“Now that I don't believe for an instant,” she managed a laugh.

“If you will think very hard, you will remember that I never once lied to you. I may have withheld things, but I never lied. I am not lying now. I did not sleep with her. Not in Germany, and not at home,” Jameson assured her.

Tate didn't want to think about it, so she closed her eyes and filed his confession away.

Under F, for “so fucked up I can't even handle it”.

“Whatever, it looked sweet,” she continued.

“She was telling me that I was wasting my time on filth like you,” he explained.

“Bitch.”

“She's not a very nice person.”

“Neither are you.”

“No, but I never once thought you were filth. I told her to get the fuck out of my house,” Jameson replied.

“So, you used her. You led her to believe you had something going, you brought her home to embarrass and hurt me, and then you kicked her out. You're doing a very poor job of convincing me you're not the devil,” Tate pointed out.

“I've still got a couple weeks. You're going to have raccoon eyes,” Jameson warned her, and she felt him fiddle with her sunglasses. She batted his hand away and sat up.

“Like the tan I'm going to have is going to be any better,” she laughed, climbing to her feet and looking down at her mangled outfit.

“I told you. Just take your clothes off. There's no one out here, and it's nothing I haven't seen before,” he pointed out, standing as well.

Tate looked up at him. Jameson was staring down at her, but at her body, not her face. She watched his eyes sweep over her frame, and she could see the blatant desire in his gaze. She found herself wondering when the last time he'd had sex was, wondered who it was with, if it was any good. The idea of him sleeping with other women used to turn her on. Now she just wanted to puke.

“Alright.”

Jameson looked a little surprised, but he didn't move as she slowly pulled her shirt over her head. His eyes got wider as he took in her white bra. Then she took her time peeling her shorts away from her hips, revealing skimpy, black panties. His eyes followed her movements, watching her hands and legs as she slid the material down her body, even watched her toes when she kicked the shorts into the back of the boat. If she hadn't known any better, she would have sworn he was holding his breath.

“That's not naked,” Jameson informed her, in a tone of voice she knew well. A tone that meant he wouldn't tolerate any dissension.

“Are you sure you're ready for that?” Tate whispered, stepping up so she was pressed against him, pressing her hands flat against his chest. She almost felt dizzy, being that close to him.

“Baby girl, I was built ready for you.”

“Too bad.”

“Why?”

“Because you've never known how to handle me.”

And with that, she shoved against his chest, as hard as she could. Normally, he was like a brick wall, unmovable. But he had been completely unprepared. Caught off guard. Jameson let out a shout and fell backwards, off the side of the boat. Into the water.

By the time he hauled himself back into the boat, Tate had stretched herself back out on the bow. She was wiggling her bra straps off her shoulders when she felt him stomp up to her. She didn't open her eyes, but smiled big, knowing he was watching her. Probably angrily. Probably so mad, he wanted to -,

THWACK.

She let out a shriek as something cold and wet landed across her, covering her from head to hips. She sat up and fought to untangle herself. When she finally got free, she realized Jameson had thrown his wet shirt on top of her. Her underwear and bra were now soaked, her hair plastered to the top of her head. She turned her head to glare at him, her sunglasses askew on her nose.

“Have you already forgotten everything I worked so hard to teach you? You never get to have the last word, Tatum,” Jameson told her, his arms folded across his broad chest. She growled and threw his shirt back up at him.

“Can we go back now? All this fun is making my head hurt.”

She put her clothing back on, then managed to get her wet bra off from underneath her shirt – no free peep-show for Satan. Jameson just drove back without a shirt on. It didn't seem to bother him at all, but it was making Tatum very uncomfortable. She kept her eyes trained forward, not even glancing at him out of her peripherals. Of course she was very familiar with what he looked like shirtless, but she tried to keep those memories at bay. A good body and great sex didn't mean shit, when a person wound up floating in a pool, stoned out of her mind.

She just had to remember that.

They didn't talk, and when they got back to Puerto Banus, she thought maybe she had lucked out, that he was done pressing his attentions on her for the day. Jameson could only take so much social interaction, she knew, before he had to hide away. She managed to scramble off the boat before he could offer her a hand and she turned to walk back towards the yacht.

“Tatum,” he called after her.

“Yeah?” she asked, starting to turn back to him. Something hit her in the face. She threw up her hands in time to catch her soaking wet bra before it fell to the ground.

Goddammit.

She didn't wait for his clever remark, just stomped her way onto the bigger boat next to them.

~5~

Tate knew she was making things worse on herself. Her bitchy attitude was just antagonizing Jameson, making him try harder. Not good for her. The whole situation set her teeth on edge. Made her want to scream. Made her want to vomit. Made her want to run away.