“Hey, don't give me attitude. You saw me get on the boat with him,” Tate said, not caring whether or not the woman could understand her.

The maid stepped up close to her, and Tate groaned inwardly. Normally, she never had problems with other women. She got along great with most women. She had never once in her life fought over a man. Now, twice in one night, she was finding herself in heated “discussions” over Jameson.

I'm so pathetic.

Tate was fully aware that this little problem was her own doing, but she didn't care – the maid knew that Jameson had a female guest staying on the boat. Had seen her sitting on Jameson's lap, but that hadn't stopped the lady from hitting on him. Tate knew the rules, because she was the maid; she had been in the same position, had been the slutty-help. If she saw a man with another woman, and that man then hit on Tatum – first woman got first dibs. That's just how the slutty-cookie crumbled. Maid-lady could deal with it.

The Spanish woman got even closer, her eyes narrowed. Jameson was saying something in Spanish, his tone not happy. Maid-lady's voice was getting louder, her arm gestures violent. She was hissing at Tate through clenched teeth, and Tate didn't have to speak Spanish to know that none of it was good. She also knew what the words “perra” and “puta” meant; not exactly complimentary, and they were being said, a lot. Still, Tate wasn't going to do anything.

At least, not until the bitch touched her.

When the woman jabbed her pointed fingers into Tate's shoulder, she lost it a little bit. Her grasp on sanity was tenuous, at best. She pulled away from Jameson, yelling at the woman to fuck off. Maid-lady yelled back in Spanish, pushing again. Tate yelled some more in English, daring the woman to touch her again. Jameson snapped at both of them to shut the fuck up. But when the other woman shoved Tate hard enough to knock her back into Jameson's chest, it was over. Tate was done with being pushed around. By Jameson, by circumstance, by life in general, and by whory-maids in particular.

Tate went to shove the woman back, planting her hands on the maid's shoulders. Maid-lady apparently expected that, and began windmilling her arms. Tate ducked her head. She still wasn't much of a scrapper, hadn't been in many fights. But she could fight like a girl with the best of them, so she swung her arms as well, and it turned into an all-out shrieking, slapping, scratching, hair pulling, cat-fight.

It didn't last very long. One strong pull with one arm, and Jameson had them separated. Tate fell back onto the bed while he picked up the maid, carried her shouting form from the room. The door swung shut behind him, and Tate could only listen as he took the maid out onto the deck.

Tate covered her face with her hands, trying not to think about what she had just done, what she had just taken part in. She felt so stupid. So stupid. She wasn't going to do anything sexual with Jameson. She wasn't going to fight over Jameson. She wasn't going to embarrass herself over Jameson. Now, all three had been done in the span of a couple hours.

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.”