Tempted by My Ex’s Brother

TWO

Dante’s POV

I sat in my office, door closed, lights dimmed to that low amber glow the club was known for. The lighting was supposed to be flattering, sensual, and warm. People said it made everything feel like dusk inside here —the kind of hour when everything becomes possible. I watched the light hit the glass wall in front of me, a transparent divider that looked out over the main floor. From my seat, I could see silhouettes swaying, laughing, flirting, and touching one another. I could see couples disappearing behind velvet curtains, staff guiding guests to private rooms, the casual swapping of confidence for desire.

It was strange how all of this had come from something so pathetic. I sighed and leaned back in my chair, the leather creaking behind me. CEO by day. Owner of an exclusive, extremely discreet s*x club by night. And for all that, for all the power, allure, and secrecy that clung to my name, I was the only man in this building who felt nothing.

Literally, nothing.

The doctor’s voice echoed in my head, the way it always did when I let my thoughts go quiet. "There’s no physical issue left to treat. Your body is fine. The root is psychological. You need to relearn pleasure. Reclaim your associations. Re-experience intimacy in a safe, explorative environment." He said to me with warm eyes.

So I’d taken that very literally.

I created an environment. And now the environment was thriving, buzzing, overflowing with the kind of desire that made people reckless. I had accidentally become a king of indulgence. A curator of fantasies. Someone whose name whispered around wealthy circles like a secret password.

But none of it mattered, because I still felt as empty as I did before.

I closed my eyes and rubbed my temple. Eventually, I knew I’d have to go home and pretend to sleep. Tomorrow I’d walk into board meetings and innovation briefings and investor lunches like I hadn’t spent the night surrounded by half-naked people begging to be touched. I wondered sometimes if the two worlds were more similar than they appeared. Both demanded performance. Both demanded masks. Both rewarded pleasure, even if you couldn’t feel it.

A soft knock interrupted my thoughts.

I exhaled slowly, already knowing who it was before the door opened. She didn't wait for permission. She rarely did.

Mara stepped inside, closing the door with a slow, deliberate push. She moved as if she were always aware that someone might be watching her. She has long dark hair falling in loose waves down her back, her heels clicking lightly against the polished floor. She wore deep burgundy silk tonight, something that shimmered when she moved. She had a body that drew eyes without her needing to try, and a voice like warm honey poured too slowly.

“Working again,” she said, not a question, more of a gentle accusation.

“I own the place,” I replied. “Work is kind of part of that.”

She smiled, the kind of smile that knew exactly how it looked. “You don’t have to be working in here alone,” she purred in her usual seductive voice. I didn’t answer. I just stared at the glass wall again, trying to distract myself.

She took a few steps closer. Not touching me. Not yet. She understood pacing. It was one of her better qualities. “You know,” she said softly, “most club owners actually enjoy their own club.”

“I enjoy that it runs well,” I said. “That’s enough.”

“Is it?” she asked. “You look exhausted.”

I looked away. “I’m fine,” I said coldly.

That was a lie. But there was no point correcting it. She knew I was lying. I knew she knew. The whole conversation was a performance we had done before. She moved to the edge of my desk and leaned back against it, facing me. Close, but not crowding. Almost casual. Except nothing about her was casual.

Her perfume reached me then. Something floral but dark, like jasmine at night. The kind of scent designed to be remembered.

“Dante,” she murmured. “Look at me.”

So I did. Not because she commanded me to, but because I had no reason not to. Her eyes searched mine, slow, deliberate. “Let me help,” she said. “Let me try again. Please.”

I almost laughed. Almost.

“It won’t work,” I said quietly.

“You don’t know that,” she whispered.

“I do.” My tone came out flat, tired. “We’ve been over this.”

She pushed away from the desk and moved closer, until she was standing directly in front of me. Her knee brushed mine. That should have meant something. It used to, in another life. I remembered what it felt like to be interested. I remembered wanting, like, a distant memory.

But nothing stirred in me now.

“You haven’t let anyone in lately,” she said. “Not really. Not physically. Not emotionally. You’re shutting yourself off. You think if you keep distance, you’ll never feel anything again.”

I stared up at her, unimpressed. “You’re not my therapist,” I said, deadpanned.

“But I am your friend,” she said. “And I care about you. And I’m offering, not forcing.”

That was true. She had never forced. She had been… available. Eager. Hopeful in a way I didn’t deserve. Her hand lifted, slowly, telegraphing her intention. She placed her fingertips lightly against my jaw. Soft, warm. A touch meant to linger. I let her. I analyzed it. The sensation. Her skin. The temperature. The pressure. The motion. But it remained data—sensation without meaning.

My heartbeat did not change. My breathing did not shift. My body did not react. Nothing. When she leaned down, when I saw her intention to kiss me, I turned my head slightly.

“Mara,” I said.

She closed her eyes, the rejection settling into her shoulders. She withdrew her hand slowly, letting it fall to her side. The air between us felt still now, heavy.

“You didn’t even try,” she whispered.

“I have tried,” I said. “More than you know.”

She swallowed, jaw tightening. “Does it have to be someone specific? Someone who… I don’t know… actually means something to you?”

“That’s the problem,” I said. “No one means anything. No one registers. There is no face, no body, no voice that changes anything. I don’t feel desire. For anyone.”

“You felt it once,” she said quietly.

I let out a humorless laugh. “Once. A lifetime ago. Before everything went wrong.”

Her gaze softened. Compassion. Pity. I hated that look. “You know what happened wasn’t your fault,” she said.

“Knowing doesn’t change anything,” I replied.

She hesitated. Then, gently: “You were a kid. She tried to—”

“Don’t,” I said sharply. “Don’t say it.”

Silence spread out like smoke. I took a long breath, steadying myself. “It doesn’t matter anymore. Whatever broke inside me stayed broken.”

“You could heal,” she said. “People do.”

“Not always,” I replied coldly.

She looked at me for a long moment. With not a seductive look this time, but a sad one.

“You think this club will fix you,” she said. “But all it does is give other people what you can’t have.”

“That’s enough,” I said simply.

“No, it’s not,” she said. “Not for you.”

I looked away again, and she knew that was the end of it. She stepped back, putting distance between us.

“Do you want me to stay?” she asked, voice small now.

“Go enjoy the night. Have fun. Find someone who actually responds to you.” I said to her, turning my chair to face the glass wall behind me.

Her laugh was soft and painful. “Right. Sure,” she squeezed out, and I heard the sound of heels clicking on the floor before the door was opened and closed.