She felt his hand on her bare thigh, and then he was roughly grabbing at her, lifting her leg to his hip. Trying to get closer to her, as close as their clothing would allow. She stretched her leg out, pressing her toes against the wall across from them. Jameson sunk his whole body down, kissing his way to her breasts, and then he grabbed her butt, lifting her as he stood up straight. Her legs went around his waist. She felt drunk. She felt wasted. She didn't care where she was, or what she was doing. As long as it went on and on and on and on and …,
“You're coming home with me,” Jameson breathed against her mouth. Tate nodded, running her hands down his chest, pulling at his shirt, working her way underneath.
“Yes,” she whispered, groaning when she felt skin beneath her fingertips. She scratched her nails around to his back.
I know this land.
“No more bullshit,” he continued, kissing her throat. He lifted one hand away from her ass, skimmed his fingers along the waistband of her shorts.
“No,” she shook her head, mimicking his movements as she trailed her fingers around his belt.
“I want you. You want me,” he stated, moving his fingers to the top of her shirt and yanking it down, exposing all of her cleavage, down to her bra.
“Yes,” Tate agreed. Her hands were on auto-pilot, sliding his belt out of its buckle. This was her job, after all. She was so good at it.
“It has been three months, Tate,” Jameson groaned, raking his fingers across her breasts.
“Oh my god.”
“I'm going to be inside of you tonight. We can't stop this.”
“I know. I want ...,”
She was in a dream. A love-drunk haze, it had always enveloped her when she was in Jameson's presence. Tate had been stupid to think that a simple near-death experience had cured her of it. His lips, his body, his words, none of that could snap her out of it. But his hand. His hand, creeping onto her throat, seemingly of its own volition, that stopped her.
He felt it, too. She could see it in his eyes. It was like they were both waking up. Jameson's absolute favorite body part, on any woman, was the throat. Tate knew this, because her favorite body part for him to touch was her throat. It was like a calling card, a stamp, a brand. At night, she would dream about his fingers around her throat. Pray for them. Sure, before him, she'd had men grab her by the throat. But no one did it quite like him. He did it like it was something he needed to do, like he had to do it because he owned her.
Probably because he does.
Her feet hit the ground with a thud. Tate stared at him, her hands still gripping his belt. One of his hands was still on her ass. The other rested just below her throat, pressed across her clavicle, his index finger stretched halfway up her trachea.
Such a sexy word.
“Too much for you, baby girl?” Jameson asked in a soft voice, a smile on his lips as he gently tapped his finger against her throat. She swallowed thickly, tried to collect her thoughts in a flash.
“No. I'm just not going to suck your dick in some Spanish night club,” she replied.
Oh, there's some bravado! Almost sounded believable, too! A for effort, you stupid bitch.
“You were about to,” Jameson called her out. Tate snorted.
“Then why aren't I?” she asked, letting him go. He finally stepped away, and she hated that she missed his warmth.
“Because. You're scared of me. I'll have to work on that,” he told her.
“I'm not scared of you,” she argued. He laughed.
“You're terrified. But sometimes, that can make things interesting. Let's go home,” he said, and then he just walked away, leaving her standing there alone in a horny, confused, breathless, puddle.
~6~
She caught up to him outside of the night club. He was putting on his coat, and taking ground eating strides back towards the marina. She had to jog to keep up with him – no easy feat in the towering heels she was wearing.
“Are we having a race?” Tate huffed out, grabbing onto the bottom edge of his jacket to help keep her balance. Jameson glanced back at her.
“Next time, wear sensible shoes,” he replied. She laughed out loud
“Oh, okay. Next time, I'll wear a pair of crocs,” she threatened.
“Why do I bother talking to you,” he grumbled.
They were back to the boat in no time. He hadn't said anything else, but he did slow his pace. Even so, Tate was still out of breath as they made their way onto his yacht, and she was dying for water when they got onto the deck.
It wasn't too late, not quite ten o'clock, and she looked around for Sanders. There were huge glass doors that separated the galley from the main back deck, and during the day they were usually left open, doubling the living space of the boat. They were still open, and she saw a dark figure in front of the stove. But it wasn't Sanders.
“Who the fuck is that!?” Tate hissed, scooting up close behind Jameson and pressing herself against his back. He may have been the devil, but he was also a lot bigger than her, and getting mugged was never a fun experience.
“Qué estás haciendo?” Jameson snapped.
A woman came out of the shadows, answering in Spanish. She was young, probably around Tate's age, or just under. Very pretty. A small conversation in Spanish took place, then Jameson walked away while the young woman walked back to the stove area, throwing lingering looks his way. Tate hustled after him.
“Who is that? Where's Sanders?” she demanded in a low voice. Jameson took off his jacket and threw it onto a chair.
“That is a maid. She was supposed to clean while we were gone, but she got here late. She's just finishing up. Sanders is staying at my apartment,” he replied.
“Sanders is ..., I'm sorry. What?” Tate asked, thrown off guard. Jameson sank into a chair at the table, rubbing a hand over his face.
“I have an apartment, in town. While you were on the phone with your boyfriend, I told Sanders that he would be staying downtown from now on,” he explained. She barked out a laugh.
“Fuck that. If Sanders doesn't stay here, I don't stay here,” she replied. Jameson grabbed her hand and yanked down, forcing her to stumble. While she was caught off balance, he pulled her into his lap.
“I have never been jealous of another man in my entire life, then you come along, and suddenly every man is a threat. Why is that?” he asked while she straightened herself on top of him.
Her breath caught in her throat. Jameson? Jealous? Not possible. He had been angry when she had first slept with Nick, but not because he had been jealous. He had been mad because he had unknowingly shared his favorite toy, that was all. She hadn't asked permission, had only done it to piss him off. And Sanders!? Please.
“Don't be stupid,” Tate snapped, pulling at his arms as they coiled around her waist.
“You're stupid,” he countered, and she had a strong sense of déjà vu.
Talk about a role reversal.
“Stop it. Let me up,” she complained. She was straining against his hold, and he let go so abruptly that she sprang forward, almost falling to her knees. She managed to right herself, then whirled around on him.
“Your wish is my command,” Jameson told her, with a mock bow of his head.