“That was different. Sometimes ..., sometimes I feel like I do hate you. I didn't want this, I wasn't looking for this, this isn't what I asked for. I wanted someone to play with, not someone for keeps. You changed the game on me,” he said quietly.

“I did?” she replied, another tear escaping. He nodded his head against her.

“Yes, and I don't know this game. I'm not good at this game. I'm learning as I go, and you don't make it easy, when you fight me at every turn. When you change the rules. You change your mind. You make me slip up. I hate that. Sometimes it all makes me wish for the old days. Sometimes, it all makes me hate you a little,” he confessed. She laughed. The tears were free falling now. No turning back.

Not that there ever was.

“Pity,” she whispered.

“Why?”

“Because it all makes me love you a little.”

~9~

“What are the rules?”

“No rules.”

“Shut up.”

“Fiiiiiine.”

“What are the rules?”

“No Angiers in the house.”

“Yes. And?”

“No plotting your imminent demise.”

“And?”

“No corrupting Sanders.”

“Good girl. I'll be back in four days.”

Jameson leaned down and kissed her. Went to leave, made it a couple steps, then came back.

“What!? I haven't corrupted him yet,” Tate held up her hands defensively. Sanders shifted from foot to foot, tried to blend in with the door frame.

“Any rules for me, baby girl?” he asked, glancing in a large mirror and fiddling with his tie. She batted his hands away and worked at the knot.

“You are shit at doing this,” she grumbled, pulling the whole thing free and starting over.

“Watch it. Why are you so good at it?” he asked, watching in the mirror as she deftly tied a knot.

“Fucked a lot of professors,” she replied. He shoved her hands away.

“You're not fit to touch me,” he informed her.

“That's not what you said last night.”

“Last night was a completely different story. Any last words?” he asked. She thought for a second.

“Don't do anything I wouldn't do,” she replied with a smile.

“What a horrible thought. Be good,” Jameson kissed her again, then sailed out the door, Sanders carrying his luggage behind him.

It was Monday. He would be back Friday. She had told him she loved him Saturday night. Things hadn't exploded. The earth hadn't swallowed her whole, Satan hadn't carried her off to his temple of doom. Though he did carry her off to his bedroom.

“I know you do, baby girl.”

“When did you know?”

“Paris.”

“How? I didn't even know.”

“You're not very subtle.”

“I'm sorry.”

“Never be sorry, Tate. I never am.”

“Does this change things?”

“No. Not a thing.”

“Please, don't hurt me.”

“I'll do my best.”

“That's all I can ask.”

He had kissed every inch of her skin, practically worshiped her with his mouth. She had felt like dying on top of his desk, but fifteen minutes later, and he had her so super charged, she felt like her fingertips could jump start a jet engine. Just when she was ready to beg for it, he had slipped inside of her, and eased the tension.

And things really hadn't changed. They fucked all weekend, making up for lost time. Sanders was scarred on more than one occasion, by walking into the wrong room at the wrong time. Jameson still called her filthy names, and she still loved it. Still treated her to heavy hands, and she loved that even more. But best of all, when he did say something nice, it didn't hurt. It didn't scar. It just folded in with the rest.

Finally.

“I bought something,” he said Sunday afternoon, striding into his library.

She was back to laying on the floor, stretched on her stomach. There had been an “incident” with the couch. It had gotten flipped over and a leg broke off. It was being repaired. Jameson told her she had to be more careful in the future – his shit wasn't cheap. She told him that maybe he shouldn't go around fucking people so hard. He told her to shut her mouth. It just went uphill from there, and then they broke his desk chair.

She had laughed a lot.

“What is it?” she asked warily, sitting up and taking a box he held out towards her.

She recognized it instantly. A vintage Cartier necklace, mostly pearls and diamonds. Purchased by an anonymous buyer over a phone.

“Got it at some stupid auction,” he commented, sitting in his wing back chair. “Don't know why. Waste of money. For some charity function.”

She wanted to cry, but she was trying to make it a habit not to do that anymore. So she game him a blowjob instead. Was practically of equal value, she was sure.

But Sunday evening, he got a phone call. They were still in the library, so she was there when he got it. Something about his offices in Germany. She heard everything, he tried to get out of going. Had even offered to send Sanders in his place. But he was needed. He had to go – it was easy to forget, but he did have obligations. He had to go to Berlin.

Of course, a panic attack was the first thing on her mind. But then she calmed down. Saying “hey, I'm kinda sorta in love with you, you sadistic bastard” was kind of like making a deal. She had to trust him, to a certain extent. So she just smiled and told him to come home soon. He tried to talk her into going with him, but she told him she wouldn't go for all the tea in China. Fuck that. Letting him go was baby steps. He would have to wait for the giant leaps.