Seducing My Ex Husband : Love is the Trigger

Lila

The crystal chandelier above the ballroom glitters like a giant diamond. I taste champagne and adrenaline on my tongue, the same mix that got me through the night I ran from the cops at sixteen. Except tonight I’m not running from cops. I’m running toward the one man who can still tear me to pieces me with a look.

Ethan Grant stands thirty feet away, his tuxedo cut so sharp it could slice skin. His arm is around her,some blonde heiress whose name I never bothered to learn. She’s laughing at something he says,her head is thrown back, throat exposed like bait. He doesn’t laugh back. He never does in public. His mouth is a pursed together, but I know the combination. I taught it to him.

Six months ago I signed my name on a line that ended us. Tonight I’m wearing the lingerie he bought me in Italy,black lace, Italian silk, the set he ripped off me with his teeth the night he proposed. It’s under a backless red gown that cost more than my first car. The fabric clings to my curves like a second skin and Every step i take towards him is a countdown.

The crowd parts without realizing it. They always do when I decide I want something. I feel their eyes fixed on the slit riding high on my thigh, the ink crawling from my wrist to my shoulder,my living mural, every heartbreak a new stroke. Ethan’s gaze finds me first, he always does. His jaw flexes. The blonde keeps talking, oblivious.

I stop two feet away. Close enough to smell his cologne of cedar and smoke, the scent that used to live in my hair for days after he fucked me against the penthouse windows. Close enough to see the scar bisecting his left eyebrow, the one I gave him with a vodka glass on our first anniversary. He never got it stitched. Said it reminded him I bite.

“Lila,” he says. My name in his mouth is a blade dragged slow across skin.

The blonde finally notices me. Her smile falters. Smart girl.

I don’t look at her. I look at him. Only him.

“We need to talk,” I say.

His eyes flick to the cameras lining the balcony. Page Six vultures circling. He knows what I’m about to do. I see it in the way his fingers tighten on the champagne flute, its stem could snap. I hope it does.

“Now,” I add.

The blonde opens her mouth, probably to remind me this is her night, her ring but Ethan cuts her off without breaking eye contact with me.

“Give us a minute, Celeste.”

Celeste. Of course that’s her name. Sounds like a yacht.

She hesitates, then scurries off when he doesn’t soften the dismissal. The crowd pretends not to watch and they’re terrible at it.

Ethan steps closer. The air between us crackles like a live wire dragged through gasoline.

“You’re drunk,” he says.

“Stone-cold,” I lie. “But I’m about to be very, very sober when I ruin your night.”

His mouth twitches. Not a smile. Something darker.

“You already did that six months ago.”

The words land like a slap. I savor the sting.

I lean in, my lips brushing the shell of his ear. “We signed the divorce papers six months ago,” I whisper. “Tonight I’m wearing the lingerie you bought me on our honeymoon… and I’m not leaving your penthouse until you remember why you put a ring on it.”

His inhale is sharp enough to cut glass. I feel it against my cheek.

Before he can answer, I fist his lapels and kiss him.

I kiss him like I’m trying to crawl inside his bloodstream. Out teeth clash.

I taste the bourbon he switched to when champagne stopped cutting it. His hand comes up to grip my throat, not squeezing, just there, his thumb pressing the hollow where my pulse riots.

I bite his lower lip hard enough to taste copper. He groans into my mouth, the sound vibrating through my bones.

Flashbulbs explode and the vultures start to feast.

I pull back an inch. His eyes are black with fury and something hungrier.

“Thirty nights,” I say against his swollen mouth. “Your Hamptons house. One bed. No safe words. No surrender. If either of us says the word divorce, the other walks away with everything, all the money, pride, the last shred of sanity we’ve got left.”

His fingers flex on my throat. “You think you can win this?”

“I know I can.” I lick the blood from his lip. “Question is, can you survive losing?”

I step back, letting the crowd swallow the space between us. My gown rubs against my thighs as I turn. I don’t look back. I don’t need to. I feel his stare tracing my spine with every step.

Outside, the February air slaps me awake. Snowflakes melt on my bare shoulders. My driver idles at the curb, but I wave him off. I need the cold. Need it to numb the ache between my legs, the one that started the second I saw him with her.

My phone buzzes, its a call from an unknown number. I know who it is before I open the text.

Ethan:Midnight. At the Helipad. Don’t make me come find you.

I smile so hard my cheeks hurt.

I type back: Bring the cuffs.

Then I delete it, it sounds too eager. Instead: Me:’ll be the one in red. Try not to bleed on the leather seats.

I hail a cab, ignoring my driver totally

The driver doesn’t ask why I’m barefoot in a ballgown at 11:47 p.m. He’s seen worse. Manhattan’s full of ghosts in designer outfits.

The penthouse is dark when I let myself in with the key I never returned. I kept it on a chain around my neck like a noose. The marble floor is ice under my soles. I strip as I walk,gown pooling like blood, bra flung toward the Picasso he bought the week we eloped, panties landing on the kitchen island where he once bent me over and made me count the stars through the skylight.

I pour two fingers of his Alcohol. The bottle’s half-empty. Good. Means he’s been drowning too.

The helicopter blades thrum in the distance, growing louder. I stand at the window in nothing but the lace he bought me in Italy. My reflection stares back,wild eyes, lips bruised, ink crawling over skin like ivy.

The elevator dings.

He steps out in the same tux, with snow melting in his hair. The scar catches the moonlight. He doesn’t speak. Just crosses the room in four strides, backs me against the window, and kisses me like he’s trying to erase the last six months with his tongue.

I let him.

For now.

His hands are everywhere on my thighs, ass, throat, hair,claiming territory he forfeited when he let me walk. I arch into him, nails raking down his back hard enough to shred the tux. He growls, spins me, presses my cheek to the cold glass. The city sprawls beneath us, indifferent.

“Say it,” he rasps against my ear. “Say the word and this ends.”

I laugh. The sound is jagged. “Never.”

He yanks my hips back, grinds against me so I feel exactly how much he hates wanting me. The lace tears under his fingers. I gasp as the night air kisses skin that hasn’t known another man since him. Only him. Always him.

“Thirty nights,” he says, voice raw. “One bed. You bleed, I bleed.”

I reach back, fist his hair, pull until his throat is exposed. “Then let’s see who breaks first.”