Tate laughed and unwrapped herself from Ang, stepped back onto the ground. She helped pick his bags up and carried them into the hotel suite. Showed him around a bit, let him ooh and aah over the décor, the balcony.
“Seriously, Ang. What are you doing here? Jameson hasn't told me anything, I'm not even sure what I'm doing here,” Tate asked while they looked out over the ocean. Ang turned towards her.
“He called me a week or two ago, told me he'd be bringing you out here, thought maybe you'd like the company,” he explained.
“Sanders called you a week ago?” she asked.
“No, Satan.”
“Jameson called you!? Himself? Like actually spoke to you?” Tate guffawed.
Jameson and Ang had never become friends. They tolerated each others' presence for her, but they were just two totally different people. They were cordial and polite, got along on a basic level, but that was it. There were no phone calls or text messages between them. The idea of Jameson calling Ang was downright bizarre.
What the fuck is going on?
“He called you – two weeks ago – to ask you to come on this trip? And I didn't even know I was coming on this trip till yesterday morning?” Tate clarified, still in shock. Ang swallowed thickly and shrugged, turning back to look out at the water.
“Might have only been a week, I don't know. And he only said he might be bringing you, and that he might want me to come. I only got the call yesterday morning that he actually wanted me here,” Ang broke it down.
“God. I must have really made him feel bad,” Tate mumbled, remembering their talk in the hammock – which must have happened after Jameson had called Ang.
“Not surprising. You're kind of an asshole.”
Tate punched him in the arm.
“Shut up. Let's get something to eat, and you can tell me all about your latest sex-capade,” Tate suggested, linking her arm through his and leading him back inside.
“You know, believe it or not, I might actually be a little over having sex,” Ang told her, and Tate burst out laughing.
“I don't believe it. You? Not possible.”
Jameson was in some sort of phone meeting, so Tate took Sanders and Ang downstairs to a restaurant. Sanders told Ang all about Moscow, and Ang told Sanders all about reach-arounds.
Just like old times.
Jameson finally joined them, which added a sharp edge to the conversation. Tate had often wondered if the rivalry between the two men would ever die down. Two years was a long time, but both still seemed to be locked in some sort of war with each other.
“You owe me big time for this,” Jameson commented after Ang had left to find a bathroom. Tate snorted.
“I shouldn't have to owe you for something I didn't ask for,” she pointed out.
“Shut the fuck up and tell me how grateful you are.”
“Beyond words, darling.”
“Shut up.”
“Jameson,” Tate started, “why are you still so pissy with him? And if he makes you so antsy, why did you invite him?”
“I am not 'pissy' with Angier, I just don't like him. And I invited him for you,” Jameson repeated the sentiment.
“You acting like a bitch about the whole thing kinda ruins the gift,” she teased.
“Tatum?”
“Hmmm?”
“Shut the fuck up.”
“Anything for you.”
They were silent for a while. Sanders picked at his salad. Jameson glared off into space. Tate smiled at him. He finally glanced at her, did a double-take, then stared at her.
“What? That blank stare makes you look like a cow,” he said bluntly.
“Jesus. How did you ever manage to pick up women with a mouth like that?” she replied.
“I got you easy enough.”
“Thank you,” she suddenly blurted out. Jameson groaned and ran a hand over his face.
“Your mood shifts become tiring. What are you thankful for?” he sighed.
“For you bringing Ang, for trying to salvage this trip for me. For putting up with me,” she offered. Jameson nodded.
“Good. You should be thankful.”
“Oh, trust me, I am.”
~5~
Jameson sat at the foot of the bed, watching Tate as she shut the bedroom door. All the lights were off in the room. The blinds had all been drawn, only leaving a sliver of light coming in just at the bottom of the windows. They had never turned on the air conditioning when they'd gone to lunch, so the room was sweltering hot. But Tate made no move to turn on the AC. She knew he liked it warm.
She knows me so well.
Jameson loved this side of Tate. Of course, he loved all sides of her – first and foremost, he loved her heart and soul. But he thought it was stupid that people never wanted to admit that sex played a part in a loving relationship. Yes, he loved having sex with Tate. Yes, he loved how she was in bed. It was a large part of what had drawn him to her in the first place, her sex appeal.
He especially loved that he was the only one who got to see that side of her, anymore. Outside of the bed, in public, Tate was a spitfire. A dominating personality, she knew how to command a room. How to garner attention. Her wit and personality, her smart mouth and sassy words. She didn't take shit from anybody, over anything. Very independent. Very strong willed.
So it gave him a dark thrill to see such an independent, strong willed woman down on her knees. Lowering herself to crawl across the bedroom floor to him. So slow in her movements, accenting the sway of her hips. She reached his feet and sat back on her heels. Placed her palms on his knees, then slid them up his thighs, pushing his legs apart. Her body quickly filled the void and she slid up his length, pressing her lips to his ear.