In the fall semester last year, John and I had been together for about a month, and we were taking things slow. We went to a house party that night, and I could tell right from the start that people were noticing me. I wore a tight, one-shoulder black dress, no bra, just a pair of lace panties underneath. It wasn’t just John’s eyes on me, I could feel others stealing glances too.

Throughout the night, we stayed close, but there were times when he’d go grab drinks or chat with his friends. That’s when a few guys came over to talk to me, and I didn’t exactly stop them. At first, it was just casual conversation, but I could see how they lingered, how they looked at me. And I noticed how John was watching too. Every time I caught his eye, the tension was clear—his jealousy building with every second I spent talking to someone else.

Around midnight, the party was slowing down, but it had become too much for him to handle. He pulled me into one of the empty rooms without saying a word, and before I knew it, he had me bent over the edge of the bed. I could feel how much it had gotten to him, the frustration, the jealousy, all of it. It wasn’t just anger though; it was something deeper, more intense. I could tell he needed to remind me, and himself, that I was his, and honestly, I was completely into it. It was like every look I got that night had fueled the fire between us, and that moment was the explosion we both knew was coming. I enjoyed every second of it.