Separation (The Kane Trilogy Book 2)

by Stylo Fantome

  So many unshed tears. Tate was glad she was wearing his glasses, she felt like they were hiding her emotions a little bit. She took deep breaths through her nose, tried to stay calm. They were very sweet words. Words that soothed the gaping hurt in her soul. But the devil is very good when it comes to dealing with damaged souls.

  I wanted to learn about him so I could hate him more. I didn't expect his answer to make me want to forgive him. Cheating bastard.

  “We were talking about your mother,” Tate drew the conversation away from the heavy stuff. Jameson sighed and looked back over the water, wearing a look on his face that she couldn't quite decipher. Annoyance? Hurt?

  Those two shouldn't look similar …, only on you, Satan.

  “My mother and I got along great, she was an amazing person. My father wasn't exactly big on being involved in family issues. He wasn't even there when I was born. My mother is the one who named me,” he told her.

  “Oh yeah, you said your middle name was her last name,” Tate remembered the first time they had run into each other in Boston, at his firm's opening party.

  “Technically, Kraven is part of my last name. I have several middle names.”

  “You have more than one middle name?”

  “Yes. I'm a thoroughbred,” he joked.

  “What's your full name?” she asked. He sighed and dragged a finger back down her thigh, following its path with his gaze.

  “Mi nombre es Jameson ..., Santiago ..., Agustin ..., Kraven Kane,” he said it slowly, tracing the first inital of each name on her skin.

  He's branding me.

  “You have five names,” she commented softly. He nodded and glanced at her.

  “I know. It took a long time to memorize, when I was little,” he chuckled. She couldn't imagine him ever being little.

  “Santiago. I like it. Can I call you Santi?” she teased.

  “Only if you want to get slapped.”

  “Ooohhh, tempting.”

  “Is this really okay, Tate?” Jameson asked, going back to scratching his nails up and down her legs.

  “What do you mean?”

  “This. Day before yesterday, you were over me. Last night, you were ready to say you wanted to go home. Today, you're sitting here, flirting with me, half naked in my clothing. I am a little suspicious,” he warned her.

  “Sometimes, I just need a good fucking to put me in my place,” she laughed.

  “Tatum.”

  “I don't know,” she was finally serious. “I'm just tired, Jameson. I'm tired of fighting, and I'm tired of arguing, and ..., and I missed you. I hate to admit it, but I did.”

  She watched him carefully while she talked, tried to judge whether or not he believed her. His eyes were narrowed, wandering over her face. She swallowed thickly and stared right back. Prayed for him to believe her.

  He should – you're technically telling the truth. Weak bitch.

  “So. That's what you wanted to talk about? My sexual proclivities?” he asked, his fingers starting to massage her. Tate shrugged.

  “Yeah, amongst other things.”

  “I never knew they bothered you.”

  “Obviously, they don't – I love them. I was just curious, if there was something else there,” she replied.

  “And that's why you wanted to ask about my mother?” he asked. She nodded.

  “Yeah. I don't know, I used to wonder if you hated women. I thought maybe there was a reason,” she told him. Jameson laughed and grabbed her ankle, lifted her leg up so he could nibble at her calf.

  “I don't hate women, Tate. I love women,” he said, kissing his way to her ankle. “I love the way they feel, their skin, their smell. The way they taste, the sounds they make.”

  “Clearly. I just wanted to get to know you better,” she continued. He sat her leg down and grabbed her by the hips, scooting her even closer to him.

  “So what else do you want to know, baby girl?” he asked, his eyes hooded as he looked down at her. Tate licked her lips and ran a finger along the collar of his shirt.

  “Mmmm, how many women have you fucked since me,” she breathed. Jameson laughed and moved his hands to her neck, slowly undoing his tie.

  “Hmmm, how many, how many,” he wondered out loud, pulling the tie over her head and tossing it behind her.

  “Less than ten?” she asked. He looked upwards, like he was thinking hard, and took the glasses off of her.

  “I lose track of these kinds of things, so easily,” he mumbled. He sat his glasses down beside the engine parts and then went to work on the buttons of her shirt.

  “Less than twenty?” Tate pressed. It had started out as a tease, but now she wanted to know. Needed to know. Jameson finished unbuttoning and spread the shirt open, running his hands over her breasts.

  “Tatum,” he whispered, leaning her backwards till she was laying in the bottom of the boat.

  “Hmmm,” she purred, lifting her hips as he slowly pulled her bikini bottoms away.

  “I haven't slept with one single other woman since you.”

  With words like that, she would give him anything. They could play all the games they wanted, and he would always win. It was his board game, his dice, his cards. She never stood a chance against him.

  Tate had slept with a lot of guys in a lot of interesting locations, but she could safely say that in the middle of the day, on a tiny row boat, in the middle of the Mediterranean, was a first.

  *

  “Your color has improved,” Sanders commented, when he came to see them later in the day.

  “You think? I've been soaking up as much sun as possible,” Tate replied, holding out her arms to examine her skin.

  “I wasn't talking about your tan,” he told her. She laughed.

  Jameson had set a table up on the top deck. Very intimate. However, he obviously hadn't counted on Sanders crashing the party. He had glared at him the whole time while they all ate. It made Tate laugh. Jameson had finally stomped away, in search of something stronger than champagne and water.

  “It was a good New Year's party,” she replied. Sanders quirked up an eyebrow.

  “Really? I was under the impression that it was just the two of you,” he said. She smiled at him and waggled her eyebrows.

  “It was.”

  “Good. That took long enough,” Sanders said, looking out over the ocean.

  “Sandy,” she started, glancing at the stairs, listening for Jameson. “Why do you think Jameson and I are so good together?”

  “Because you are,” he replied simply. She rolled her eyes.

  “Seriously. Us being together is obviously a big deal to you. But, he doesn't want a girlfriend. I told you, he's never gonna really care about me. We're not gonna, like, be your parents, Sandy. He's going to leave me at some point,” Tate warned him. Sure, she planned on leaving Jameson before that ever happened, but she didn't think that needed to be said out loud. Sanders cleared his throat.

  “I don't think of you as my parents. I have parents. Jameson is my guardian. You are my best friend,” he corrected her. She smiled brightly, pleasantly shocked.

  “Really? Me? God, I love you, Sanders,” she gushed. He still wouldn't look at her.

  “I want you two to be together because you make Jameson happy. He makes you happy. If you would both stop trying to assume what each other are doing and thinking, and just ask each other once in a while, things would be much better between you,” he informed her.

  “You should be a marriage counselor,” she pointed out.

  “Oh god.”

  “I just don't think it's that easy, though. He's playing a game. At the end of this month, what, we're going to ride off into the sunset together? I don't think so. I'm not holding my breath for him to change,” Tate said. Sanders shrugged.

  “That shouldn't be a problem, because he already has.”

  Before she could question him further, though, Jameson came back up the stairs. Her eyes got wide as she saw the bottle he was carrying. H
e stared back at her while he took his seat, putting the bottle in the middle of the table.

  “Scared?” he asked, giving her a wolf grin. She snorted.

  “Terrified,” Tate answered honestly, her eyes traveling over the black and white label.

  “I would just like to say, I think this is a bad idea,” Sanders piped up. Jameson glanced at him.

  “No one asked you. Besides, this is for me,” he replied. Sanders cleared his throat and stood up.

  “I think I should leave. I have everything arranged for Paris, sir. We leave in seven days?” Sanders clarified. Jameson nodded, leaning back in his chair.

  “Yes. Did you book the hotel room for Angier?” he asked. Sanders nodded.

  “I did, and one for myself. Are you sure you don't want us all in one suite?” he double checked.

  “Positive. I never need to share a dwelling with Angier. My generosity has its limitations.”

  “It seems to me that it would be more cost effective if -,” Sanders started, but Jameson held up a hand.

  “We'll talk about it tomorrow. Go home,” he snapped. Tate wondered what the big deal was with not wanting to share a suite. It was already surprising enough that he didn't keep Sanders on the boat. Why the need for so much privacy?

  I knew it. He's gonna sell me in to sex slavery.

  “Very well. Good night. Good night, Tatum,” Sanders said, then hurried down the stairs.

  “That guy,” Jameson grumbled.

  “Is a very, very good guy,” Tate finished for him. He snorted.

  “He's something, that's for sure. So, I figured, since we're conquering your fears,” Jameson started, and he reached out and grabbed the bottle of Jack Daniel's. Unscrewed the cap. Tate licked her lips.

  “I haven't had any serious kind of alcohol since that night,” she warned him. He nodded.

  “I know. Sanders kept me well informed. You don't have to drink tonight, but I wanted you to have the option. I just want you to ..., feel safe. Around me,” he told her, not looking at her as he poured a shot.

  “Oh my god, Jameson,” she laughed. He glanced at her.

  “What?”

  “That was really sweet.”

  “Fuck off.”

  “And I have never felt safe around you, so you can stop trying,” she teased him.

  “You once told me that I didn't scare you,” he reminded her, sipping at the whiskey.

  “That was a long time ago. A Danish beauty and a temper tantrum have taught me otherwise,” Tate replied. Jameson sighed.

  “Never gonna stop, are you.”

  “Probably not.”

  He took the shot in one go, and then poured another. She raised her eyebrows, and it occurred to her that she had never seen Jameson drunk. Not once. He liked to drink, and drank often, but never to excess. She was suddenly very curious.

  “How about,” Tate started, sliding the bottle towards herself. “For every shot I take, you take two.” Jameson narrowed his eyes.

  “Sounds dangerous.”

  “Chicken.”

  He took his second shot, staring at her the whole time.

  “Alright. Let's do this.”

  She poured herself a shot, tried not to smell it. She knew if she smelled it, it would be that night all over again. She shuddered and tried not to think about it. Tate looked at him, concentrated on Jameson's eyes. He'd had new contacts delivered to the boat and his glasses were hidden away again. She could see his baby-blues without any hindrance. She stared at him while she took the shot.

  “One down. You owe me two,” she informed him.

  He snorted and took them back to back.

  I'm so fucked.

  Her tolerance was much lower than it used to be, Tate knew, but she had also eaten a large dinner. She took another shot a couple minutes later, then one more more about ten minutes after that; she figured she wouldn't need to do anymore. She'd had three shots – Jameson, eight. After his last one, she could definitely see a difference in him. She tried to focus, keep her head clear. She was a little drunk, but only just a little.

  “Feel it yet, baby girl?” Jameson asked, sitting his shot glass upside down.

  “Yes. Had enough?” she asked back, nodding at his glass. He shrugged.

  “I think you've had enough,” he replied. He hadn't taken his eyes off of her for about ten minutes. They were glued to her face. He wasn't slurring, but his eyes were hooded, his posture relaxed. He kept his arms folded across his chest.

  “I think so, too,” she agreed, laughing lightly. He ran his tongue across his bottom lip, slowly, and she swallowed a groan.

  “Are you drunk enough to let me be bad to you?” he asked.

  “You're always bad to me.”

  “Baby girl, you haven't seen bad in a really long time.”

  You ain't just whistlin' dixie ...

  “Jameson,” she breathed. He raised an eyebrow, his eyes on her lips.

  “Hmmm?”

  “Do you think I'm pretty?” Tate asked, then hiccuped. He burst out laughing.

  “Are you serious right now?” he asked in return. She nodded, hiccuped again. Maybe she was more than “just a little” drunk ...,

  “Yes.”

  “What a stupid fucking question. Of course I think you're pretty. You're goddamned stunning, Tate. I think you're one of the sexiest fucking women I've ever met,” Jameson replied bluntly. She beamed at him.

  “Thank you. What's your favorite part of me?” she asked, leaning on the table.

  “God, you're one of those kind of drunk girls,” he groaned. She shrugged.

  “Unfortunately. My ass?” she guessed.

  “Your pussy.”

  “Something visible, please.”

  He thought for a while.

  “I love your lips, how they look, what you can do with them. Your eyes, when you put all that shit on,” Jameson began to stand, leaning over the table. “But your body ..., mmm, Tate, your body. Everything from your neck to your knees, I want to completely devour.” He swept his arm across the table, sending all the glasses and plates and silverware crashing to the ground.

  “Good answer,” Tate whispered. He grabbed her by the back of the neck and pulled her forward, forcing her onto the table top. She knelt in front of him.

  “What did you think, the first time you saw me?” she asked as his hands raked through her hair.

  “Which time?”

  “At your office building, at that party.”

  “I thought, 'I want to fuck that caterer'.” She laughed at him. “Then when I realized it was you, I thought 'I want to fuck Tatum O'Shea.'”

  “What did you -,”

  “Stop talking about stupid shit.”

  He kissed her. Sloppily, which was a new experience, coming from Jameson. His lips covered her own, almost entirely, and she could taste the whiskey on him as his tongue filled her mouth. He pulled her roughly against him as his fingers dug into her scalp. Pulled at her hair. Made their way to the back of her neck, where he gripped hard enough for her to the feel the burn of friction. She leaned against him, and the table lurched forward, causing him to stumble to the side. Tate flattened herself as much as she could, not relishing a fall into the ocean from that height.

  “We shouldn't do this,” she panted. Jameson nodded, stepping back up to the table and grabbing her arm.

  “I know, com'ere, I'll throw the table overboard,” he suggested, trying to pull her down. She laughed.

  “No, that's not what I meant. We shouldn't do this, not while we're drunk,” she explained. Now he laughed.

  “Fuck that. You don't get to sit there and just talk about shit like that. I'm going to fuck you tonight,” Jameson told her plainly.

  “Um, I think I have a say in it, and I say, no thank you,” Tate replied with a snicker. He pulled her close and swayed towards her.

  “You really think you have a say in it?” he breathed in her ear.

  “I know I do,” she said back. He shook his head a
nd clucked his tongue, stepping away from her.

  “Stupid, stupid girl. Always making me prove you wrong,” he sighed, heading towards the stairs. She gaped as he disappeared down them, leaving her sitting on the table top.

  “Excuse me!?” she asked out loud, looking after him.

  Was that it? He was just giving up? It was sexy banter. Tate was fully prepared to fuck his brains out. He just had to work for it a little. Had things really changed that much between them? She slid off the table and followed him.

  She made it to the stairs in time to see Jameson reach the upper deck. He was lifting his arms over his head, peeling his shirt off. He dropped it to the ground and kept moving. She hurried down the stairs, grabbing his shirt as she swept across the deck.

  He took off one shoe at the bottom of the next set of stairs, and another shoe as he went below deck. Tate kept following, wondering how far this show was going to go, picking up the trail of items he was leaving. He pulled his wallet out of his pocket, tossed it over his shoulder. Then his phone hit the floor, right outside his bedroom door, which still didn't shut because of the broken frame. He undid his pants and managed to step out of them before he got to his bed, where he promptly moved to kneel on the mattress. Jameson slowly turned to face her, but he wasn't looking at her, busy concentrating on removing his watch.

  “Tatum,” he said, his voice syrupy thick. Like a lion purring. She dropped his clothing to the floor.

  “What?” she asked, leaning against his door frame.

  “Is it my turn to ask questions?”

  “Depends on the questions,” she replied. He finally loosened his watch and dropped it off the side of the bed.

  “How many men have you fucked since me?” he asked. He yawned and linked his fingers together, stretching his arms above his head. Every muscle he had flexed and strained with the act. Tate's mouth went dry in an instant.

  “I'm, uh ...,”

  “Staring. You're staring,” Jameson told her, stretching his arm across his chest, gripping it by the elbow. Different muscles stretched and moved.

  “Yes, I think I am.”

  “Answer the question, please.”