to hear. Things she probably needed to hear. But she wasn't falling for that trick again. She ran her tongue along his skin, her hands along his body. The devil was surprisingly easy to distract and soon enough, neither of them were thinking about talking.
See? That wasn't so hard. Now, just don't think about tomorrow ...
~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 g
lasses. 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.”
Separation (The Kane Trilogy Book 2) Page 18