Separation (The Kane Trilogy Book 2)

by Stylo Fantome

  “I don't want nice. I want you,” she stated.

  He wasn't sure who was more shocked by her words, Tate, or himself. She obviously hadn't planned on blurting that out. It was the first real kind of statement she had made regarding any sort of way she felt about him. It wasn't much, but it was something.

  It was like her words set fire to his blood, and Jameson didn't even think, just grabbed her by the arm and propelled her down the hall. He shoved her through the first door they came across, a sliding door that hid a water closet – just a toilet and a small counter with a mirror. A tiny counter top. There was barely enough room, but he pushed Tate in ahead of him and then slid the door shut behind them.

  “What's your fucking problem today?” he growled, grabbing her hips and shoving her up onto the counter.

  “You,” she snapped back, pulling at his shirt. He yanked it over his head.

  “If you wanted me to fuck you, you could've just asked. You didn't need to throw a goddamn party,” he told her, pushing her short skirt up and out of the way before pulling her underwear down her legs.

  “Jesus, you're so boring now,” Tate's voice was snide while she wrestled to pull her own shirt off.

  “Shut your fucking mouth.”

  God, he wanted to tear a piece out of her. Jameson loved it, loved this – he felt like he was suddenly possessed. He couldn't get his pants down fast enough, couldn't get inside her fast enough. He didn't hesitate, just slammed into her as hard as he could. Tate shrieked, covered her mouth with her hand, then moaned loudly.

  “Yes, god, this,” she groaned, letting her head fall against the mirror.

  “Fuck, Tate. Maybe a little louder, I'm not sure everyone can hear you,” he hissed, digging his fingers into her hips. She chuckled.

  “Shy, Jameson? Embarrassed?” she taunted.

  “No. By the time I'm done with you, the people at the other end of this goddamn harbor are going to know you just got fucked,” he warned her.

  “Doubtful.”

  “Bitch.”

  He hadn't really done it since they'd started sleeping together again. Not that he hadn't thought about it, but he was very aware of how skittish she was now, so he tried to keep his touch light. But fuck that, not today. Jameson was done being nice. Mr. Nice Guy was boring. The word had barely left Tate's mouth and his hand was in her hair, yanking her forward. Pulling at her roots. She shrieked again, and there was no doubt that anyone inside the boat would know exactly what was happening in that bathroom.

  “Care to say that again?” Jameson asked, pumping into her hard and fast, not caring if one, or both, of them got hurt. She moaned.

  “God, I missed this,” she breathed, her nails digging into his skin. She was going to come soon, he could feel it. She was so much easier now. Getting her to the edge took so little, it was amazing. Like watching fireworks, every time.

  “Stupid slut, I think this was your goal the whole time,” he whispered. At the word “slut”, he felt every muscle she had clamp down on his dick, and he couldn't help the groan that escaped his lips.

  “No, no it wasn't,” she moaned, her hands moving to her breasts, squeezing.

  “I think you like this, Tatum. I think you like everyone hearing what a slut you are for me. If I had known that, I would've thrown a party a long time ago, you goddamn whore,” Jameson swore. She rubbed her lips together and finally looked at him, her gaze heavy.

  “I do, I love it,” she panted before leaning forward to kiss him. He pulled harder on her hair, breaking the kiss.

  “Of course you fucking do. You love everything I do to you,” he informed her, and she nodded, making a high pitched whining sound.

  So close.

  “I do. I really do. God, so much,” she groaned loudly, beating her hand against the wall. It felt like the whole room was shaking, falling apart at the seams.

  Kind of like me.

  “Such a lucky cunt, I treat you so fucking good. So fucking lucky. Fuck,” he started to growl.

  “So good. Jameson ..., Jameson, please,” she whispered, and he didn't have to ask her what, because he already knew what she needed. He always knew. He let go of her hair and grabbed her by the throat. Shoved her back against the wall and squeezed. She shrieked and raked her nails down his arm.

  “So fucking lucky,” he breathed.

  He didn't really care that they were in a tiny bathroom and she had to practically turn herself into a contortionist to get his dick inside of her. He didn't care that there were dozens of strangers probably listening to them have sex. Jameson's entire universe, at that moment, was her. Feeling every inch of her. Wanting to make her come hard enough that she would never want to run away, ever again.

  “You're the lucky one,” Tate managed to taunt as her whole body started to shiver. He squeezed tighter on her neck, pulled her forward. Pressed his forehead to hers while his free hand gripped her thigh so hard, he felt like he was going to go right through her.

  “And what makes you think that?” he growled.

  “You're lucky I even let you inside of me, because of the two of us, you're the real whore,” she told him with an evil chuckle. Jameson closed his eyes, dug his nails into her skin.

  “Goddamn, Tate, your fucking mouth. Fuck. I wish there weren't people here,” he groaned, pumping harder. Harder. As hard as he possibly could.

  “Why?” she breathed.

  “Because I really want to come on your face.”

  Apparently just the idea was hot enough for her, and she screamed again, bursting apart. Just exploded around him. He'd had sex with a lot of women in his life, and Jameson considered himself very good at it. Not bragging, just fact – he could pull an orgasm from most women the way a person wrung water from a sponge. Easy. But it was always a different experience with Tatum, the way she shook and moaned and carried on; she always made him feel like he had accomplished something. Climbed a mountain, solved a mystery, became a man.

  As he came right behind her, dragging his nails down her throat, it was like clarity bloomed behind his eyelids.

  This is most definitely not a game anymore. This woman ..., she owns me.

  ~10~

  The next day, they moved into the apartment with Sanders. Jameson was going to have the interior of the yacht redecorated. Tate had made a comment that all of the black was depressing. So he was having it all changed. For her.

  Scary.

  She tried to ignore it. Tried to ignore the shift in her universe. When he curled around her at night, slept with her tucked against his chest, she tried to ignore how happy she was inside, just to be near him. When he bent her over the console next to the steering wheel and showed her who the captain was, she tried to ignore how happy she was that things were back to normal.

  This is not normal. YOU'RE LOSING.

  “Whatever you're thinking, don't,” Sanders' voice cut through her thoughts. Tate glanced up at him. The bedrooms on the backside of Jameson's apartment all had small, private, wrought iron balconies. She had wrestled a chair onto the one off of Sanders' room.

  “What?” she asked, feigning innocence. He stared at her.

  “You're happy. Don't ruin it.”

  Tate glared.

  “He ruins things. Why can't I?” she asked.

  “He made them better, didn't he?”

  “That doesn't just erase what he did.”

  “No, but you have to move forward at some point. You have to trust him at some point.”

  That was the problem – Tate didn't think she could. Sure, it was easy to forget that small fact when they were rolling around in his big bed; fucking in a bathroom at a club; going down on him under a table in a restaurant. But whenever he left to take a phone call; gave Sanders a private look; went somewhere without her, she almost had a panic attack. Was Jameson planning something? Was he calling her? Meeting up with her? Tate couldn't stand it. She was going crazy.

  “I don't know, Sandy. I just don't know,” she mumbled, pulling her f
eet up and resting her chin on her knees. He squatted down next to her.

  “Is there something you're not telling me?” he asked in a soft voice. She sighed.

  “No, not really. I just ..., I don't know if I'll ever be ready for a man like him,” she laughed a little. Sanders nodded.

  “Understandable. But if that is how you honestly feel, then you need to tell him. You two, you only communicate through sex. Maybe you should try using words. They work very well for the rest of us,” Sanders suggested. Tate laughed for real.

  “You're amazing, Sandy. I fear the day some woman steals you from me,” she laughed, wrapping an arm around his shoulders. He cleared his throat.

  “I don't see that on the horizon any time soon. And just so you know, the entire time we have been here, he has not been in contact with Petrushka. I can show you phone records,” he told her. She sat back, surprised.

  “Seriously?”

  “Of course. I have been taking care of all his bills, and that includes his cell phone bill. I also have regular access to his phone. He has not called her. If you won't believe him, and you don't believe me, then I can show you proof,” Sanders offered her. Tate groaned and put her face in her hands.

  “Between the two of you, it's amazing I even made it out alive the first time,” she grumbled.

  “That is not funny,” he snapped. She sighed.

  “No. Sorry.”

  “What are we talking about?” Jameson asked, walking through the doorway.

  “Phones,” Sanders replied truthfully. Tatum laughed.

  “Phones?” Jameson double checked.

  “Yes. I spoke with Mr. Hollingsworth today,” Sanders cleverly changed the subject, and she lifted her head at the mention of Ang. “He requested a bigger hotel room. He said it was part of his, and I quote, 'list of demands'.”

  “Christ, that man. You are not allowed to fuck him while he's here,” Jameson informed Tate, pointing a finger sternly in her face. She laughed again.

  “You ruin all my fun.”

  “Fine. Change the reservation, put him on the same floor as us,” Jameson said, and Sanders nodded before striding from the room.

  “You sure it's safe to let me be that close to him?” Tate teased. Jameson rolled his eyes and pulled her out of her chair.

  “Actually, I wanted to talk to you about that,” he said, leading her out of Sanders' room.

  “You wanted to talk about fucking Ang?” she asked with a laugh. They headed into the master bedroom. On the boat, Tate had still maintained a separate room, though she had spent most nights in Jameson's room. Not in the apartment. He simply had Sanders load all her luggage straight into his bedroom.

  “No. If there is one thing in life I will never want to talk about, it's Angier's sexual prowess,” he replied, glaring at her as he took his wallet out of his back pocket before sitting down on his bed.

  “You're really missing out,” she said, sighing melodramatically as she crawled onto the bed to sit behind him. He removed his watch, tossed it onto the night stand. She knew his routine. She couldn't help herself, she had always been a loyal subject for Satan. She coiled her arms around his shoulders.

  “Tate,” Jameson said, as she feathered kisses along the back of his neck. He leaned into her, his fingers creeping around her wrists.

  “Yes?”

  “Where would you like to go after this?” he asked, pulling her hands away from his body.

  “What, like for dinner?” she asked, scooting closer so she could wrap her legs around his waist from behind.

  “No. Like Italy, or Austria,” Jameson replied, linking his fingers through hers.

  Tate stopped breathing. He meant after. Like after, after. He was already planning on where the next stop was, the next vacation. In Jameson's mind, he must have already won. No questions asked. It was just obvious, apparently, that she would be going wherever he went.

  It made her feel a little lightheaded. She licked her lips and pressed her cheek against his back. Listened to his heart beat. Italy. Austria. Would he take her to his home in Denmark? Or how about Turkey? Hell, why not go big – India.

  I don't care, as long as I'm with him ...

  “Jameson,” she breathed, and she felt his muscles twitch. “Let's get through this trip, before we plan another one.”

  It was evasive, but it was the best answer Tate could give him. Give her heart. She didn't know what she wanted anymore. Things were too blurry. Jameson said he wasn't playing games – maybe he was telling the truth. Maybe it was time for her to start believing him.

  He started to lean backwards, forcing her onto her back as he twisted around to face her. He laid on top of her, his head on her breasts while her legs were still wrapped around him. She combed her fingers through his hair while she tried very hard not to cry.

  Would it be so bad to just give in? Satan can be a very giving lord and master ...

  “Whatever you want, Tatum. I'll do whatever you want.”

  One tear escaped. Nice was always so much worse than mean.

  *

  Tate woke up some time in the middle of the night. There was shouting. The sound of something breaking. She propped herself up on her elbows, trying to wake all the way up. A light flicked on, and she saw Jameson, leaning up on one arm, his hand against a lamp. He was glaring at his bedroom door.

  “What the fuck is that?” he grumbled.

  “I don't know,” Tate replied.

  There was a loud crash, followed by a shriek, and Jameson was out of the bed in a flash. He yanked on some underwear and a t-shirt before storming out of the room. With the door open, she could hear better, and could tell that one of the voices was Sanders. Was someone attacking Sanders!? Tate leapt out of the bed as well, ready to commit murder.

  But she was still struggling to yank on one of Jameson's t-shirts – if she was going to kick ass, she wasn't going to do it naked – when she figured out who the other voice belonged to; realized the language they were speaking wasn't English. Wasn't Spanish. Russian. Jameson's voice came in above the fray, and from then on it was all German.

  Tate sat down heavily on the bed, clasping her hands together. Her whole body was shaking with the effort of trying not to blow up. She glanced at the door, then stared at the wall. There was more shrieking. More German. Then finally, English.

  “Oh, is it because she is here!?” Petrushka's voice yelled. Sanders answered in Russian. Jameson snapped in German. “No! This was my place, before it was ever hers! You are letting trash into my home, Kane. Garbage. I won't allow it!”

  I hear you, bitch, loud and clear.

  Tate found herself in the hallway before she even realized she was moving. Broken glass coated the living room floor. Sanders stood with his back to the hall. He was wearing a pajama set, and his normally perfectly styled hair was standing on end. Jameson was attempting to manhandle a very angry, wiry supermodel out the open front door. There was more cursing in German.

  “I hear you,” Tate blurted out. Sanders whirled around, but no one else seemed to have heard her.

  “Please, go back to bed, we have it under -,” he immediately started. She held up a hand.

  “I can hear you,” she repeated herself, louder. Pet stopped thrashing around in Jameson's arms, long enough to find Tate and glare at her.

  “Good. I want you to hear. I want this whole building to hear! There is garbage in this apartment! An American whore! An American whore, and a Russian peasant!” Pet was shouting, struggling against Jameson, swinging her arms at Tate like she thought she could hit her from that distance. Tate stepped in front of Sanders as if he had been shot at, wrapped her arm around him from behind her back.

  “Talk to him like that again and I will end your career,” Tate threatened. As always, she was fair game. Jameson was fair. Sanders was on a different plane from mere mortals, and if that bitch-snake so much as looked at him again, Tate would rearrange her features.

  “Everyone stop talking! Sanders! Call
the goddamn front desk!” Jameson roared, and then he practically threw Pet into the hallway. She lurched forward, screaming in German, but he slammed the door in her face. Slid the bolt lock into place. Sanders scurried off to find a phone.

  “What. THE FUCK. Was that?” Tate asked. Pet continued to beat on the door, screaming things in different languages. Jameson had his hands in his hair.

  “That was fucking crazy. She does not like you,” Jameson replied.

  “Whose fault is that? She doesn't even know me,” Tate snapped. He stared at her like she was crazy.

  “You're mad at me?” he asked. She folded her arms.

  “How did she know we were here, Jameson?” she asked back. He actually laughed.

  “You're shitting me.”

  “We've been at the boat, this whole time. She would've known that, after you weren't here last time. Why wouldn't she go to the boat? How the fuck did she know we were here?” Tate demanded.

  “Oh, clever, clever girl, Tatum. You've figured out my master plan. I called Pet, asked her to break in to my home, attack Sanders, and destroy half my shit, all just to piss you off,” he replied, his voice soft. Easy. Scary.

  “You are Satan,” she reminded him.

  “Watch it, Tatum. I am not in the fucking mood,” Jameson warned her. The banging hadn't stopped and Tate groaned.

  “Can you please shut your girlfriend up?” she snapped.

  “I don't have a girlfriend.”

  “I called security,” Sanders said, breathing hard as he hurried into the living room. Tate turned towards him, then gasped.

  “Did she hit you!?” she demanded, grabbing Sanders by the collar. His face was red on one side, and his hair didn't look like bed-head, it looked like it had been pulled. He pressed his hand to his cheek.

  “She ..., she forced her way inside,” Sanders replied. Tate turned around and strode towards the door. Jameson moved to stand in front of it.

  “Stop it. I will deal with this,” he told her.

  “She hit him! I'm gonna tear her fucking face off!” Tate snapped. Jameson put a hand on her chest, keeping her away from the door.