Trapped in your toxic love

The Jealousy Game

The gallery lights in Pioneer Square were low and golden, designed to flatter both the art and the egos of the people who bought it. Elena Voss moved through the crowd like smoke—black lace dress clinging to every curve, high slit flashing thigh with each step, plunging back exposing the elegant line of her spine down to the dimples above her ass. The new collar sat at her throat like dark jewelry; the platinum key pendant swung gently between her breasts, catching light every time she breathed. No one knew what it really meant. No one but Damien Blackwood.

He never let her more than arm’s length away.

His hand stayed low on her back—fingers splayed possessively, thumb occasionally pressing into the base of her spine, a silent reminder: mine. She felt it in her bones. Felt it lower, too—the lingering ache between her thighs from the car ride here, when he’d pulled her onto his lap in the Maybach, unzipped just enough to slide inside her, rocking slow and deep while Seattle’s rain-streaked streets blurred past the tinted windows. He hadn’t let her come. Not then. He’d whispered against her ear instead: “Save it for later. When I decide.”

Now later was approaching, and the gallery buzzed with champagne flutes, murmured appraisals of her charcoal abstracts—fractured female forms bleeding ink across canvas—and the kind of people who measured worth in seven figures.

A curator approached—tall, late-thirties, dark hair swept back, warm brown eyes that lingered too long on the swell of her breasts visible through the sheer lace panels. His name tag read Julian Reyes – Independent Curator. He smiled like he knew secrets.

“Elena Voss,” he said, voice smooth with practiced charm. “These pieces are extraordinary. The vulnerability… the rage. It’s intoxicating.”

She offered the polite smile Damien had trained into her. “Thank you. They came from a very… personal place.”

Julian’s gaze flicked to the collar, then back to her eyes. “I can see that.” He touched her forearm—light, almost incidental, fingers brushing the faint rope mark still visible under the lace sleeve. “I’d love to discuss a collaboration. Private showing. Coffee, perhaps? Or dinner.”

Elena felt the shift in the air before she saw it.

Damien’s hand on her back turned to steel.

He stepped forward—half a step, enough to crowd Julian’s space without touching him.

“She’s unavailable,” Damien said. Voice low. Velvet over razor blades.

Julian blinked. Laughed lightly—nervous now. “Of course. Mr. Blackwood’s guest. I didn’t mean—”

“You did.” Damien’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “And you won’t again.”

Julian excused himself quickly. Melted into the crowd.

Damien didn’t speak. Just steered her—firm grip on her elbow—through a side door, down a narrow hallway lined with stacked crates and emergency lighting. Past the restrooms. Into a storage room that smelled of sawdust, oil paint, and old canvas.

Door locked with a soft click.

He spun her to face the wall—concrete cool against her palms as he pushed her forward.

“Hike the dress.”

Hands shaking, she obeyed. Black lace gathered at her waist, exposing her bare ass and the slick evidence of earlier arousal still glistening on her inner thighs.

He pressed behind her—clothed erection grinding hard against her cleft through wool trousers.

One hand fisted her hair—yanked her head back until her throat arched, collar digging in.

The other slid between her legs—two fingers plunging inside without warning, curling hard against her g-spot.

She gasped—loud in the quiet room.

“Quiet,” he growled against her ear. “Or I’ll make sure everyone outside hears you beg.”

He finger-f****d her fast—brutal, precise—until her knees buckled and she braced harder against the wall.

Then he withdrew.

Unzipped.

Notched himself at her entrance.

Thrust in—one savage stroke, burying himself to the hilt.

Elena bit her forearm to muffle the scream.

He didn’t give her time to adjust. f****d her hard—each stroke driving her onto her toes, concrete scraping her palms, collar clinking with every impact. The key pendant swung wildly, slapping her sternum.

One hand wrapped around her throat—over the leather—squeezing just enough to make stars burst behind her eyes.

“Look at me,” he snarled.

She twisted her head as far as his grip allowed. Met his gaze in the dim emergency light—pupils blown, jaw clenched, something feral and wounded flickering there.

“Mine,” he growled between thrusts. “To show off. To f**k. To ruin. Never theirs to touch. Never theirs to want.”

He bit down on her shoulder—fresh mark over the fading one—hard enough to draw a copper tang on his tongue.

The pain spiked straight to her c**t.

She came clenching around him—silent scream trapped in her throat, body convulsing, thighs shaking so violently he had to pin her hips with his forearm to keep her upright.

He didn’t stop.

Kept pounding through her orgasm—prolonging it until tears streamed down her cheeks, until she was sobbing apologies and pleas and his name.

Only then did he follow—deep, hot pulses filling her until it leaked down her thighs when he finally pulled out.

He stepped back.

Fixed his trousers. Smoothed his jacket.

Turned her gently.

Kissed her—slow, deep, tasting the salt of her tears and the faint blood from her bitten lip.

“Back to the party,” he said. “Smile.”

She did—legs trembling, come dripping down her inner thighs, collar locked tight, key swinging like a pendulum counting down to something she couldn’t name.

They re-entered the main floor side by side—Damien’s hand once again low on her back, possessive, steadying.

Julian approached again—oblivious, or perhaps too arrogant to care.

“Miss Voss, I was hoping—”

Damien cut him off without breaking stride.

“She’s leaving early. With me.”

He steered her toward the exit—arm around her waist now, fingers digging in just enough to bruise.

Outside, the Maybach waited under the awning. Rain hammered the roof as they slid into the back seat.

Partition rose.

Damien pulled her onto his lap immediately—straddling him, dress hiked again.

He unzipped.

Entered her slowly this time—inch by torturous inch—eyes locked on hers.

Rocked gently—deep, rolling thrusts that made her gasp with every pass over her oversensitive walls.

Whispered against her lips:

“I hate when they look at you like that.”

She kissed him—hungry, desperate. “Then mark me more.”

He did—another bite on the side of her neck, hard enough to bloom instant purple.

She moaned into his mouth.

The car drove through rain-slick streets—headed back toward the lake house.

He kept her impaled on him the entire ride—slow, shallow rocks, never enough to let her come again, just enough to keep her on the knife-edge.

When they finally pulled into the garage, he lifted her off him—still hard, still aching.

Carried her inside—legs wrapped around his waist, dress ruined, come and rain soaking through lace.

Laid her on the living-room rug in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the black lake.

Stripped her completely.

Stood over her—tuxedo jacket discarded, shirt open, trousers still on but unzipped.

“Look at yourself,” he said, nodding toward the dark glass reflection.

She did—naked, collared, ringed, marked, thighs slick, eyes glassy with need.

He knelt between her legs.

Unzipped fully.

Thrust back inside—deep, claiming.

Fucked her on the rug—slow now, deliberate, every stroke a vow.

One hand around her throat—over the collar—squeezing rhythmically.

The other pinned her wrists above her head.

“Say it,” he growled.

“Yours,” she gasped. “Only yours.”

He kissed her—bruising, devouring.

When she came again—shattering, sobbing his name—he followed, spilling deep, holding her through the aftershocks.

They lay there—tangled on the rug, rain drumming the windows, city lights distant across the water.

He traced the new bite on her neck with his thumb.

“I hate sharing you,” he admitted—voice raw, almost broken.

She cupped his face.

“Then don’t.”

But even as she said it, she felt the lie beneath the truth.

Because the jealousy wasn’t just his.

It burned in her too—hot, vicious, possessive.

The thought of anyone else touching him—of him looking at another woman the way he looked at her—made her want to claw their eyes out, to lock him away, to mark him until no one else dared come close.

She pressed closer—chest to chest, heartbeat to heartbeat.

And realized the cage they’d built wasn’t just around her.

It was around both of them.

Mutual imprisonment.

Mutual ruin.

And neither of them wanted the key.

But as sleep began to pull at the edges of her vision, Damien’s phone buzzed on the coffee table—screen lighting up in the dark.

He glanced at it.

Jaw tightened.

Message from unknown number:

She looks beautiful in black lace.

Tell her the gallery curator sends his regards.

And that he has photos.

Lots of them.

From tonight.

Damien deleted it instantly.

But the seed was planted.

And Elena—half-asleep against his chest—didn’t see the storm gathering behind his eyes.

The real game wasn’t over.

Someone had been watching.

And they were just getting started.