Rope You In – Chapter 2 – Make Him Jealous

A week after I’d left his office with my panties in my pocket and his scent still clinging to my skin, the invitation arrived. 

Thick, cream-colored cardstock with elegant gold embossing. The annual Metropolitan Museum Charity Gala. An evening of forced smiles, insincere laughter, and writing checks large enough to make us feel like we were making a difference.

 Normally, it was the kind of event I endured with the grace of a queen, playing my part as the perfect, supportive accessory to Alex’s rising star. 

This year, it was my stage. The office had been a surgical strike. The gala was a declaration of war.

I didn’t buy a new dress. That would have been too obvious, too desperate. Instead, I went into the deepest, most forgotten corner of my closet and unearthed a dress I’d bought on a whim years ago and never had the courage to wear. 

It was a column of emerald green silk that clung to my body like a second skin. The color was so vibrant it looked like I’d been dipped in liquid light. It had a single, daringly high slit over my left leg and a back that plunged all the way down to the small of my ass, held together by a delicate web of gold chains. 

It wasn’t just a dress; it was a weapon. And I was going to draw blood.

When I walked down the grand staircase that evening, Alex was waiting by the door, adjusting his cufflinks. He looked devastatingly handsome in his classic black tux, a vision of controlled elegance. 

He looked up, and the casual smile on his face froze. His eyes, those calm, grey eyes, widened as they swept over me, taking in the dress, the way the silk draped and clung, the expanse of bare skin on my back. 

He didn’t say anything. He just stared, his jaw tight, his gaze a physical weight.

“Too much?” I asked, my voice light, breezy.

 I already knew the answer. It was exactly enough.

He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. 

“No,” he finally managed, his voice a low rasp. 

“It’s… not too much.” 

He closed the distance between us, his hand coming to rest on the bare skin of my lower back, his thumb stroking the sensitive dip just above my ass. The touch was proprietary, a silent, instinctive claim. 

“You look… unforgettable.”

“Good,” I said, turning my head to press a soft, fleeting kiss to his jaw. 

“That’s the point.”

The car ride was thick with a new kind of tension. It wasn’t the comfortable silence of a long-married couple; it was the electric, anticipatory hum of two people about to walk into a battle they hadn’t agreed to fight. 

He kept his hand on my thigh the entire way, his grip firm, his fingers tracing patterns on the silk that felt both reassuring and like a warning.

The gala was exactly as I remembered: a sea of glittering gowns and black tuxedos, the air thick with the scent of expensive perfume and the clinking of champagne flutes. We were barely inside for five minutes before it started.

A man, a senior partner from a rival firm, approached us. His name was Richard, a man whose eyes had always lingered on me a second too long.

“Sasha,” he said, his gaze dropping from my face to the daring slit of my dress and back again, a slow, appreciative appraisal. 

“You are, without a doubt, the most beautiful woman here tonight.”

I laughed, a light, musical sound. 

“Richard, you’re a terrible liar. But I appreciate the effort.”

“I never lie about beauty,” he said, taking my hand and bringing it to his lips.

 His eyes held mine as he kissed my knuckles, a gesture that was just this side of inappropriate. 

“And Alex, my friend,” he said, finally turning to my husband.

 “You’re a lucky man. A very lucky man indeed.”

I felt Alex’s arm tighten around my waist, a subtle, almost imperceptible shift. 

“I’m aware,” Alex said, his voice smooth, but there was a new edge to it, a sharpness that hadn’t been there before. 

He was smiling, but it didn’t reach his eyes. He was watching Richard watch me, and I could practically hear the gears turning in his head. The predator was waking up.

This became the pattern of the evening.

Men I’d known for years, men who had always treated me with a polite, detached respect, suddenly couldn’t get enough. They found excuses to touch my arm, to lean in close, to compliment my dress, my hair, my eyes. 

Each time, I’d handle it with the same breezy, charming indifference, deflecting their advances with a practiced wit. And each time, I’d feel Alex’s reaction. A stiffening of his posture. A darkening of his gaze. A hand that would find its way to my hip, my back, my waist, staking his territory.

He was seeing me through their eyes. He wasn’t just looking at his wife anymore. He was looking at the woman other men desired, the object of their lust, the prize they all wanted to win. And with every lingering glance, every suggestive comment, I could feel his possessiveness growing, a palpable, intoxicating force that was more potent than any champagne.

We were making our rounds, nodding and smiling at people we barely knew, when I felt it again – that intense, focused stare. 

I turned my head slightly and met Alex’s eyes from across the room. He was talking to an older gentleman, a major client, but his attention wasn’t on the conversation. It was all on me. His gaze was a physical touch, hot and possessive, stripping me bare right there in the middle of the crowded ballroom. It was the look I’d been starving for. The look that said *you are mine*.

I excused myself from the conversation I was in, a little smile playing on my lips. I didn’t go to him. I turned and walked away, toward the sprawling terrace that overlooked the museum’s illuminated gardens. I didn’t look back to see if he was following. I knew he would. The hook was set. All I had to do was reel him in.

The night air was cool against my overheated skin. The city glittered below, a carpet of distant stars. I rested my hands on the cool stone balustrade, feigning an interest in the view, my entire body thrumming with anticipation. 

I heard the glass door slide open and close behind me, the soft click of his dress shoes on the stone flagstones a moment later.

“Running away?” he asked, his voice low, a dangerous purr right behind my ear.

“Just getting some air,” I said, not turning around. 

“It was getting a little… crowded in there.”

“Was it?” he murmured, his hands coming to rest on my hips, his body pressing against my back. I could feel the hard, solid length of him, a stark, thrilling proof of his arousal. 

“Or were you just enjoying the attention a little too much?”

I leaned back into him, my head resting against his shoulder. 

“Jealousy doesn’t look good on you, Alex.”

“I’m not jealous,” he said, his lips brushing against the sensitive skin of my neck. 

“I’m territorial.”

 His hands slid up my sides, his thumbs tracing the underside of my breasts through the thin silk. “There’s a difference.”

“Is there?” I breathed, my heart hammering against my ribs.

He turned me around to face him, his hands framing my face, his grey eyes burning in the dim light from the ballroom. 

“You came here tonight looking like this,” he said, his voice a rough, urgent whisper. 

“You let them look at you. You let them want you. Why?”

“Maybe I wanted my husband to look at me that way,” I said, my voice barely audible. 

“Maybe I was tired of being invisible.”

“Fuck invisible,” he growled, and then his mouth was on mine.

It wasn’t a kiss. It was an assault. All the pent-up frustration, the simmering jealousy, the raw, possessive need he’d been nursing all evening came pouring out. It was a punishing kiss, all teeth and tongue and desperate, claiming pressure. He tasted of champagne and a hunger so deep it scared me.

He backed me up until my back hit the cold stone wall of the terrace, his body pinning me there. His hands were everywhere, tangling in my hair, sliding down my back, gripping my ass through the silk of my dress. One of his thighs pushed between my legs, pressing hard against my core, and I moaned into his mouth, grinding myself against him, seeking friction, seeking relief.

“Here?” I gasped, my head falling back as his lips moved to my throat, his teeth scraping, his tongue soothing. 

“Someone will see.”

“Let them,” he grunted, his hand finding the high slit of my dress and pushing it aside. His fingers were hot and rough against my bare skin as they traced the edge of my stocking, then higher, to the soaking wet lace of my panties. 

“I want them to see who you belong to.”

He hooked his thumb in the fabric of my panties and pulled it aside, his fingers sliding through my slick folds. I cried out, my hips bucking against his hand. He circled my clit, his touch expert, relentless, knowing exactly how to play my body after all these years.

“You’re so fucking wet,” he breathed against my ear, his voice thick with awe and lust. 

“Did all that attention get you this wet? Or was it waiting for me? Waiting for me to come and claim you?”

“You,” I moaned, my hands fisting in the lapels of his tuxedo jacket. 

“It was always you, Alex.”

He growled, a low, animalistic sound of satisfaction, and then he was undoing his trousers. The sound of his zipper was like a gunshot in the quiet night. He lifted me, my legs wrapping around his waist instinctively, the silk of my dress bunching around my hips. He positioned himself at my entrance, the thick head of his cock teasing me, and I whimpered, desperate for him.

“Look at me,” he commanded, his voice raw. I forced my eyes open, meeting his intense, burning gaze. “I want you to see who’s fucking you.”

And then he drove into me, one hard, deep, possessive thrust that stole my breath. He set a brutal, demanding rhythm, his hips pistoning, his cock slamming into me, each thrust a declaration of ownership. 

The stone wall was cold and hard against my back, a stark contrast to the fiery heat of his body. The sounds of the party were a distant, muffled hum, a world away from the raw, primal reality of what was happening on this dark terrace.

This was nothing like the controlled, desperate fuck in his office. This was something else. This was rage and lust and a desperate, clawing need to erase every other man’s touch, every other man’s glance, with the overwhelming, undeniable reality of his own. He was marking me, branding me, making me his in the most primitive way possible.

“Tell me,” he gritted out, his rhythm becoming more erratic, his control finally shattering. 

“Tell me you’re mine.”

“I’m yours,” I sobbed, the pleasure building to an impossible peak, the coil in my stomach tightening to the breaking point. 

“God, Alex, I’m always yours.”

He reached between us, his thumb finding my clit, and that was it. I came with a strangled cry, my orgasm ripping through me like a storm, my inner walls clamping down around his cock, milking him, pulling him deeper. 

He followed me over the edge with a hoarse shout, his body tensing as he poured himself into me.

We stayed like that, our bodies pressed together, our breathing ragged, the city lights twinkling below us like a million indifferent stars. He slowly lowered me to my feet, his hands lingering on my waist, his forehead resting against mine.

“Sasha,” he whispered, his voice hoarse, broken.
Just like that. Just my name.

I smoothed down my dress, my hands trembling slightly. I felt powerful, alive, utterly triumphant.

 I had my husband’s attention. All of it. 

I looked up at him, at the man I loved, the man I had just provoked into a public, passionate act of possession, and I smiled. 

“The night’s still young, Mr. Foster,” I said, my voice a soft, seductive purr. 

“And I’m not done with you yet.”

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