Page 74 of The Sexy Ex's Brother
I step inside, stunned. “Jack…”
He sets the room key on the table, then comes up behind me, arms sliding around my waist.
“You like it?”
“It’s perfect.”
His lips graze my shoulder. “Not as perfect as you.”
I turn to him, catching the spark in his eyes. And then we’re kissing, deep and slow, and full of everything we haven’t said yet. He walks me backward until the backs of my knees hit the bed. His hands are everywhere, possessive, reverent, as he slowly undresses me. He peels my dress down my shoulders with agonizing care, kissing each inch of skin he reveals. When it pools at my feet, he drops to his knees, pressing his mouth to the soft skin above my hip, making me shiver. His hands skim up my thighs as he slides my underwear down, eyes dark and hungry. I reach for him, breathless, but he catches my wrist, kisses my palm, and whispers, "Let me take care of you." Then we fall onto the bed together, tangled in sheets and laughter and heat.
His mouth trails from my lips to the edge of my jaw, then lower, brushing the sensitive dip at my throat before dragging along my collarbone. I feel every flick of his tongue like a live wire, and my skin tingles in its wake.
He cups my breast, thumb circling until I gasp, and then his mouth is there, hot, wet, claiming. I arch beneath him as he moves lower, his hands parting my thighs with aching slowness. He kisses the inside of one, then the other, teasing, torturing, before finally giving me the kind of attention that makes me cry out. My fingers twist into the sheets as his tongue moves deliberately, unhurried, building pressure until I’m trembling.
“Jack…” I whisper, broken and breathless.
He rises, eyes dark with hunger, mouth slick from me. “I’m not done,” he growls. He takes a moment, hovering over me, gaze locked with mine, possessive, utterly certain. His hand slides beneath my thigh, lifting it, anchoring me. With one slow, deliberate thrust, he slides his dick inside, inch by devastating inch, claiming every part of me until we’re completely joined. He holds there, buried deep, exhaling like he’s finally come home.
“You feel like heaven,” he rasps.
Then he moves, slow and deep, every thrust a promise, every stroke a claim. Each movement lights up my body, and the sensation of him, of us, is overwhelming. It’s not just physical; it’s everything we’ve been holding back, now laid bare in the press of his body against mine, in the loud, rough sounds he makes just for me.
I clutch at his shoulders, his back, anchoring myself as pleasure and emotion collide in a storm that feels like surrender. I meet him, again and again, each movement stoking the fire until we’re both ready to shatter. His hand finds mine and laces our fingers together above my head as his hips drive harder, deeper. My body tightens, poised on the edge.
“I’ve got you,” he groans. “You’re mine. Every part of you.”
When I come apart, it’s not just violent, it’s soul-deep, rolling through me in waves that leave me gasping and crying out his name. My back arches, fingers digging into his shoulders as pleasure shudders through every nerve.
He watches me, eyes locked to mine, lips parted in awe as if watching something filthy and beautiful all at once, like sin wrapped in devotion. And then he’s following, a raw sound tearing from his throat as he thrusts once, twice more, spilling into me with a groan. He clutches me like I’m the only thing tethering him to the world, and maybe, I am.
We collapse into each other, tangled limbs and sweat-slicked skin, chests rising in sync. His hand drifts up my thigh, slow and reverent.
“I love you,” he murmurs.
“I know,” I breathe. “And I love you too. Harder than I ever knew I could.”
We lie there, hearts still pounding, the ocean murmuring outside. And for the first time in what feels like forever, I don’t dream of running. I dream of staying. With the right man. With the right brother. The one who saw me, even when I didn’t fully see myself. The one who waited, who fought, who never once gave up. All that time I thought I needed safety, tradition, the plan. What I needed was this, him. This fire, this depth, this impossible kind of love I thought only existed in dreams and late-night fantasies. And now it’s mine. He’s mine.
Staying used to mean settling. Now, it means choosing. Again and again, even on the hard days. It means building something flawed and beautiful and real. A life where we stumble and laugh and love, where I don’t vanish at the first sign of fear, and he never lets go first. It means waking up to the same steady heartbeat beside mine and knowing I’m exactly where I want to be.
38
JACK
She’s still asleep when I wake up. One arm flung across the pillow, her hair spilled over my chest like a silk curtain. The sunlight cuts through the sheer curtains, casting golden stripes across the bed and the length of her bare back. I trace the line of her spine with my fingers, just to remind myself that this is real.
She came back to me. Not just physically, not just for the weekend. She chose me, fully, finally, and without hesitation. And somehow, that still wrecks me more than anything else ever has.
I get up without waking her and step out onto the balcony, tugging on a pair of linen pants. The ocean stretches wide and blue, the breeze lifting strands of my hair, still heavy with salt from yesterday’s flight. I grab my phone to order breakfast, then hesitate, my notifications buzz with new messages, but I don’t check them. Santiago. Dawson. Even a text from my father. Whatever it is, they can wait. Not yet. Not when she’s here. Not when I’ve finally got her back.
A few minutes later, room service rolls in with a silver cart: fresh fruit, pastries, eggs, coffee. Ivy stirs when the aroma hits the air.
She lifts her head, blinking at the tray, then at me. Her voice is rough with sleep. “You bribing me with mango and caffeine now?”
“Whatever it takes.”
She smiles, stretching like a cat beneath the sheets. “You’re ridiculous.”
