My Prodigal Ex-Husband Wants Me Back

“Strip!”

I blinked up from the page, the word hanging in the air as he stood just inside the doorway, one hand still on the knob.

“What?”

“I said strip,” he repeated, slower this time, the door clicking shut behind him with a soft finality that made my stomach flip.

Elias was clearly drunk.

But the statement still took me by surprise because the last time he’d made any kind of advance toward me was eight months ago.

This was certainly out of the ordinary.

He shrugged out of his suit jacket, swaying just slightly in the doorway, and let it drop onto the armchair by the window, the top two buttons of his shirt already undone. The city lights outside painted faint orange stripes across the ceiling, but they didn’t reach the bed. Here, it was just me, the lamp, and the sudden, electric weight of his stare.

“Elias,” I managed, my voice steadier than I felt as the book stayed open on my thighs. “You’re drunk.”

He took one step closer. Then another. The floorboards creaked under his weight. “And you’re still dressed.”

My pulse kicked hard against my ribs.

I swallowed. “We don’t… we haven’t—”

He cut me off by crossing the last bit of space between us. The bed dipped as one knee sank onto the mattress right beside my hip, close enough that I could smell the scotch on his breath mixed with the cedar of his cologne, and my stomach flipped as he reached out.

His fingers slid under my chin, tilting my face up until I had no choice but to meet his eyes.

“Don’t make me repeat myself,” he murmured, but all I could manage was a shaky gulp that sounded embarrassingly loud in the quiet room.

But at least it was amusing enough to make him smirk.

“What’s the matter, baby? Waiting for me to do it for you?” His gaze dropped to my mouth, then lower, tracing the thin straps of my silk camisole like he was already imagining peeling them down. “Still such a spoiled brat. Can’t follow one simple instruction.”

My cheeks burned as heat rushed up my neck and flooded my face.

I opened my mouth, but no words came out.

My fingers clenched white-knuckled around the edges of the book and of course Elias noticed.

“Book down,” he said softly.

I set it on the nightstand without thinking. The lamp clicked as my elbow brushed it, and the circle of light trembled across his face.

“Good girl.”

The praise hit low in my belly.

He leaned in closer, nose brushing my temple. “Now, arms up.”

I lifted them before my brain caught up and the camisole slid over my head in one smooth tug, cool air kissing my skin as it left me in nothing but the thin cotton shorts I’d worn to bed. My nipples tightened instantly under his stare and I crossed my arms over my chest on instinct.

But he caught my wrists and pulled them down to my sides.

“None of that. I want to look at you.” His thumbs traced slow circles on the inside of my wrists, right over the pulse that was racing like I’d run a marathon. “They’re mine.”

Mine?

I’d be lying if I said I understood what was happening in that moment. The shift was too sudden, and seeing the man who could barely stand me throughout our three years of marriage suddenly be this sweet made my mind go completely blank.

But they say alcohol always brings out the truth in people so maybe this was how he truly felt.

Would it be stupid of me to believe that?

I wanted to.

I really did.

He dragged the fabric down my legs, taking his time, letting his palms skim the backs of my thighs, the sensitive skin behind my knees, all the way to my ankles. Soon the shorts joined the camisole somewhere on the floor and I was completely bare, while he was still fully dressed except for the two loose buttons of his shirt and rolled sleeves.

The imbalance made my skin prickle with awareness. Made me feel exposed in the best, most terrifying way.

He sat back on his heels and just stared at me.

His gaze moved over my breasts, stomach, the soft patch of curls between my thighs that I suddenly wished I’d trimmed better this morning. Heat pooled low in my belly, slick and insistent and I could feel myself getting wet just from the weight of his stare, and the realization made my cheeks burn hotter.

“Elias,” I breathed out, half plea, half protest. “You’re drunk. You might… you might regret this tomorrow.”

He laughed, and leaned down again, bracing one hand beside my head, the other sliding up my inner thigh. His fingers stopped just short of where I needed them, teasing the crease where leg met body. “Tell me to stop and I will. Say the word, baby.”

I opened my mouth but closed it almost immediately, my hips twitching toward his hand as he waited patiently.

When he didn’t get a response, his mouth was on mine, tasting like scotch and the faint mint of the gum he’d probably chewed in the car to hide how much he’d had.

I moaned into the kiss, hands fisting in his shirt, pulling him closer and he let me. But it was for only a moment. Then he caught my wrists again, pinning them above my head with one hand while the other finally—finally—slid between my thighs.

“Fuck,” he groaned against my mouth when he felt how wet I already was. “So ready for me. Been thinking about this, haven’t you?”

I couldn’t answer.

Not with his fingers circling my clit in perfect strokes that made my back arch off the bed.

“Elias—please—”

“Please what?” He nipped at my bottom lip, then soothed it with his tongue. “Use your words.”

The words tumbled out before I could stop them. “Touch me. Inside. I need… God, I need you inside me.”

He hummed in approval, sliding two fingers into me without warning.

The stretch was perfect, the pressure exactly right, and I cried out, hips rolling up to meet his hand. He curled his fingers, while his thumb kept working my clit in tight, relentless circles.

“You sound so perfect,” he murmured against my throat, kissing the frantic pulse there. His body shifted above me, the heat of him pressing closer, and then—God—he was pushing into me, the blunt head of his cock sliding through my wetness in one slow, claiming thrust that pulled a gasp out of me.

“Fuck,” he groaned, his breath hot on my neck. “I’ve missed you so much, Clara.”

“…”

Clara…

Clara?

Did he just call me by my twin sister’s name?

The room tilted. Or maybe that was just my stomach dropping through the mattress.

I froze under him, every muscle locking up even as my body—traitor that it was—kept clenching around his cock like it hadn’t heard the betrayal.

His hips rolled again, dragging that perfect friction along every sensitive inch inside me, and a broken moan slipped out of my throat before I could bite it back. Elias groaned in response, burying his face against my shoulder as he picked up the pace.

“Fuck, baby… you feel even better than I remember,” he panted, voice slurred with whiskey. One hand gripped my thigh, hiking it higher, and opening me wider so he could drive in harder.

I wish I had shoved him off then.

Slapped him even.

Screamed!

But I didn’t do anything, and just lay there, staring at the dark ceiling while he finished, my heart folding in on itself like paper in a fire.

When he rolled away and started snoring, I stayed perfectly still, feeling the wet slide of him between my thighs and the slow, terrible certainty settling over me.

He’s still in love with Clara.

That night was the worst night of my life.