Once he had her laid down, he stripped the rest of her clothing off. She slept through the whole process, breathing heavily through her nose. She rolled back onto her stomach and he let his eyes wander over her body. He stretched out next to her, massaged his fingers against her skin. There were no signs on her body that another man had been there. She must have been a lot gentler with strangers. She started to move under his touch.

“Jameson,” she mumbled, her face turned away from him.

“You sure it's not Sanders?” Jameson teased. She managed a laugh.

“Oh, I'd know his fingers anywhere,” she joked back.

“Are you okay?” he whispered, smoothing his hand over her back. She shrugged.

“Yeah. Nothing a tough chick like me can't handle,” she replied.

“Sometimes I wonder.”

“I was just so angry. You had promised, and there were all these pictures of the two of you, and I just ..., I got upset. I didn't have any right to, I'm sorry,” she said softly. He sighed. He liked to pretend he didn't, but he knew he owed her something.

“I got upset when I realized you were wearing his shirt,” he replied.

“You sleep with girls all the time,” she pointed out.

“I still got upset.”

“So I can't sleep with other guys?” she asked. He thought for a second.

“I just don't want you using it against me, trying to upset me with the fact. I've never done that to you – if anything, I sleep with other women because I know it turns you on. I've never done it to hurt you. You wearing his shirt, in my house, though, trying to upset me; it worked,” Jameson growled at her.

“I'm sorry,” she whispered.

He rubbed a hand across his face. How far did he really want to go for this girl? He looked down at her, stretched out beside him. When he had first seen Tatum, at that party, he hadn't believed his eyes. A dark haired sex kitten engaging in dangerous banter with him. Then again at the meeting with his lawyers. Pulling her panties off in a room full of people; she had blown him away. He had wanted to play with her some more, maybe finish what they had started seven years ago. Only now, there wasn't an end in sight. He'd already gone too far.

“I met Petrushka at a party, a couple years ago. She's a huge bitch, so we hit it off. She's a freak in the sack, you'd love it,” he said. Tate laughed.

“Sounds like a keeper,” she chuckled. He put his hand back on her back and her skin jumped at his touch. Just like the first time they had ever touched. Just like every time.

“She's fucking crazy. We fucked, we fought, we broke up. Got back together. She wants everything her way, very demanding. We stayed together mostly because of our positions, I think. Supermodel, rich guy, I don't know. I was doing a lot of work in Europe at the time, it was easy,” he tried to explain.

“You have a home in Copenhagen. She's Danish,” Tate commented. He laughed.

“Seriously, Tate, sometimes I forget what a girl you are. I owned my home before I even knew her. We met in Germany,” he told her. She sighed.

“I'm so stupid.”

He moved his hand up and down her back, touched his fingers to her scratches.

“Sometimes,” he agreed. “I was unhappy. Pet dug her claws in, distracted me from that fact. I was angry a lot of the time, and sometimes she would let me treat her badly,” he continued.

“Like me?” Tate asked. He laid down on his side and leaned close to her.

“No one is like you, Tate. You're the real deal, she was an act. She likes to play my part, she wants to be the one holding someone down. She faked everything for me. I don't think she ever really liked me, or that I even ever really liked her. We just liked how each other looked, liked how we fucked,” he said.

“You spun two years away on liking how someone fucks?” Tate asked.

“You've been doing the same thing for seven years,” Jameson pointed out.

“Yeah, but with different people, different flavors. Not just one person that I don't even like. And if you didn't like her, how did you wind up engaged?” she pressed. He groaned and rolled onto his back

“It was an accident, I was kind of tricked in to it. I was picking up a ring from Harry Winston, in New York. It was my grandmother's ring. Huge, gorgeous. Pet and I had just had a very public fight, it was all over the tabloids. Some fucking paparazzi piece of shit took a bunch of pictures of me in the store with the ring, talking to the jeweler, taking it out of the store. It was everywhere. She freaked out, got all excited. When I told her what had really happened, she freaked out even more, pointed out that it would be everywhere, if I took it back. How could I take it back, when I'd never put it out there?” he asked.

“What a prize bitch,” Tate mumbled.

“I don't know, it was easier to go with the flow. There I was, almost thirty, and utterly alone; aside from Sanders. Who hated her, by the way. A very good judge of character, Sanders,” he pointed out.

“Duh. I would trust anything Sanders said. I would trust him with my life,” she was quick to comment.

“Goddamn, Tate, maybe you should be sleeping with him,” Jameson laughed.

“Who says I'm not?”

He smacked her on the ass, and some of the awkward tension between them eased as they laughed.

“Shut up, don't make me kill him. He's my favorite person – you can be replaced, Sanders can't,” he teased. She chuckled. “Anyway, I figured why not. She was one of the hottest fucks I'd ever had, she was gorgeous, and I had gotten pretty good at tuning out her bitching. I went with it. Gave her the ring. Big mistake. I never got it back.”