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.
“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.
