She heard the door open, but she didn't bother looking. She felt him start to kneel over her. His hands spanned her waist, pushing her. Sliding her back on the bed, over the covers. Then his knees came to rest on either side of her thighs, his hands planted on the mattress next to her head.
“Tate,” Jameson's voice was serious.
“No,” she replied, her voice muffled by her hands.
“Tatum, look at me,” he ordered. She shook her head.
“No.”
He leaned back and she felt his hands on her own. He peeled them away from her face, then moved them to the bed. Pinned them down. Hovered his mass over her own. She wanted him to let go. To feel his weight on her, pressing her down. She hated him. Hated herself a little.
“Why do you play these little games? You're not very good at them,” Jameson told her, his voice soft. She sighed, not meeting his eyes.
“Because I don't want to lose,” she replied.
“You always lose.”
“I know. Odds are, I have to come out on top, at least once,” she tried to joke.
“I don't want to hurt you.”
“You always want to hurt me.”
“No.”
“I'm just a game to you.”
“No. Tatum, it doesn't have to be a game,” Jameson's voice grew quiet, and he lowered his head, his breath hot against her neck. She struggled to remember how to breathe. Tried not to notice how amazing it all was, the things coming out of his mouth.
“I wouldn't be here if it wasn't a game,” she replied.
“Yes, you would. Just like you were at my apartment seven years ago. Just like you were in my office four months ago. This isn't going away,” he warned her. Tate stared at the ceiling.
“I want it to go away,” she whispered. Jameson shook his head, and she felt his lips on her chest.
“Don't say that.”
His mouth moved to hers, and there was nothing she could do about it. Sex between them had never been romantic, not even in the end – Tate was pretty sure she'd never had “romantic” sex. But when Jameson kissed her, she could feel it. However the love songs wanted to put it, that's how she felt it. In her heart, in her toes, in her spleen, in her hair follicles, everywhere. There was no stopping it. It was going to happen. So why not go with it? Why not just give in?
Just sink down, down, down in to that pool. Under, so deep, you won't want to come back.
“Excuse me, sir.”
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.