Page 12 of The Sexy Ex's Brother
Just before she steps inside, I call out. "Ivy."
She turns, one brow raised.
"If it ever gets to be too much, the press, the noise, you can come here. This office is yours too."
Her gaze lingers. "That sounds dangerously close to sweet."
"Don’t tell anyone. It’ll ruin me."
She laughs, soft and real. Then the doors slide shut. Back at my desk, I sit down and open a blank message window.
I type:I sent the envelope. You were never supposed to get hurt.
The cursor blinks on the empty message. I rest my fingers on the keyboard, but they won’t move. No instinct leads me toward truth, no impulse toward confession. Then I hit delete, and the message disappears.
Through the glass, I watch Ivy walk away, shoulders squared, folder tucked against her chest, sunlight skating across the lines of her skirt. I’m in love with her. With the way she movesthrough a room like she’s unknowingly carrying all my gravity. And she still doesn’t know what I’ve done. Even now, I don’t know if telling her the truth would bring us closer, or destroy whatever this is.
7
IVY
His hands are rough and sure, sliding up the insides of my thighs with a confidence that steals the breath from my lungs. He touches me like my body belongs to him, like he’s memorized every inch in a thousand stolen fantasies. Then his grip tightens at my hips, anchoring me with a possessive force that sends a shock of heat spiraling through my core. It’s not a question. It’s a claim. And I’m already surrendering.
His mouth is hot and insistent at the base of my throat. Each kiss is deliberate, a slow drag of tongue tracing the rapid beat of my pulse before his lips travel lower, lower still, until they find the soft curve of my breast. His tongue flicks against the sensitive skin, then he bites, gently, just enough to make me gasp and arch beneath him, aching for more.
My fingers curl into the sheets, twisting the fabric tight in my fists as he pushes into me, his erection hard and relentless, thrusting deep with an unyielding rhythm. It’s not frantic. It’s purposeful. Every stroke feels calibrated to unravel me, angled like he’s memorized exactly what my body craves. My lips part in a breathless cry as pleasure starts to fracture through me, sharp and sweet and impossible to contain.
His voice is rough and ragged against my skin, vibrating at the hollow of my neck as he groans my name like it’s the only word that’s ever mattered. Like he’s been dying to say it aloud and finally can.
“Say it,” he growls, voice thick with need. “Tell me you’re mine.”
I try to answer, but the words don’t make it past the rising moan in my throat. All I can do is nod, frantic and helpless, hips lifting to meet him, chasing every wave of sensation he gives me. Then he catches my wrists, his grip strong, unwavering, and pins them above my head, locking me beneath him. The weight of his body, the restraint, the dominance, it’s intoxicating. I am bare. Exposed. Claimed.
And in that moment, I want it. I want all of it.
My body clenches around him, trembling and slick as the orgasm tears through me, uncontrollable. I scream his name, louder than I should, but I don’t care. I am lost in him. In the heat, the pleasure, the feeling of being completely consumed.
And then…
I wake up. Gasping.
The room is dark. My sheets are twisted in a tangled mess around my legs, soaked with sweat and clinging to my skin like a memory I can’t quite shake. My chest rises and falls in shallow bursts, as though I’ve run a marathon in my sleep.
I sit up slowly and drag my hands over my face, trying to come back to myself. My heart is racing, my pulse still thudding against my throat like it hasn’t caught on that none of it was real. But it felt real. Too real.
I can still feel him. Jack. Not in some vague, fleeting way, but vividly, his weight above me, his mouth hot and hungry on my skin, the way he said my name like a secret he’d been waiting years to tell. It wasn’t just a dream. It was a revelation.
I want him. Not abstractly. Not in some harmless, theoretical way. I want him in a way that’s physical. Visceral. Unavoidable. I always found Jack attractive. Even when I tried not to. Even when I was with Derek and told myself it didn’t mean anything, the way Jack’s gaze lingered a beat too long, the way he always looked at me like he already knew something I hadn’t figured out yet. I buried it. Let myself get swept up in the idea of safety, of certainty. Derek was the right brother. Or at least, the one I was supposed to want. But maybe he never was.
And now, it’s not just attraction. It’s curiosity. Desire tangled with danger. How much do I really know Jack? Not the boss, not the brother, but the man beneath the sharp suits and unreadable silences. I’m not sure. And that’s what makes this so dangerous. I tell myself to be careful.
The realization presses in, not like a sudden flash, but like a quiet truth that’s been waiting patiently beneath the surface. This thing between us, it didn’t begin in a boardroom or a bedroom. It began the moment I walked out on Derek and Jack opened his door, no hesitation, no questions. He gave me a job. A space to exhale while my life crumbled around me.
And maybe that wasn’t selfless. Maybe it was never meant to be. Because in a world where everyone wants something, favor, leverage, control, Jack gave me something no one else thought to offer. Silence. Space. Room to break without being broken. That kind of freedom feels like a gift wrapped in warning paper. It's not gentle. It's not safe. But it’s real and it terrifies me.
Because the kind of quiet he offers isn’t empty. It’s expectant. It’s a pause before something happens. And I can feel it coming. Whatever this is, it’s not imagined. It’s not one-sided. It’s a slow ignition that’s been waiting for a spark.
I swing my legs over the edge of the bed and let my bare feet find the cool floor, grounding myself in the present. The dream clings to me like a second skin as I move through my morningroutine, hovering behind my eyes, under my skin. I stand under the hot spray of the shower too long, letting the scalding water beat against my shoulders in the hope it’ll burn the memory from my body. But it doesn’t. It only reminds me.
