Jealousy Ignites Passion

Monday morning hits me like a hangover I didn't earn. My office is a glass-walled cage downtown, all sleek lines and sharp edges, a stark contrast to the tangled mess of my weekend. I'm behind my desk, sipping coffee that's too bitter, trying to focus on event proposals while my mind keeps drifting—to Julian's hands, his mouth, the way he unraveled me yesterday. I'm still sore in the best way, a delicious ache that lingers every time I shift in my chair. But there's Lena, too, haunting the edges of my thoughts, her smirk from the kitchen burned into me like a brand.

I'm halfway through a budget spreadsheet when the door bangs open, and there she is—Lena, striding in like she owns the place. Her red hair's loose, wild, and she's in a cropped leather jacket and leggings that hug her dancer's legs like a second skin. My assistant, Tara, trails behind her, flustered, stammering something about appointments, but Lena waves her off with a flick of her hand. "I'm not here to chat," she says, her voice cutting through the room, and Tara scurries out, shutting the door.

I lean back in my chair, crossing my arms, trying to look unfazed even as my pulse kicks up. "What do you want, Lena?"

She doesn't answer right away. Instead, she prowls toward me, hips swaying like she's on stage, every step a performance. She stops at my desk, planting her hands on it, leaning forward so her jacket gapes open, revealing a sliver of black lace beneath. "Why didn't you come after me?" she asks, her tone low, dangerous. "Saturday night. You let me walk out."

I laugh, sharp and dry, because she's got some nerve. "You stormed off like a diva. What was I supposed to do, chase you down and beg?" But even as I say it, my eyes flick to her lips, remembering how they felt against mine, how she turned that kitchen into a battlefield of want.

"You used to," she says, and there's a bite to it, a challenge. She straightens, then starts moving—slow, deliberate, her body rolling into a dance that's all fluid grace and raw sex. My office isn't built for this, but she makes it work, using the space like it's her stage. She spins, her hair whipping around, then drops low, thighs flexing as she rises again, her gaze locked on mine. It's a taunt, a seduction, and my mouth goes dry watching her.

"Lena, stop," I say, but it's weak, and she knows it. She doesn't stop. She steps around the desk, closer now, her scent—jasmine and heat—flooding my senses. My chair squeaks as she nudges it back, straddling my lap without asking, her weight settling over me like she belongs there. My hands hover, unsure whether to push her off or pull her in, and she smirks, catching my wrists, guiding them to her hips.

"You don't mean that," she murmurs, her lips brushing my ear, and I shiver, heat pooling low despite myself. "You never could resist me." She grinds down, slow and deliberate, and I bite back a groan, my fingers digging into her leather-clad hips. The desk presses into my back, papers scattering as she moves, her dancer's rhythm hypnotic, relentless.

"Why are you here?" I manage, my voice rough, but she's already peeling off her jacket, tossing it aside. The black lace underneath is a bra, barely there, and my breath catches as she leans in, her chest brushing mine. Her lips hover over my mouth, teasing, and I can feel the heat of her, the memory of Saturday night crashing back—her hands, her tongue, the way she owned us both.

"Because you fucked him without me," she says, and there's venom in it, jealousy sharp as a blade. "Julian. I saw you two, cozying up after I left. Did you think I wouldn't notice?"

I freeze, her words slicing through the haze. "You don't get to dictate who I fuck," I snap, but she cuts me off, kissing me hard, her teeth catching my lip. It's possessive, punishing, and I taste blood, a copper sting that only makes me hungrier. I kiss her back, just as fierce, my hands sliding up her back, clawing at the lace. The chair rocks as we collide, a frantic tangle of lips and limbs, and I'm drowning in her—her anger, her heat, her need.

She pulls back, panting, her hands braced on my shoulders. "You're mine, Sasha," she says, and it's a claim, raw and unapologetic. Before I can argue, she's sliding off me, tugging me up, and I don't resist. She shoves me against the desk, the edge biting into my thighs, and then she's on me again, her mouth on my neck, her fingers yanking at my blouse. Buttons pop, fabric tears, and I don't care—my hands are in her hair, pulling hard, as she sucks a bruise into my skin.

The desk rattles as she presses me down, climbing over me, her knees bracketing my hips. Papers crumple beneath me, a pen digs into my back, but all I feel is her—her weight, her heat, the way she grinds against me like she's marking me. My skirt's hiked up, her hands roaming, and I'm gasping, arching into her touch. It's messy, desperate, a reclaiming I didn't see coming, and I'm lost in it, the office fading to nothing but us.

"You don't get to walk away," I growl, flipping us so she's beneath me, her back hitting the desk. Her eyes flash, defiant, but she doesn't fight it—she hooks her legs around me, pulling me closer, and we're a storm again, hands and mouths and ragged breaths. She whispers something against my lips—Julian's name, Mara's name, a hint of something bigger—but I don't care, not now. Not when she's trembling under me, not when I'm this close to falling apart.

The glass walls blur with steam, the city outside oblivious, and I know this isn't over. Lena's here to stir the pot, to drag me back into her orbit, and damn if I'm not letting her—for now.