Jameson pulled away, but he kept his eyes locked on hers. Tate stared, wide eyed, right back at him. She had been perilously close to the edge, and he knew it. He had been one step and a few articles of clothing short of winning their little game. He'd almost had her.
It was too close for comfort.
“Sir.”
It was Sanders, banging on the bedroom door. Jameson sighed and sat up, resting on his heels. Tate stayed laying down underneath him. Didn't move a muscle. Tried to blend in with the bed spread.
“What are you doing here?” Jameson barked out, running a hand through his hair.
“I assume you are aware that there is a very angry woman on the upper deck, throwing all of your furniture into the ocean,” came the reply. Jameson grumbled and slid backwards off the bed.
“It never ends,” he growled before prowling to the door.
Tate stayed laying down, long after he left the room. She could hear the shouting now, the lady cursing in Spanish. Then there were soft footsteps, and suddenly Sanders was sitting on the bed next to her. She heard movement, followed by his hand coming to rest on her knee, his touch light.
“Are you alright?” he asked. She shrugged.
“As good as I was the last time you saw me,” she replied.
“Pardon me, but that wasn't very good,” he pointed out. She finally laughed.
“No, I guess it wasn't, and I'm probably a lot worse now.”
“May I ask what happened?”
“Ran into Pet. Almost accidentally had a threesome. Got into a fight. The usual.”
Sanders actually laughed at that, and it set Tate off. She snorted and chuckled, and he laid down next to her. While her eyes watered and she shook with laughter, she reached over and grabbed his hand. Squeezed it tightly.
“You do have a knack for getting into trouble,” he told her. She nodded.
“That I do. Sandy, tell me what I should do,” her voice fell into a breathy whisper.
“You should stop playing games, both of you. Say how you feel, mean what you say,” he replied bluntly.
“Anyone else would tell me that I need to figure it out on my own,” she told him. Sanders snorted.
“Then it wouldn't happen. The solution seems very simple to me, I don't understand what the problem is,” he said. Tate sighed.
“Because it's not simple, Sandy. I don't trust him.”
“But you trust me?”
“Yes.”
“Then trust me when I say this isn't a game to him.”
She wasn't able to pick his brain anymore, though, because Jameson strode back into the room. He was still shirtless, and now had claw marks going down his chest. Sexy. Tate started laughing again, the hand pressed to her mouth doing nothing to hide it. Jameson glared at her, then at Sanders.
“You. What do you want?” he demanded. Sanders sighed and sat up.
“I was listening to my Bach. Petrushka showed up at the apartment,” was all Sanders said. Tate laughed even harder.
“I can't catch a fucking break,” Jameson groaned, sitting down on the bed on the other side of her.
“I will retire to my room here, for the night. Tomorrow, you can speak with the management of the building,” Sanders informed him before getting up and walking out of the room.
“You can stop now,” Jameson said, but Tate still couldn't get herself under control. It wasn't until his palm pressed against her thigh that she came out of it. She scrambled out from under his touch, practically slithering sideways off the bed.
“It's been a long night. Sandy's right, we should go to bed,” she said quickly, her nerves evident in her voice. Jameson chuckled.
“Scared, scared, scared. You used to be so tough, baby girl,” he told her. She pulled at her clothing, straightening herself out, not wanting him to see how much his words affected her. How badly her hands were shaking.
She hated being afraid.
“Yeah, well, a week in a psych ward can cure you of just about anything.”
Then she strode out of the room, not even giving him a backwards glance.
~7~
Jameson was frustrated.
He was horny, he was angry, and he was upset, but mostly, he was very frustrated.
Things were not going well.
He tried being nice. It was almost physically painful for him to do so, but he tried. For her. It didn't work. He tried impressing her, showing off for her, even ignoring her. He let her get away with murder, things he never would have tolerated in the old days. And still. Nothing. Tate still looked at him like he was the devil.
For the first time ever, Jameson worried that he wouldn't be able to win her over.
Her body, though, was a different story. It still reacted to him the same way it always had. Ready. Willing. He felt if he could just touch her enough, just taste her enough, her defenses would melt away and he could lay siege to her. Win her. Claim her.
He just wanted to be absolved of his sins. He wanted his old life back. He didn't want to be obsessed with her, but he was, plain and simple. She ruled his senses. Tate hadn't learned how to do it yet, but Jameson knew when to call a spade a spade. He wouldn't waste time wallowing in denial, trying to convince himself that he didn't want her. Despite all appearances, he was much more of a go-with-the-flow kind of person.
Now if only she could learn to do that, life would be so much simpler for both of them.
So he was in a particularly dark mood when he made his way up top the next morning. Both Sanders and Tatum were already awake, dining at the table. He wasn't sure who had cooked – usually he had breakfast delivered. Tate had her mirrored sunglasses on, and she had contorted herself to fit her whole body, legs and all, in her tiny chair. She was laughing at something Sanders was saying, smiling broadly. Jameson's hand twitched, and he once again had to remind himself that she wasn't ready for him to touch her. Not in the way he wanted to touch her; not in the way she needed to be touched.