"How did you know all the right sizes, Jameson?" Tate asked as she padded out of the bathroom.
But he wasn't in the bedroom. A shoe box was sitting on the bed, with a couple of jewelry boxes next to it. She pulled out diamond earrings – those can't be real – and a simple chain with a solitary diamond pendant. She put them all on, and when she opened the shoe box, her breath caught in her throat. Red bottoms. The most coveted of all shoes. She actually moaned out loud as she took the heels out, her eyes traveling over every inch of the leather. Sex with Jameson was pretty amazing, but even Louboutins had him beat. She slipped them onto her feet and moaned again.
"You like?" Jameson asked as he strode back in to the room.
"I want to fuck you, like, so hard right now," she told him. He laughed.
"Maybe when we're in the air. C'mon, baby girl, we have to go," he said.
"How did you know all the right sizes to get?" she asked.
"I took one of your dresses and a pair of your ridiculous socks, gave them to a private shopper. The underwear was easy, I am very familiar with your ass," he assured her, his eyes sweeping over her body.
"Well, it all fits like it was made for me. How do I look?" she asked.
"Absolutely stunning."
Tate blushed. He had never said something like that before, she was always sexy, or filthy, or hot. Rarely ever beautiful. Never stunning.
"Was it expensive?" she asked in a soft voice. He raised an eyebrow.
"Very. Now stop questioning me. Let's go," he ordered, and marched out of the room.
Sanders was waiting at the front door, next to two black rolling bags. Tate could only assume that one was for her, probably already packed with similar clothing. Sanders' eyes wandered over her, and she thought she might have seen a hint of a smile on his lips. She winked at him and pinched his butt while they walked out the door.
They didn't talk as they drove to an airfield a little ways away. She was surprised they didn't just go all the way in to Logan Airport. Jameson barely even looked up from his phone as they breezed through security and headed out onto the actual tarmac. Money talked. They approached a small, private plane, and her jaw dropped.
"Where exactly are we going?" she asked as Sanders climbed in to the plane ahead of them, loading up their bags.
"I told you, it's a secret," Jameson said, pressing a hand against her bare back and leaning close to her ear.
"Yeah, but ..., a private plane? Do you own this plane?" she asked. He laughed.
"No, I chartered it for the weekend. I feel like if I ever buy a plane, I will have irreversibly slipped in to the land of douchey-rich-guy," he told her. Tate laughed.
"I don't know about that, might be nice to always have a plane on standby," she said.
He kept his hand on her back while she climbed the stairs ahead of him. Sanders was already seated in the back of the plane, a laptop open in front of him. A flight attendant fiddled around in the back and a pilot smiled at them from the cockpit. Tate wasn't sure where to sit, so she just plunked down in a chair close to the door. Jameson sat in the seat across from her, his eyes wandering over her face.
"You look excited," he commented.
"I am. I'm holding out hope that we're going to the Bahamas," she told him. He threw his head back and laughed.
"Oh, Tatum. So optimistic. I'm going to tell you right now, it's not the Bahamas. You should be very, very afraid," he teased. She rolled her eyes.
"We'll see."
He told her the flight would take about two hours, but that's all he would say. When they took off, they headed over land, so she knew they weren't going East. Somewhere West – back to Los Angeles? No, that would be way longer than two hours. How long did it take to go to Chicago? Did Jameson even like Chicago? She had no clue where they were headed, and his words started to get to her. She got nervous.
She talked Sanders in to playing a couple rounds of gin rummy with her. Jameson produced a chess board, and beat her so quickly, it was embarrassing. Then he got Sanders to play, and that was actually interesting. They were both very good. She wondered if either had competed, and realized she knew almost nothing about either of their pasts. Jameson won, but it was a hard fought battle. Sanders made a noise in the back of his throat, and it took her about five minutes to realize it was a laugh.
This is going to be a hell of a weekend.
"Time to clip your wings, baby girl," Jameson commented after the pilot announced their descent.
"Excuse me?" Tate asked as he dug something out of his bag. A long, black sash appeared in his hands.
"You said you trusted me," he reminded her as he sat down next to her. She edged away from him.
"Yeah, with both eyes open. Not so much in the dark," she joked, even though she was a little nervous.
"I'm not asking, Tatum," he said in a stern voice.
The blindfold wrapped around her eyes, and she was left in darkness.
Tate had never really been in to the whole bondage scene. Sure, it was fun once in a while, but she liked to touch, and she liked to be touched, too much for it to be a real thing. And blindfolding was the worst. She had said it once, she was a very visual person. She wanted to see everything. Ang loved it and was forever trying wrap things around her head. It was usually a battle that he won only after copious amounts of liquor.
After the plane landed, she stayed sitting in her chair, as still as a statue, while people and the crew moved around her. At one point, someone leaned close, and she jerked away, but then there was a hand covering her own. Sanders' voice assured her that everything would be just fine. She managed a smile and tried to grab onto his arm, her fingers trailing down his sleeve as he pulled away. Then Jameson was next to her, she recognized his cologne, and he pulled her out of her seat, led her down the aisle.
Her nerves abated a little when they had to figure out how to get down the stairs. She stumbled on the first step and refused to go down anymore while wearing the blindfold. Jameson simply picked her up and threw her over his shoulder, carried her all the way to a car. By the time she was ensconced in a back seat, she was laughing hysterically.
She made a mental checklist as they drove. They were somewhere that wasn't any warmer or cooler than Boston, really. Wherever they had landed, Tate could smell foliage, a heavy forest. Something familiar. She figured they were still in the Northeast. Maybe he was taking her to some getaway in Maine. Or Vermont – she remembered Jameson saying he owned a farm in Vermont. Her outfit wasn't very conducive to a weekend in a cabin, though. She hoped for a five-star hotel.
"I am going to take your blindfold off in a moment," his voice was soft, after they had been driving for about an hour.
"Thank god," she laughed.
"I want you to remember something, though," Jameson said, at the same time the car took a slow, but sharp, right turn. Gravel crunched under the wheels.
"What?" she asked.
"You started these games," he told her. Her nerves went through the roof at that statement.
This is not a romantic get away. This is something very, very bad.
The blindfold fell away and she blinked, trying to adjust to the light. The car they were in had tinted windows, making it hard to see outside. Jameson was sitting next to her, carefully folding the sash up and putting it in his jacket pocket. She scooted closer to her door, peering out the window. She didn't get it. All she could see were trees. A narrow, gravel road. She pressed her forehead to the glass, tried to see ahead of the car. Glimpsed a house in the distance.
Oh. My. God.
"You didn't," Tate breathed, her heart stopping in her chest. She turned to look at Jameson, and he smirked at her.
"I told you, I always win," he said, stretching an arm out along the seat behind her.
I am so. Fucking. Stupid. Goddamn Satan wins again.
She lost her damn mind. Screamed and slapped him across the face. He ducked the next blow and grabbed her wrist, but she was already throwing herself at him, grabbing his hair with her other hand and trying to kick at him. Her dress was too tight, she couldn't really reach, and had to settle for kicking him in the shin.
They wrestled around for about a minute. Jameson could stop her whenever he wanted, she knew he was just letting her work out her frustrations – so she made the most of it, pulling his hair, pounding on his shoulders. When she scratched at his face, though, she apparently went too far. They were driving in an extended-back town car, and he slammed her onto the floor.
"This isn't a fucking game!" she screamed at him. He pinned her wrists by her head.
"Calm the fuck down!" he shouted at her. She used every muscle she had, swung her weight around underneath him. He didn't budge.