Tempted by My Ex’s Brother

THREE

Lily’s POV

I didn’t think I’d ever find myself in a place like this. Not in my wildest, most desperate attempts at self-improvement or relationship salvage. But there I was, standing in the middle of the entrance hall of a private club that people only whispered about, holding onto my best friend Gabby’s arm like we were stepping off a cliff.

The lighting inside was dim, warm, and intentionally soft. Everything glowed a sort of amber gold, like being inside a candle flame. The air smelled faintly of expensive perfume and something darker, deeper, like heated skin and secrets. The music was low and rhythmic, more a pulse than a song. Not loud. Not dance-y. Just… suggestive.

“Okay,” I whispered. “This is already too much.”

Gabby’s grin was so wide I thought her face might split. “Relax. You’re acting like we walked into a cult meeting. It’s just a club,” she said, looking excited.

“No,” I said under my breath, “it is not just a club. You said it was ‘a place where people learn about intimacy.’ You made it sound like yoga with candles. This is—” My eyes drifted to a couple kissing against a wall, slow and deep, like they were trying to drink the air out of each other. “This is very much not yoga.”

Gabby laughed, linking our arms tighter. “Okay, yes, there’s some… intense energy. But it’s classy. No one’s being weird. Everyone here wants to be here,” she said with a shrug.

“That’s not the problem,” I muttered. “The problem is that I don’t want to be here.” But that was a lie—or at least half of one. I did want something. I just didn’t know if I’d find it here.

I had said yes to coming because things with Connor were… fraying. He was always tired. I was constantly second-guessing myself. We were affectionate but not passionate. Safe but not close. Everything felt lukewarm. And I didn’t want lukewarm. Not for the rest of my life.

Gabby had insisted this place helped people reconnect with themselves. Learn pleasure. Learn confidence. Learn how to ask for what they need. She had framed it like therapy with mood lighting. But I wasn’t prepared for… this.

A staff member approached us, wearing black slacks and a silk shirt, sleeves rolled neatly to the elbows. He had a warm smile, but not a flirtatious one.

“Welcome,” he said. “First time?”

Gabby nodded instantly. “Yes. We’d like to know what our options are.” She said enthusiastically.

He offered a small tablet. “You can browse our list of private session providers: female, male, non-binary, couples-based, sensory therapy, emotional coaching, or guided intimacy sessions. Everything is focused on comfort, consent, and psychological ease. Nothing is rushed.” He said it so calmly, as if he were offering spa packages.

Gabby scrolled through the options, as if choosing a nail color. I, meanwhile, was dying.

She nudged me. “Lily, look. They have female providers too, if that makes you feel safer,” she said with a wink.

“I’m not scared,” I said quickly. “I just—no. This feels… wrong.”

Her brows pinched slightly. “Wrong how?” she asked.

“Like cheating,” I whispered.

“You wouldn’t be in love with the provider,” she said gently. “It’s just about sensation. Reconnecting with your body.”

“I know,” I said. “But I’m still with Connor. This is… something I should fix with him, not with a stranger.”

Gabby exhaled. I could practically feel her frustration vibrating through her arm. “Okay. Then maybe don’t do anything. Just stay. Watch. Learn. Experience the atmosphere. I want to try something, but I don’t want you to go home yet. I want you to see what you’re scared of.”

I turned to face her. I knew that tone. It was her please don’t abandon me in my moment of bravery voice. And I loved her too much to walk away from that.

“Fine,” I said. “I’ll stay while you do your session. But that’s all. I’m not choosing anyone.”

She brightened instantly. “Good. Trust me. Just watching the environment might open something in your mind. Let your guard down a little.”

My guard was less “up” and more “constructed from reinforced steel and welded shut,” but I didn’t say that.

We followed the staff member deeper into the club. The hallway was lined with sheer curtains instead of doors, though each private room had another inner layer for privacy. Soft laughter drifted from somewhere to our right. A sigh from somewhere to our left. Not loud. Not inappropriate. Just… intimate. I felt like I had walked into the backstage of human emotion.

Gabby chose a “guided sensory experience” session, which sounded harmless enough until the door slid open and I saw the interior.

Dim lighting, plush seating, silk ropes hanging from ceiling hooks—but not tied, not used, just present like decor. Music that felt like it had a heartbeat. A provider with a calm voice who introduced himself gently, like he was greeting someone who had been holding their breath for far too long.

Gabby turned to me. “Sit here. … watch. No one will touch you unless you ask. You’ll see it’s okay,” she said to me.

I nodded stiffly and sat in a small lounge chair near the corner. I thought I could handle this. I really thought I could. But as the session began —nothing too explicit, just breathing guidance, slow close movement— I felt heat crawl up my neck. It wasn’t arousal. It was embarrassment. Claustrophobia. My heart hammered too fast. The closeness. The soft voice. The idea of surrendering to touch. It was too much.

“I—Gabby,” I whispered, already half-standing. “I can’t. I can’t stay here. I’ll wait outside, I’ll just—I need air.”

She blinked at me mid-session, concern flickering in her expression. “Lily—”

“I’m okay,” I lied. “I swear. I just need a minute. Stay. Enjoy. I’ll be right outside.”

She hesitated. But I forced a reassuring smile and pointed to the door. “I’ll be fine,” I said again.

She nodded, and I slipped out. The hallway suddenly felt colder. I walked faster. Then faster. I didn’t know where I was going; I just needed out. My breaths were short. My hands were shaking. My chest felt tight. I didn’t look where I was going.

Which is why I walked straight into a solid shape, a wall, I thought at first, until it moved. I stumbled, but hands caught my arms, steady, firm, grounding pressure. My head snapped up. And I saw him.

A tall figure dressed in a dark suit, perfectly tailored, looked like it had been stitched directly onto him—dark hair, slightly tousled but intentional. Strong jaw. Sharp cheekbones. Eyes the color of something deep and unreadable.

His voice was low, smooth, quiet.

“Careful.”

I froze.