“No, that's not what I meant. We shouldn't do this, not while we're drunk,” she explained. Now he laughed.

“Fuck that. You don't get to sit there and just talk about shit like that. I'm going to fuck you tonight,” Jameson told her plainly.

“Um, I think I have a say in it, and I say, no thank you,” Tate replied with a snicker. He pulled her close and swayed towards her.

“You really think you have a say in it?” he breathed in her ear.

“I know I do,” she said back. He shook his head and clucked his tongue, stepping away from her.

“Stupid, stupid girl. Always making me prove you wrong,” he sighed, heading towards the stairs. She gaped as he disappeared down them, leaving her sitting on the table top.

“Excuse me!?” she asked out loud, looking after him.

Was that it? He was just giving up? It was sexy banter. Tate was fully prepared to fuck his brains out. He just had to work for it a little. Had things really changed that much between them? She slid off the table and followed him.

She made it to the stairs in time to see Jameson reach the upper deck. He was lifting his arms over his head, peeling his shirt off. He dropped it to the ground and kept moving. She hurried down the stairs, grabbing his shirt as she swept across the deck.

He took off one shoe at the bottom of the next set of stairs, and another shoe as he went below deck. Tate kept following, wondering how far this show was going to go, picking up the trail of items he was leaving. He pulled his wallet out of his pocket, tossed it over his shoulder. Then his phone hit the floor, right outside his bedroom door, which still didn't shut because of the broken frame. He undid his pants and managed to step out of them before he got to his bed, where he promptly moved to kneel on the mattress. Jameson slowly turned to face her, but he wasn't looking at her, busy concentrating on removing his watch.

“Tatum,” he said, his voice syrupy thick. Like a lion purring. She dropped his clothing to the floor.

“What?” she asked, leaning against his door frame.

“Is it my turn to ask questions?”

“Depends on the questions,” she replied. He finally loosened his watch and dropped it off the side of the bed.

“How many men have you fucked since me?” he asked. He yawned and linked his fingers together, stretching his arms above his head. Every muscle he had flexed and strained with the act. Tate's mouth went dry in an instant.

“I'm, uh ...,”

“Staring. You're staring,” Jameson told her, stretching his arm across his chest, gripping it by the elbow. Different muscles stretched and moved.

“Yes, I think I am.”

“Answer the question, please.”

“How many times have you fucked Pet, since me?” she countered. She couldn't stand the thought, couldn't bear the idea. In her tipsy state of mind, things were even blurrier than normal. She didn't want to hear that he had touched the other woman. Or any other woman. Tate wanted to be the one. His only one.

Scary thought, baby girl. Still sure it's a game?

“How many times have you fucked Nick, since me?” he responded.

Even in her drunken state, Tate knew better than to answer that question. She had told Jameson that she hadn't slept with anybody, but he still assumed that she and Nick had a relationship. It kept him on his toes; jealous, distracted. Nervous. She needed that kind of energy, if she wanted to win.

“I don't know why you're so insecure, Jameson. It's always a 'who's got a bigger dick?' contest with you,” she evaded answering.

“I know it's not a contest – if it was, I've already won, so I'm not worried. I'm not insecure, just curious. I haven't touched Petrushka, inappropriately, since last June. Before you and I even ran into each other, I'd like to point out. Now answer my question,” he demanded. She snorted.

“You spend a month with her in Berlin, pretending to be her boyfriend, and you didn't hit that, not even once?” Tate challenged him, the liquor making her bold.

“Not even once. And I wasn't pretending to be anything. I wouldn't need to pretend to be her boyfriend to get her to fuck me,” he corrected Tate. She rolled her eyes.

“Yes, I'm clearly well aware of how good you are at not being a boyfriend and fucking people,” she snapped.

“You never said it bothered you. In fact, you said it was fine. If something changed, and it wasn't fine, you should've said something,” Jameson told her in a soft voice. He then slowly leaned forward onto his hands, basically doing a push up.

“I did say something. You just never said anything back,” she reminded him. He rolled and stretched out onto his back.

“You want to be my girlfriend, Tatum?” he asked, his voice light.

“No.”

“Sure sounds like it.”

“I don't think I have what it takes to be Jameson Kane's 'girlfriend'.”

“Hmmm, I think you were built for it.”

As he laid there on the bed, wearing only Etiquette Clothier boxers, looking like something out of a sexy men's magazine, Tate had a realization. Jameson Kane was trying to seduce her. He had never really done that before, not back in Boston. Back then, she had always been easy pickings. She had never even pretended to not want him, so it had never been an issue. Now here he was, half naked, spread out like a buffet, and saying things she had always wanted to hear.