Chasing My Stripper Ex Wife

Warning

This is an 18+ dark romance with mature themes including obsessive exes, morally gray characters, steamy encounters that blur lines, and emotional manipulation wrapped in passion. If you're not into toxic love, dangerous situations, and characters who make terrible decisions, turn back now.

Derek's POV

"Twenty thousand for an hour with our most exclusive dancer," the manager says, running my card without hesitation. "She doesn't sleep with clients, just to be clear. This is for her time and attention only."

"Understood." I don't care about the rules. After closing the Morrison deal this week, I deserve to celebrate with the best, and from what I've heard about Crimson Lounge's top girl, she's worth every penny.

He leads me down a hallway to a private room, all black leather and red lighting with a small stage and pole. There's already expensive whiskey waiting on the table. I pour myself a glass and settle back into the couch, loosening my tie.

The music shifts and the door opens. She walks in with her back to me, curves wrapped in deep red, dark hair cascading down. Then she turns around and everything stops.

Vanessa. My ex-wife.

Her face goes white. "Derek?"

"Vanessa." My voice comes out flat because I can't process this. Of all the strip clubs, of all the dancers, it's her standing here in barely anything while I'm sitting here with twenty thousand dollars worth of her time.

"I need to leave." She's already moving toward the door but I'm faster, crossing the room and catching her wrist.

"Not a chance. I paid for an hour and you're going to give it to me."

"Let me go." She tries to pull away but I hold firm, pulling her closer instead until I can smell her perfume, something different from what she used to wear but underneath it all still her.

"How long have you been doing this?" The anger in my chest is building hot and sharp. "How long have you been dancing for strangers, letting them pay to see what used to be mine?"

"That's none of your business." Her voice is ice but her hand is shaking in my grip.

"The hell it isn't. You left me two years ago without a word and this is what you've been doing?" I pull her even closer, backing her against the wall. "Selling yourself piece by piece to whatever man has enough cash?"

She slaps me hard enough that my head turns and my cheek stings. For a second neither of us moves, then she tries to slap me again but I catch her wrist, then the other one when she swings with it, pinning both hands above her head against the wall.

"Let me go," she hisses, struggling against my hold, but I press my body against hers until there's no space left between us and she can feel every breath I take.

"Not until you tell me why. Why you left, why you're here, why seeing you like this makes me want to—" I stop because I don't even know how to finish that sentence.

"Want to what?" She stops struggling and looks up at me with those eyes that used to undo me, defiant and vulnerable at once. "Punish me? You already did that every day of our marriage when you chose your company over me."

"That's not fair and you know it."

"Fair?" Her voice cracks slightly. "You want to talk about fair? You think I wanted this? I left with nothing, Derek. No money, no job prospects, just student debt and an art degree. This was how I survived."

The words hit harder than her slap but I don't let go because underneath all her anger I can see something else, the same thing burning in my chest. Want. Raw and furious and undeniable.

"You're mine for the hour I paid for," I say quietly, dangerously. "That's the deal, isn't it? So give me what I paid for."

Something shifts in her eyes, fear giving way to challenge. "Fine. Sit down."

I release her wrists and move back to the couch, and she takes the stage. For a moment she just stands there breathing hard, eyes locked on mine, then the music shifts and she starts to move.

It's nothing like her performance on the main stage would be. This is intimate and intentional, every movement designed specifically to torture me, to show me everything I lost. She works the pole with practiced grace but never breaks eye contact and I realize she's punishing me right back.

"Come here," I command when I can't take it anymore.

"That's not how this works."

"I paid twenty thousand dollars. Come here, Vanessa." My voice leaves no room for argument.

She hesitates, then steps off the stage and moves toward me with that same confidence, stopping just out of reach. I reach out and pull her down into my lap before she can protest, hands finding her waist.

"What are you doing?" she gasps, trying to pull back but I hold firm.

"Getting my money's worth." My hands slide up her sides and I feel her shiver. "Unless you want to tell me this isn't affecting you too."

"I hate you," she whispers but her body says something completely different, pressing closer instead of pulling away.

"Yeah? Then why are you shaking?" I lean in until my lips brush her ear and my hand slides into her hair, gripping tight and tilting her head back. "Tell me you don't want this and I'll stop right now."

She opens her mouth but no words come out and that's all the answer I need. I pull her into a kiss that's more anger than anything else, two years of hurt poured into it. She kisses back just as hard, nails digging into my shoulders through my shirt.

My hands are everywhere, relearning the body I used to know by heart, and she's pulling at my tie, my shirt buttons, both of us trying to get closer. "I hate that I still want you," she gasps against my mouth.

"I hate that you left me." I stand with her wrapped around me and turn to press her against the wall, harder this time, and she moans my name in a way that makes me lose control.

Her legs wrap around my waist and my hand slides up her thigh, pushing aside fabric—

The door slams open and someone yanks me backward hard enough that I stumble and release her. Before I can react a fist connects with my jaw and pain explodes across my face, blood flooding my mouth.

"Get the fuck off her!" A man I don't recognize throws another punch that catches my ribs and I double over. He grabs my collar and slams me against the wall, hand around my throat. "You think you can pay to force yourself on her?"

"Marcus, stop!" Vanessa screams, grabbing his arm. "He didn't—you don't understand!"

"I understand plenty." He finally releases my throat and I slump against the wall coughing. "Get out before I call the cops."

I straighten slowly, wiping blood from my split lip, and look at Vanessa. She's crying now, makeup running, clothes disheveled, caught between us. Marcus steps between us like a wall.

"You should leave," she says quietly, not meeting my eyes.

I grab my jacket and head for the door, pausing to look back at her one last time. "This isn't over."

Marcus takes a threatening step forward. "Yes it is. Don't come back here."

I walk out with my jaw throbbing and blood on my shirt, but all I can think about is the way she kissed me back, the way she said my name, the way she looked at me like maybe she hated leaving as much as I hated being left.

My phone buzzes in the car. Unknown number. I almost ignore it but something makes me open it.

*Don't come back to the club. If you want to talk, meet me tomorrow. Our old place. Noon. - V*

I stare at the message for a long time. Our old place. The house where everything fell apart. This is a terrible idea and I know it, but I'm already typing back.

*I'll be there.*

Some mistakes you just keep making.