“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.
“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.
