Velvet Rope

"Always have to have the last word, don't you?"

Her eyes flicked up at him, dark and knowing beneath annoyingly perfect lashes. A smile touched her lips, but it didn't reach those eyes. Cool amusement. Calculated. "Someone has to."

He watched the way her fingers played with the stem of her empty wine glass. Restless. Like her.

The low hum of the remaining guests at the gallery closing event filled the space around them, a backdrop of polite laughter and meaningless talk.

It grated on his nerves. Everything grated tonight.

She grated.

Thinks she’s clever. He leaned a fraction closer, invading her space just enough that she’d have to lean back to restore it. She didn’t. Her chin lifted instead, a silent challenge.

"Funny," he said, voice low, pitched just for her ears amidst the surrounding noise. "I thought the point was the conversation, not scoring points."

"Maybe for you." She slid the glass onto a passing waiter’s tray without looking. Smooth. Effortless.

Her gaze drifted across the room, deliberately avoiding his. Following her line of sight, he saw some suited man smiling at her. Recognition flared – some collector, maybe. Didn’t matter. What mattered was the way she offered that little tilt of her head, an invitation he hadn’t fucking given her permission to extend.

Mine. The thought wasn't gentle. It was a rough, possessive thing clawing up his throat. He stepped forward deliberately, blocking her view of the other man. Her focus snapped back to him, irritation finally flickering in those dark eyes. Good.

"Problem?" she asked, voice clipped.

"You tell me." He let his eyes drift down her body, slow, deliberate. The simple black dress she wore clung to curves he knew intimately. The soft swell of her breasts, the dip of her waist, the flare of her hips. He remembered the feel of her skin under his hands, the sounds she made when he pushed her over the edge. Heat coiled low in his gut, tight and angry. Desire mixed with a frustrated rage that only she seemed to ignite.

Wants to pretend I don’t affect her. He could feel the tension radiating off her now, a thin wire pulled taut beneath the practiced calm. He liked it.

Liked knowing he was the one putting it there.

"I think," she began, licking her lips slightly, a nervous habit she probably didn't even realize she had, "that you're being..."

"What?" he interrupted, stepping closer still. Close enough to smell the faint scent of her perfume, something dark and sweet that always made him want to bite. "Intense? Possessive?" He saw her swallow. "Maybe you just bring it out in me."

Her breath hitched. Just barely. But he saw it.

Heard it. There. That crack in the facade.

"Excuse me," she said, trying to step around him.

His hand shot out, quick and sure, fingers wrapping around her upper arm. Not painfully tight, not yet. Just enough to stop her. Firm.

Unyielding. "Not done talking."

Her eyes widened slightly. Surprise. Then defiance.

She tried to pull her arm away. He held fast. People milled around them, absorbed in their own conversations, their own worlds. Blind. Oblivious.

The thought sent a thrill through him. The risk. The nearness of discover.

"Let go of me," she hissed, voice barely a whisper, eyes darting around nervously.

"Why?" He leaned in, his lips close to her ear. Her skin felt hot under his fingers. "Scared someone will see?" He brushed his lips against the shell of her ear, feeling her shiver. "Scared they'll see how easily I can make you tremble?"

She jerked back, pulling harder this time. He let her go abruptly, watching her stumble slightly before catching her balance. Her chest rose and fell quickly. Colour stained her cheeks. Anger mixed with something else. Something he recognized.

Want it. Even angry, even fighting him, she wanted it. He could see it in the slight darkening of her pupils, the way her lips parted slightly.

He gave her a slow, deliberate smile. predatory.

"You look flushed."

She glared at him, speechless for a moment. Then, recovering her composure, she smoothed down her dress, a gesture meant to convey indifference.

It failed. He saw the slight tremor in her hands.

"I'm leaving," she said, turning sharply.

He let her walk away this time. Watched the sway of her hips as she navigated the thinning crowd, heading towards the exit that led to the less-used east wing corridor – restrooms, service access.

Not the main exit. Interesting.

He gave her a ten-second head start. Then he followed.

The corridor was dimly lit, echoing slightly with the sounds from the main hall. Empty. He caught up to her easily halfway down, her heels clicking sharply on the polished concrete floor. He didn't call out.

Just lengthened his stride until he was right behind her.

She must have sensed him, felt his presence, because she stopped abruptly, her shoulders tensing. She didn't turn around immediately.

He reached out, sliding his hand up her back, fingers spreading possessively over the smooth fabric of her dress. He felt her sharp inhale.

"Thought you were leaving," he murmured against her hair.

She finally turned, pinning him with a look that was a volatile mix of fury and heat. "What do you want?"

You. "What do you think I want?" His hand slid lower, cupping her ass firmly. She gasped, trying to slap his hand away, but he caught her wrist easily with his other hand, pinning it behind her back.

"Stop it," she breathed, eyes wide now, the defiance momentarily replaced by something closer to fear. Or maybe excitement. With her, it was hard to tell. Always blurring the lines.

"Make me." He backed her up against the cool, smooth plaster of the corridor wall. Her body yielded, trapped between the wall and him. He pressed his advantage, crowding her, letting her feel the hard ridge of his erection pressing against her stomach through their clothes. Her breath came in ragged little pants.

"Someone... someone could come," she whispered, glancing frantically down the empty corridor.

"Let them." He lowered his head, burying his face in the curve of her neck, inhaling her scent. He nipped at her skin, eliciting another sharp gasp.

"Want them to see how you belong to me?"

His free hand moved, hiking up her dress with rough impatience. The sound of the fabric bunching seemed obscenely loud in the quiet corridor. His fingers found the thin barrier of her

panties, already damp. Fuck. Always so responsive.

Even when she fought him.

"You're..." she started, then broke off with a choked sound as his fingers slipped beneath the elastic, finding her slick heat. Two fingers sliding inside her easily. So fucking wet.

"I'm what?" he growled against her skin, pushing his fingers deeper, feeling her clench around them instinctively. He rubbed his thumb firmly against her clit through the thin fabric. She whimpered, head falling back against the wall, eyes squeezed shut.

"So tight," he muttered, watching the pulse beat frantically at the base of her throat. He moved his fingers inside her, a slow, deliberate rhythm. In and out. Feeling her slick walls contract. His thumb never stopped its insistent pressure.

"Ah... please..." It wasn't a plea to stop. He knew that sound. It was a plea for more.

"Please what?" he demanded, pressing his hips harder against hers, grinding subtly. "Use your words."

Her eyes flew open, blazing now. "Fuck you."

He laughed, a harsh sound. "Soon." He leaned back just enough to see her face fully. Flushed, panting, eyes dark with need. Beautiful. Maddening. He used his thumb and forefinger to pinch her nipple hard through the fabric of her dress and bra.

She cried out, bucking against his hand inside her. "Don't— ah!"

"Don't what?" He twisted his fingers slightly, eliciting another choked gasp. "Don't touch you?

Don't make you come right here against the wall where anyone could walk in?" He fucked her harder with his fingers, feeling her inner muscles fluttering desperately. "Is that what you want, huh? To be denied?"

"No..." The word was torn from her, ragged.

He slid his fingers out abruptly, leaving her gasping, slickness smeared on her inner thighs.

Her eyes snapped open, confused, frustrated.

"Then tell me what you want." His voice was low, dangerous. His erection throbbed against her belly.

Her breath hitched. She looked at his mouth, then back to his eyes. A flicker of calculation, then pure heat. "Kiss me."

He stared at her for a long moment, feeling the anger simmer alongside the raw lust. She thought she could just demand it? After playing her games? But fuck, the way she looked at him, lips parted, waiting...

He crashed his mouth down on hers. It wasn't gentle. It was a collision. Teeth clashing lightly before tongues tangled. He kissed her hard, deep, tasting her desperation, her fight, her surrender.

His hand fisted in her hair, tilting her head back, deepening the kiss until she was clinging to him, fingers digging into his shoulders. He broke the kiss, both of them panting.

"Not here," she whispered, her voice husky.

"Someone..."

"I don't give a fuck who sees," he snarled, but the thought of dragging this out, making her wait, making her beg somewhere even riskier... it sparked something inside him. He pulled her away from the wall, his hand still tight on her wrist.

"Come on."

He didn't wait for an answer, just started walking, pulling her behind him. Back towards the main gallery space, but not towards the exit. He scanned the room. Most guests were gone now.

Staff were subtly starting to clear glasses, dim lights. He bypassed the main exhibits, heading for a side room currently housing a temporary installation – large, abstract sculptures shrouded in partial shadow. It was deserted.

He pushed her through the doorway, into the relative darkness. The only light came spilling from the main hall. Shapes loomed around them, metal and stone, casting long, distorted shadows.

"Here?" she breathed, looking around, uncertainty warring with the undeniable flush still on her face.

He ignored her, walking deeper into the room until they reached the centrepiece – a tall, polished granite plinth, smooth and cool-looking, currently empty, waiting for its intended exhibit. Beside it stood a velvet rope barrier, strung between two heavy, ornate chrome stanchions, meant to keep patrons at a distance. An idea, sharp and wicked, sliced through his thoughts.

He turned to face her, backing her up slowly until her calves hit the base of one of the stanchions.

Her eyes were huge in the dim light, tracking his every move.

"What are you doing?" she asked, her voice trembling slightly now. Not fear. Anticipation. He knew the difference.

He didn’t answer. Instead, he reached down, unhooking the plush velvet rope from its neighbour stanchion. The heavy clip mechanism made a soft clink in the quiet room. He held the rope, letting the thick, soft velvet slide through his fingers.

Her breath hitched. "No..."

"Yes." He stepped closer, looping the rope loosely around her left wrist. She didn't fight him, just watched, mesmerized. He brought her wrist up, securing the rope’s clip back onto the top ring of the stanchion she was leaning against. Not painfully tight, but secure. Her arm was anchored above her head.

He did the same with her other wrist, clipping the other end of the rope to the same stanchion ring.

Her arms were now held loosely upwards, fastened to the cold metal, framing her face. She tested the bonds, pulling slightly. The rope gave a little, but held fast.

"You're insane," she whispered, but her eyes were alight with a frantic, wild energy that matched his own. Her chest rose and fell rapidly.

"You make me insane." He stepped back, admiring his handiwork. Her, bound to a display stand in the middle of an empty gallery room, dress still bunched around her hips, flushed and panting.

Utterly vulnerable. Utterly his. Fuck yes.

He moved forward again, placing his hands flat on the cool granite plinth beside the stanchion, caging her in. He leaned close, his forehead resting against hers. Her breath ghosted over his lips.

"Lift your hips," he commanded, his voice a low growl.

She hesitated for only a second before obeying, arching her back slightly, pushing her pelvis forward instinctively. He reached down, ripping her panties down her legs with one sharp tug. They fell in a heap around her ankles. He kicked them aside.

"Spread your legs."

She did, planting her feet wider apart on the cool floor. Exposed. Waiting. The shadows played over her body, hiding and revealing. He felt the answering throb in his cock, painful in its intensity.
His gaze locked with hers. "Tell me again. What do you want?"

A shudder ran through her. "You," she breathed, the word barely audible. "Fuck me. Please."
That was all he needed. He unfastened his trousers, freeing his aching cock. Hard. Heavy.

Ready. He didn't bother with finesse, just positioned himself, the head of his cock pressing against her wet folds.

She gasped, eyes wide, knuckles white where her hands were held by the velvet rope. "Wait—"

He didn't wait. He drove into her with one hard, deep thrust.

"Ah! Fuck!" Her scream was cut off as her head thrashed against the stanchion pole. Her eyes screwed shut, her body convulsing around him. So fucking tight. So wet. It was like coming home, if home was a place of beautiful, violent chaos.

He pulled back slowly, almost all the way out, watching her face contort with the denial, then slammed back in, burying himself to the hilt. She cried out again, a raw, keening sound that echoed slightly in the large room.

Fuck. The sounds she makes. He gripped her hips, tilting her angle slightly, finding that spot deep inside that always made her unravel. He started to move, a hard, driving rhythm. Pounding into her.

The stanchion behind her vibrated slightly with the force of his thrusts. Her bound hands pulled instinctively against the velvet rope.

"Oh god... Mmm... yes..." she panted, her voice ragged between thrusts.

He leaned down, biting her shoulder, not gently. She gasped, bucking against him. "You're being rough," she choked out.

He gripped her throat, fingers pressing against the frantic pulse, not enough to hurt, just enough to control, to remind her who was in charge. His hips didn't slow. "I'm being honest," he rasped, thrusting deeper. "This. This is what you do to me."

Her eyes flew open, wide and dark, staring up at him. Fear, excitement, submission, defiance – all swirling together. He loved it. Loved seeing himself reflected in that chaos. Loved knowing he was the source of it.

He released her throat, grabbing her hair instead, pulling her head back further, exposing the long line of her neck. He licked a path from her collarbone up to her jaw, tasting the salt of her skin. "Look at me," he commanded.

Her eyes found his, glazed with pleasure and the intensity of the moment.

"Want me to stop?" he asked, grinding into her, feeling her inner muscles clench desperately around him.

"No... fuck... don't stop," she begged, her voice thick.

His free hand found her breast, squeezing hard. She cried out, the sound a mixture of pain and pleasure. Good. He wanted her overwhelmed.

Drowning in sensation. His thumb found her nipple through the fabric, rubbing it mercilessly. At the same time, his hips pumped relentlessly, driving her back against the cold metal pole again and again. Making her mind shatter.

"Ah! Yes... right there... oh fuck..." she sobbed, hips trying to meet his thrusts, hampered by her position.

He felt her getting close, the tension coiling tighter and tighter inside her. Her breath came in short, sharp gasps. Her moans grew louder, less controlled.

Too loud. They were still exposed. The risk, usually a thrill, now sparked a different kind of intensity. A possessive need for silence. He suddenly shifted his weight, pulling back slightly.

She whimpered at the withdrawal. "No..."

He clamped his hand firmly over her mouth, muffling her sounds. Her eyes widened in panic above his fingers. He stared down at her, feeling the frantic vibration of her trapped moans against his palm. Then he started moving again, a slow, deep, grinding pace this time. Each slide in, each deliberate retreat, was agony and ecstasy reflected in her wide eyes.

“You want the whole building to hear how wet you are for me?” he murmured against her ear, his voice muffled by her hair, his hand still tight over her mouth. “Want them to know I’m fucking you against their precious display?” He pushed in deep, holding it there, feeling her squirm, desperate for release. “Or should I shut you up properly?”

Her muffled cries intensified behind his hand. Tears pricked the corners of her eyes, whether from pleasure or the sheer overwhelming intensity, he didn’t know. Didn’t care. It was raw. It was real. It was her, stripped bare by him.

He watched her face, reading the storm there. Felt the tremors racking her body. She was right on the edge. He increased the pressure of his thumb on her clit, which he could just reach, rubbing firmly while continuing that deep, slow grind inside her.

Her back arched violently, straining against the velvet rope. Muffled screams vibrated against his hand.

Then, she shattered. Her body convulsed around him, waves of intense pleasure racking her frame.

Her eyes rolled back slightly. Her muscles clenched tight, milking him. He held her firmly, riding out her orgasm, his hand still clamped over her mouth, absorbing the silent screams of her release.

Only when her shudders began to subside did he

remove his hand. She sagged against the stanchion, gulping in huge breaths, face flushed, sweat glistening on her skin. Her eyes fluttered open, finding his. Dazed. Spent. Beautifully ruined.

He felt his own release building, a burning pressure low in his belly. Looking down at her, dishevelled, bound, marked by his teeth, utterly consumed by him… it pushed him over.

He pulled her hips tight against his, groaned low in his throat, and emptied himself deep inside her with a final series of guttural thrusts. His own body shuddered, head falling forward to rest against her sweaty forehead. For a moment, there was only the sound of their harsh breathing in the dark, shadowed room.

He stayed inside her, pulsing, feeling her faint aftershocks. The anger had burned off, replaced by a possessive satisfaction so fierce it was almost painful.

Slowly, reluctantly, he pulled out of her. She swayed, boneless. He reached up, unclipping the velvet rope from the stanchion ring first, then carefully from her wrists. Red marks bloomed on her skin where the rope had held her. He briefly rubbed one wrist with his thumb.

She didn't say anything, just watched him with those dark, unreadable eyes as he straightened his clothes, fastening his trousers. He didn't help her with her dress or the panties still pooled at her feet.

He turned without a word, walking back towards the fading light of the main gallery. He stopped at the doorway, glancing back.

She stood there, still leaning against the stanchion for support, her dress hanging halfway down her thighs, hair wild, lipstick smeared. She looked wrecked. And magnificent.

A muscle ticked in his jaw. The anger wasn't gone.

Not really. It was just... sated. For now.