“Your bath is full,” she told him.

“Our bath. C'mon.”

It was big enough to fit both of them. She asked for bubbles, and he gave her a dirty look, but he did turn on some jets. Tate pressed him against the side of the tub and then settled herself in front of him, between his legs. He wrapped his arms around her waist and she fought down a feeling of panic.

How can someone who bears such a striking resemblance to Satan be so lovable!?

“God, this feels good,” she groaned, sinking down so the water was up to her chin. Jameson's hands crept onto her shoulders, began massaging her.

“Good. I thought you'd like it. I had it installed before you got here,” he told her. She perked up.

“This tub is new?” she questioned.

“This whole bathroom was completely remodeled,” he answered.

“Why?”

“It was too small before, I wanted enough room for both of us to move around.”

“You had awfully high hopes.”

“Only the highest.”

“Seems kinda extravagant,” Tate told him.

“You deserve it,” Jameson whispered in her ear.

She couldn't handle him talking to her like that, not if she wanted to win this little game. They'd had sex, and they would most definitely be having sex again – like in the next five minutes – but that didn't mean she had lost. That didn't mean she couldn't still walk away unscathed. It was just sex.

Right. Sure it is.

Tate pulled away from him, turned around and laid against him. Jameson kept trying to talk – it was obvious he wanted to tell her things. Things she wanted to hear. Things she probably needed to hear. But she wasn't falling for that trick again. She ran her tongue along his skin, her hands along his body. The devil was surprisingly easy to distract and soon enough, neither of them were thinking about talking.

See? That wasn't so hard. Now, just don't think about tomorrow ...

~8~

Tate snorted and rolled onto her stomach. Stretched her arms out. When she didn't encounter another body, she opened her eyes. She was alone in the bed. She propped herself up, looked around. She was in a sea of black sheets and pillows, and completely alone. The drapes were drawn over all the windows, but one was letting a slice of bright sunshine into the room. She rolled over onto her back.

After their bath together, Jameson had wrapped her in a blanket and moved them upstairs. They watched fireworks from the bow. Had sex on the top deck. By the time they headed back downstairs, Tate was emotionally and physically drained. Jameson led her to his room and she collapsed on his bed. But right as she was dozing off, she felt his fingers walking down her spine. Lightly scratching back up. Scratching was good, so she had woken up. Played with him a little longer.

You're going to lose.

Tate shook her head and slid to the edge of the bed, throwing the sheets aside. She had work to do. She had to harden her heart. Prepare herself. There was still three weeks left in Jameson's little game. Sex was going to make it a lot harder for her to resist him, and now, thanks to a stupid anchor with a loose chain, not having sex was out of the question. They'd had sex all night, and she was already wondering where he was so they could start again. Not good. She could not lose.

She heard voices outside, and she was caught off guard. They were in the middle of nowhere, how were there people on the boat!? Tate tip toed to the window and peeked out. She was looking at his speed boat. Beyond it, another boat. They were back in the marina. She glanced around, looking for a clock. It was almost noon! Jameson had driven the boat back into town while she was sleeping.

She found his robe and put it on before wandering upstairs. But Jameson wasn't there. He wasn't anywhere on the deck, or up in the wheelhouse. But while she was up there looking, Tate saw where he was; he was on the other side of the speed boat, sitting in a tiny row boat, messing with its engine.

She wandered back into his room, smelling at the edge of the robe. It smelled like him, of course. She had always liked his smell. Expensive cologne and aftershave. Rich. Male. Heady. It gave her an idea.

She padded over to some built in wardrobes and yanked open the doors. One was full of normal clothing – jeans, t-shirts, polo shirts, shorts. The other held his suits. That was the Jameson she knew, the one she recognized, the one she could handle. Tate pulled out a shirt, ran her fingers down the sleeve. Balenciaga. She shivered and let his robe fall to the floor before pulling the shirt on, reveling in the feel of a $400 garment resting against her skin. She looked for a tie next. The first one she grabbed was a Barney's, but she figured her shirt deserved something even more high class, so she pulled out one by Ann Demeulemeester. Ooohhh, $250. Jameson might shit a brick.

She pulled her hair up into a knot on top of her head, then wiggled into a pair of bikini bottoms. Done. Tate skipped upstairs, then tip toed down the gangplank, hoping Jameson wouldn't see her. He didn't, and she made her way over to where he was working. His back was towards her, and he was completely absorbed in what he was doing. The top of the engine casing was off, and he was practically elbow deep inside of it. She shivered and sat down on the edge of the cement, dangling her legs over the side. She cleared her throat.

“I wondered when you'd make an appearance,” he said, not turning around.

“You should've woken me up,” Tate replied.

“I know how you are, you were probably freaking out when you woke up. Frankly, I'm amazed you're not halfway to the airport right now, running back to Boston. Fuck,” Jameson hissed, yanking his hand out of the mess as if he had touched something sharp.