Page 10 of The Sexy Ex's Brother
I glance back over my shoulder. He’s still watching me, his gaze unwavering, as though he's waiting for something he won’t let himself ask for. For a moment, I wonder what would happen if I gave it to him, if I stepped forward instead of away, reached for the tension instead of retreating from it.
Just as I’m about to step back into my brother’s apartment, my phone buzzes again. This time, it’s my father.
I swipe to answer, bracing myself. “Dad?”
“Ivy,” Jonathan Stone says, his voice calm but careful, like he’s rehearsed this call in his head a dozen times. “Robert Wilson called me this morning. He’s... concerned.”
I lean back against the kitchen counter. “Concerned? Or calculating?”
He exhales. “He said the wedding could still be salvaged. That this is a PR crisis, not a real fracture. He wants to know what your plans are.”
“My plans? To move on from being a business transaction.”
There’s a pause.
“You don’t have to explain yourself to me, Ivy. But you should understand, Robert’s worried about the deal, yes, but so are others. Investors. Partners.”
“So you called to pressure me into going back.”
“No,” he says quickly. “I called because I wanted to hear it from you. Because I’m your father. Because I know what it’s like to feel cornered by legacy.”
His voice softens. “Did he really cheat on you?”
“Yes. With intent. With detail. And with women who knew my name.”
Silence stretches long enough that I think he might hang up.
Then, “Then you were right to leave. I should’ve protected you from this. I should’ve said something earlier.”
The weight in my chest eases, just a little. “Thank you.”
“Whatever happens next, it’s your story to tell, not theirs.”
And for the first time since the headlines broke, I believe him.
I slide the phone into my pocket and glance once more at Jack’s door. The urge to knock again is dangerously close. Not because I need anything from him. But because out of everyone, my father, the press, even Derek, Jack is the only one who hasn’t asked for explanations. He’s the only one who didn’t try to spin this into something strategic, and that makes the pull between us even more dangerous.
If I ever find out he was the one who sent that envelope, the one who turned my life into a headline, I don’t know if I’d forgive him. Even if it was the truth. Even if I needed to know, because the truth, when delivered without trust, doesn’t feel like honesty. It feels like betrayal with better packaging.
6
JACK
Her legs tighten around my waist as I sink my dick into her, the stretch of her body molding perfectly around it. Each thrust is slow, controlled, fueled by a hunger that’s been coiled beneath my skin for years. Her blouse hangs open, her breath catching as my hands trace the lines of her hips. Her lips find mine, greedy and urgent, her loud moan breaking the silence like a promise I’m desperate to keep. I push deeper and harder, the friction of our bodies electric, her nails biting into my back, pulling me closer as if she can feel how much I want her.
Her name spills from my lips. “Ohhhh, Jack…” Her reply… my name, whispered like a secret, makes my chest clench. I kiss down the column of her throat, tasting the salt of her skin, memorizing the sound she makes when I hit just the right angle. She wraps her arms around my neck, and for a moment, nothing else exists…
Then my phone buzzes…
I blink, breath caught in my throat. The illusion shatters. I’m still in my office, alone. Ivy isn’t here. The only thing in front of me is a quarterly report I haven’t read and a mind that won’tstop conjuring her, every detail, every curve I’ve never touched, every moment I’ve never lived but can’t stop craving.
I try to tell myself this is about strategy. That I’m being smart. One of my portfolio companies, an eco-luxe skincare startup with a branding problem, needs a full rework. The pitch is simple: new logo, new site, refined messaging, a complete identity overhaul to match their growing market share. Ivy is the perfect candidate. She’s creative, sharp, and carries a kind of natural elegance that the brand is missing. That’s why I offered her the job. At least, that’s what I keep telling myself.
The truth is, I want her close. I want to know what she’s thinking before she says it. I want to see her walk into my building every morning. I want her in my orbit, where I can watch the way she tucks her hair behind her ear when she’s focused, or how her mouth curls slightly when she’s amused. I want her to look at me like I’m not Derek’s brother, like I’m not part of the mess she’s trying to escape, but the one she can trust.
When she arrives at the office, the world narrows to her silhouette through the glass. Her heels strike the marble floor in a rhythm that cuts through the low hum of conversations and muted footsteps. I glance up as the elevator doors part, and for a moment, I swear time forgets how to move forward. Backlit and breathtaking, and I can see her reflection in every pane of glass that surrounds me. It's like she's already inside, already in my space, before she even crosses the threshold.
She steps out in a high-waisted pencil skirt the color of ink, tailored to perfection and hugging her hips with an elegance that borders on lethal. Her silk blouse is ivory, almost translucent when it catches the light, tucked neatly and unbuttoned just enough to hint at collarbone and skin. A structured camel coat is folded over her arm like an afterthought, and her heels, sleek, pointed, unapologetic, announce her presence with every step. Her hair is twisted into a soft, deliberate chignon, but afew strands have escaped, brushing her cheeks like they have permission. She looks like a vision pulled from a dream I didn’t know I had. Feminine authority distilled into movement. My throat tightens, and I feel the burn of it low and hard in my chest.
