Page 25 of The Sexy Ex's Brother
The cab smells of leather and cologne. Jack’s thigh presses lightly against mine, the heat between us a slow burn. We sit in silence, but not the awkward kind. It’s the charged, comfortable quiet that follows something undeniable. After that kiss, there’s nothing left to clarify with words, not yet.
I watch him as the city blurs outside the window, his profile sharp in the passing streetlights, jaw tense like he’s still holding back. There’s a shift in the air, something unspoken humming between us. I don’t know where he’s taking me. Still, I feel no fear or hesitation, only awareness.
When the cab pulls up in front of a towering limestone hotel, my pulse skips. The awning stretches above us like a promise, sleek, unassuming, edged with just enough brass trim to suggest the kind of luxury that doesn’t need to boast. Glass doors shimmer beneath it, spotless and inviting, reflecting the blur of city lights and the unmistakable hush of old money. A doorman opens the cab before I can question anything. Jack steps out first, then extends his hand to me like we’re arriving at a second gala.
Inside, the hotel lobby is hushed and glossy, polished marble, rich wood paneling, and the faint scent of something expensive and floral. We stop at the front desk, where a young man in a tailored navy uniform greets Jack with a smile that feels more practiced than warm.
"Mr. Wilson, welcome back," he says, already typing something into the system. "Your usual suite is ready."
Jack nods. "Thank you."
I arch a brow, glancing between Jack and the concierge. "Your usual suite? You come here often?"
Jack smirks, just a flicker at the edge of his mouth. "Only when I have a reason."
"And tonight is... one of those reasons?" I ask, my tone light, teasing, even as my pulse spikes.
He leans in, voice low and deliberate. "Tonight, I have every reason."
The concierge offers a keycard in a small leather wallet. "If there's anything else you need this evening, just dial zero."
I glance at Jack as he takes the card, his expression unreadable. He doesn't need to give his credit card or ID. Of course he doesn’t. The elevator ride unfolds in silence, each second stretched thin with anticipation. My heart, however, beats erratically in my chest, loud and insistent, refusing to match the stillness that surrounds us. Every floor we pass feels like a countdown I didn’t know I started. When we reach the suite, he opens the door for me. The room is warm, golden. Drapes are drawn. A bottle of something chilled on the side table. There’s a softness to the space, dim light, crisp sheets, silence that welcomes rather than warns.
I turn to face him, my pulse thudding in my ears. "Jack…”
He doesn’t answer with words. Instead, he crosses the room in one deliberate step and kisses me, slow at first, then deeper, like we started something hours ago and neither of us has anyintention of stopping now. His jacket is gone. His hands are at my hips, then under the fabric of my dress, sliding up, urging me closer.
I gasp when my back hits the wall. He swallows the sound with his mouth. His fingers trail up my thighs, finding my folds. I clutch his shoulders, not because I’m uncertain, but because I want more. This isn’t like it was with Derek. There’s no sense of obligation pressing down on me, no expectations hanging in the air, and no prewritten script dictating how this should unfold. Jack touches me like he’s discovering, not performing. I feel it in the way his lips move across my collarbone, in the way his breath catches when I say his name.
We make it to the bed, eventually, but not before we leave a trail of clothing and breathless laughter across the suite. He pushes the straps of my dress down slowly, savoring the moment, his eyes drinking me in with a look that borders on reverent.
"You’re so beautiful," he murmurs, voice rough with restraint. "I don’t think I’ll ever get enough of you."
I undo the buttons of his shirt one by one, my fingers skimming the crisp fabric, each movement more confident than the last. When the fabric parts, I take in the broad expanse of his chest, defined, taut, his muscles carved like sculpture beneath my hands. His skin is warm, golden under the low light, and I press my palms to him slowly, feeling the strength coiled just beneath the surface. It’s not just the way he looks, though he’s breathtaking, it’s the way he watches me as I touch him, eyes locked on mine, daring me to take my time.
When our bodies meet, it’s with heat and hunger. His mouth finds mine again, hotter, deeper. His hands roam, but there’s nothing rushed about the way he touches me. Every caress is a statement, and every kiss is a promise he hasn’t spoken yet.
He lays me back onto the sheets with a reverence that steals my breath. Then he parts my legs and lowers himself with a kind of intention that makes my pulse stutter. He explores my pussy with his mouth, patient and unrelenting, until I’m clutching the sheets, gasping his name like it’s the only word I remember.
When he finally thrusts his cock into me, it’s not slow or careful, it’s fierce and claiming. Our bodies crash together in a rhythm that’s fast, urgent, and unrelenting. My back arches against the mattress, his grip tight on my hip as if he needs the pressure to stay grounded. He groans into my neck, not just from pleasure, but from something deeper, some tether snapping loose inside him. We move together in sharp, breathless bursts, tangled in sheets and desire, our mouths searching, biting, gasping. It’s raw and fast and so much more than release. It’s a breaking point, a culmination, a surrender neither of us can stop. Like our bodies knew this was inevitable long before our minds did.
At first, his movements are unrestrained, fueled by pure hunger, but they quickly intensify, his thrusts becoming harder, more forceful, as though something inside him has snapped. He grips my hips, pulling me closer, driving into me with a rhythm that feels both frantic and focused, like he’s chasing something only I can give him. One hand gripping my hip, the other tangled in my hair.
"Ivy…Fuck…” he groans, voice rough and low, his breath hot against my ear. The way he says it, like a demand, like a prayer, sends something electric down my spine.
"Jack…” I gasp in response, the sound catching in my throat, half-moan, half-need.
He moves deeper, harder, faster and I meet him with each powerful thrust, each broken breath, answering him without hesitation. Each moment between us becomes its own kind of admission, a hunger we’ve both buried too long. We aren’tperforming for anyone. There are no angles to consider, no expectations to meet. It’s just the two of us, raw, exposed, consumed by want, driven by need, and open enough to give each other everything without holding back.
When it’s over, my head rests against his chest. I trace the line of his collarbone with my fingertip, letting the quiet settle between us.
"That was... not what I expected," I admit.
Jack chuckles, voice still rough with aftermath. "Good or bad?"
"Good,” I say, lips brushing his shoulder. "Too good."
He shifts slightly, turning so we’re facing each other. "You were shaking."
