“You wanna take your anger out on me, fine. Let's do this,” he offered. She glared at him for a second longer, and then her bottom lip began to tremble. Her eyes filled up with tears.

“I'm upset because he promised he wouldn't. Rus isn't like us, she really is a nice, normal girl. She's always had a crush on Ang. He doesn't care about her. He made her all these promises, said all these sweet things to her, and then he just walked out. Dined and dashed. She thinks they're soulmates. He just did it to get back at me,” Tate explained.

“Get back at you for what?” Jameson asked. Her eyes slid away from him. He shook her gently. “Talk to me. Get back at you for what?”

She sighed and leaned in to him, wrapping her arms around his middle. She could feel his surprise – while a very sexual person, Tate wasn't the most affectionate person. She wasn't prone to hugs; except with Sanders. But she squeezed Jameson tightly and decided it was now or never.

I just don't care anymore.

“He's getting back at me ..., for falling for you instead of him,” she whispered.

~14~

The tension between them grew to be almost unbearbale. Tatum hadn't thought that Jameson would take her confession so hard. She hadn't said she was in love with him. She hadn't asked for marriage or babies or anything – she knew what was going on between them, knew it was mostly one sided. She was okay with that, or at least that's what she told herself. And she told him, too, right after he had let go of her and stepped away, his face hard and pale.

She spent the whole next week telling him it was okay, but it didn't seem to matter. Conversation didn't flow between them the way it used to. He became prone to sitting in silence behind his desk, and when she would look up, it was often to find him staring at her. Frowning.

Not a good sign.

She asked Sanders if anything had been said to him, but nothing had – Jameson was keeping silent on his thoughts. She began counting the days, waiting for him to tell her it was over. She would wait till he said something, she wouldn't throw in the towel. She would finally win one of their games.

Strangely, though, it didn't affect their sex life. If anything, he went harder. The day after her little confession, Tate was coming down the stairs when suddenly he was behind her, a hand in her hair, forcing her against a wall and her shorts down around her ankles. A day later, she was held down on the couch in the library. The nights were the same – sex, sex, and just when she was about to fall alseep, a little more sex.

His mouth was filthy and his hand heavy. It was like she had opened a flood gate. She couldn't tell whether she was being punished for her confession, or rewarded. She certainly wasn't complaining. She encouraged him, pushed him to – and over – the edge as often as she could; wanted to make it all as good for him as possible.

I want him to remember me. I want every woman after me to be compared, and found lacking. He will rememeber me.

At the end of the week, as she was bent over his desk, trying to catch her breath, he let the hammer drop. Her panties were in a ball on the floor, her skirt a bunched up mess around her waist. Her scalp was stinging, as well as her ass. She was on cloud nine when he backed away, sat in a chair, and sighed.

“I'm leaving,” Jameson said in a low voice. She held her breath for a second.

“Where are you going?” she asked, still laying flat against the desk.

“I have to go to Berlin,” he replied.

“How long will you be gone?” she pressed. A long pause.

“I don't know.”

Tate took a deep breath. Licked her lips. Stood up and put her clothing to rights. She didn't think it was fair. If she had known that would be the last time they were going to have sex, she would've been more assertive. Insisted on facing him, looking in to his eyes. He had such amazing eyes. She walked over to the other chair and sat down as well. The fire was roaring, like always, but she didn't mind the heat. Welcomed the sizzle against her skin. Wondered if Sanders had anymore xanax.

“Is this it?” Tate whispered. Neither of them looked at each other.

“Do you want it be?” Jameson asked.

“Obviously not. But if you do, it's fine. I'll go pack my stuff, and when you come home, you won't even know I was ever here,” she tried to joke.

“Tate.”

“We'll have to work out a custody schedule for Sandy, though,” she laughed. “He's half mine now. I want to -,”

“Tatum.”

“What?” she asked, finally looking at him. The wing of the chair hid his face.

“This isn't a joke,” he told her. She nodded.

“I know that, I'm just trying to make you comfortable. It's okay, Jameson. I promise. I'm okay,” she assured him. He sighed.

“Why are you so good to me?” he whispered. She laughed.

“Because you were so bad to me,” she teased.

“Do you want to stay?” he asked, and she could see him turn his head towards her. The bottom of his face became visible. His strong jaw, stern mouth. She shivered.

“I don't want to stay where I'm not welcome,” she answered his question sideways.

“You're always welcome, Tate. Just ..., you have to know, I'm not ready for what you want,” he told her. She nodded.

“I know that. I'm not asking for one single thing. I never did. Maybe we should just end this, go our separate ways. It's kinda sick, right?” she laughed. He suddenly stood up, walked over to her chair, and pulled her up as well.