Relationship Game: "I'm cuter than her"

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I don't really want to do it but I know what must be done. I don't do it often, so when I do it I do it with precision and with a deft touch and the point is clear yet a stark reminder. I haven't played much of the jealousy card/game yet and I've given her wanton freedom and a hall pass from the latitude department....so, as with all things, it is time to bring balance to the equation.

A younger version of my girl is nearby. She's cute, fresh-faced, with that youthful exuberance that can come only from youth and the lack of the passage of time and tide....and pretty enough in the face it will serve its purpose. Being the same nationality makes it easier. Being younger also helps her effectiveness no doubt.
My man brain of rationality briefly says this is unnecessary....I backhand that clown for his ignorance and naiveté and set about doing what I know will work best and what is on some level what my girl wants/needs to affirm my value in her eyes.
No woman desires an undesired man.
I let this girls eyes rove over me and I know she sees by my girl that I'm playing for the team, shall we say as I almost exclusively date outside of my race.

I ask her to dance and she's all too eager. She breaks into questions almost immediately, grinning ear to ear, her hand grabbing my bicep rather than where it should and based on her steps, she knows where her hand goes but she wants to feel the goods.
---

I'm driving us home, and I know it's coming.......
"How was ***** girl you danced with?"
"She was......talkative."
"Oh, she asked you a lot of questions?"
"She did, the usual girls ask me when they get personal quick like"
"Oh, like where you're from, what you do?"
"How old I am, if I have kids, what I do...."
"Maybe she likes you."
I don't respond, but rather laugh a bit instead with the amused mastery laugh of "yes, yes she did, so many of them do".
"So, but, how did she dance? Like, was she good?"
This is the all important question where you must tread the exact right amount of salt in the wound: "she turns well enough, and her steps weren't bad."
I leave it open enough to interpretation that I'm not obviously doing it to irk her but enough that her own insecurity will toy with it and she'll know her man is wanted which is what her heart and her vagina want anyway, but not so much that she fears I'll jump ship for a younger model given the next time one just shows up and throws herself in my path.

"Her hair isn't as nice as mine."
"....Yeah," I remark thoughtfully as though I actually decide if that's true or not.
"She seemed awkward."
"She was very forward with the questions, you know how they are," I reply with the dismissively tired assessment of a man often hassled by younger girls with ramshackle probing questions and interest.

She reaches over the truck's console and kisses my neck, then her hand strays down to my leg. I tell her not to stop as we unintentionally pick up speed.
---

We're lying in bed and she looks effortlessly beautiful in a sheer tank top with some nonsensical print on it, a bra that keeps slipping just enough and her hair pinned up....her long dark hair cascading down onto my chest and tickling my face and by power of will I commit the totality of this to memory in searing detail. She's still got on her leggings and underwear but it's spellbinding watching her mindlessly chatter in a way that is nothing short of unadaultered femininity. The leggings come off and the look is complete: pure woman and girlishness enough to drive a man to suicide or murder or insanity or all of them in one afternoon.

She's cracking the top 5 of girls I've ever dated in terms of being pretty and being my type....climbing higher every day with that subtlety I know is how girls have crept into my world long term and actually gotten to me.....and she has this exactly proportioned petite little frame with curves that feels so soft in my hands I want to ravage her and choke her and destroy her when we're alone and I'm not kissing her lips and feeling her face pressed to mind.

It is maddening the polarities to which she spurs me.
It's an exercise in maintaining my frame at almost all times. Almost every moment I catch myself wanting to let the mask slip.....but history has taught me this is folly.
I know this is the kind of woman that truly improves my overall......well, just everything.
She forces me to stay on my game yet search for moments to be vulnerable.
I feel safe with her at times. She is a respite from my hyper masculine hobby and work and the tiresome world and a lifetime of searching high and low for a counterpoint to my person.

Her face is haunting and her eyes continually search mine....and I fear they will actually find the info they seek.
It's been a long time since a girl really made me feel as though she could read me. I withdraw further because I know go give up the trick would be to lose my illusion and my power and pull, but try as I might, there are times....when she reads me like a book.