“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.