Tate narrowed her eyes. This was a woman scared, not gloating. Pet was threatened by Tate, that's why she was angry. She wasn't there to brag about what a cruel and sadistic joke it was, Jameson bringing Tate to Spain. Pet was there trying to scare Tate away – because she hadn't expected to see her.
“Then why is he here with me?” Tate challenged. Pet flicked her wrist dismissively.
“Because he is perverse. He likes rolling in the mud, he has always been this way,” she replied. Tate stepped up close to the other woman, got right up in her space.
“You know what? I couldn't give two fucks what you think. What either of you think. He chased me here – not you, who can't seem to stop chasing after him. So who's really the desperate one? Now get the fuck out of my way, before I knock you on your ass,” Tate hissed.
Pet seemed shocked. She probably wasn't used to someone swearing at her and threatening her with physical violence. Tate took the opportunity to brush past her. She wasn't about to fight over Jameson. He wasn't worth it, on any level.
Though the idea of bouncing Pet's head off the ground like a tennis ball did hold a certain appeal.
When Tate got back to the VIP area, Jameson was sitting in the same spot, but leaning backwards over the couch a little, talking to the man in the suit. Tate was pretty sure suit-man was the owner of the club, the gifter of the cognac. She sat down beside Jameson, tucking her feet up under herself. She was feeling hot after her run-in with Pet. Flustered. A little giddy. She had just confronted a nightmare, and instead of melting in to a self-loathing puddle, she had threatened to beat its ass. She felt amazing.
I can do this. I can win this game. I can knock this game out of the park.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw movement. Pet was sidling up to the edge of the VIP section. A new security guard was in place, and she was getting the same turn down Tate had received. As Pet argued with the guard, her eyes flicked to Tate, then glared. Tate glared right back. Then Pet reached out, running her fingers down the lapel of the guard's suit. The man laughed, obviously not immune to Petrushka's stunning good looks. It wouldn't be long before she weaseled her way into the sitting area. How awkward would that be? Jameson would probably love it. Just sit back, sip his cognac, and watch the two women wrestle around on the floor. Awesome.
Or he could walk away with her, leaving you a broken mess, floating back in that pool.
No. Tate wouldn't let that happen. Not this time. She was stronger, bolder, better; she knew that, now. The only person who would be broken at the end of this would be Jameson fucking Kane. She would win this game. Without thinking about what she was doing, Tate reached out and grabbed Jameson's head, roughly pulling him away from his conversation.
“What the fuck do you -,” he started to snap, but he was cut off. Mostly by her tongue in his mouth.
She moaned and raised up onto her knees, yanking him even closer. One of his arms wrapped around her, the only thing keeping them balanced, what with Tate suddenly leaning all of her weight against him. His other hand still held onto his drink, keeping it out away from their bodies, obviously trying not to spill anything.
But none of that seemed to catch Jameson off guard or slow him down. He dove in head first, went right along with her and kissed her back, his fingers digging almost painfully into her waist. She broke away to gasp in air, and he pulled her right back in, kissing her like she was priceless cognac, and he wanted every last drop.
Tate squeezed her eyes shut tight and tried not to think. Tried not to notice how all the nerve endings in her lips were coming alive. Tried not to notice how kissing him made every hurt go away, just a little. It wasn't fair, Jameson had caused the hurts. But it was true. She felt like a live wire that needed grounding.
As if he could read her mind – which she was pretty sure he could, he was Satan after all – he suddenly gripped her waist even tighter and leaned back into the couch, yanking her around to his front. Tate moved her legs so she was straddling him, and she suddenly, most definitely, felt grounded. Right against the massive bulge in his pants. She moaned into his mouth, raking her nails down his chest.
Hope you love a show, Pet. Jameson and I know how to put on a good one.
“A moment, please,” Jameson panted, before pulling far enough away to down the rest of his drink. Then he jumped right back into it, trailing his lips along her neck, down to her cleavage. Tate let her head fall back, her arms wrapped around his neck. She slid her eyes back to Pet and smiled before blowing her a kiss.
Petrushka. Went. Ballistic. Started shrieking at the security guard in some language Tate didn't quite recognize, maybe Russian. There was a flurry of activity and several more guards showed up, along with important looking suit-man. All the while, Pet kept shouting, pointing an accusing finger at Tatum. Tate just smiled back, gave a small wave. By then, Jameson had leaned away so he could take in the commotion, though both his arms remained around her waist.
“Your girlfriend is a real catch,” Tate commented, watching as the security team began bustling Pet away. Jameson snorted.
“Yeah, and what's even stranger – I don't have a girlfriend,” he replied, and then she felt his tongue tracing along the neckline of her shirt. She glanced down at him.
Her heart was skipping beats, she was pretty sure. She had been kissing him for show, to piss off Petrushka. Tate didn't really want to be doing this, not with him. She should let him go, get off of him. Go take twelve cold showers, then fly the fuck back to Boston. She could work out the reappearance of her sex drive with Ang, just like old times.