Page 184 of Better When Shared
My eyes widened as I scanned a few more lines, heat surging through my body and straight to my cock. The scene described two men sucking each other off and fucking their female lover.
Imogen lunged forward, snatching the book back and slamming it closed. “That’s private,” she hissed, hugging it close.
“Sorry,” I managed, holding up my hands in surrender. “I didn’t mean to—”
“It’s fine.” She shoved the book deep into her bag, refusing to meet my eyes. “It’s a silly, fun novel. There’s nothing wrong with a woman enjoying a little eroticism.”
Hamish chose that moment to come up from below decks, and looked between us, confusion evident on his face. “What?”
“Nothing,” Imogen said quickly.
I couldn’t speak. My brain was short-circuiting, bombarded with images I shouldn’t be having about clients. But fuck—the book, her flustered state all day, the way she’d been watching us together on the boat... Was she fantasizing about Hamish and me sucking each other’s dicks? The possibility sent blood rushing to my groin so fast I felt lightheaded.
I shifted uncomfortably, trying to hide my growing erection, but the board shorts I wore left little to the imagination.
What if I pushed Hamish to his knees right here on the deck? Would she watch, her hand slipping beneath her shorts like the woman in her book? Would Hamish resist, or would he open his mouth for me, those proper British lips stretched around my cock while his wife watched?
Or better yet—I could bend him over the bench, pull those khaki shorts down his lean hips, and push into him while shoving his face between Imogen’s thighs.
Fuck. I needed to get it together. These people were my clients, a married couple who’d shown no actual indication they wanted anything beyond a sailing lesson. The fact that Imogen was reading erotica about two men and a woman didn’t mean she wanted to see her husband with me. The fact that Hamish occasionally glanced at my body didn’t mean he wanted to touch it.
But I could admit that I wanted them both. I wanted to taste the wine on Imogen’s lips, to discover if Hamish’s proper exterior hid a wilder nature. I wanted to be the catalyst that showed them possibilities they’d never considered.
I took a deep breath, forcing my attention back to practical matters. “We should probably think about pulling anchor soon,” I said, my voice rougher than I intended. “Those clouds on the horizon mean the wind’s changing.”
Hamish looked up at the sky, then back to me. “I trust your judgment. Should I help with the anchor?”
I nodded, grateful for the distraction. “Yeah, let’s raise the sail and get going.”
As Hamish moved toward the bow, I caught Imogen watching me, her gaze dropping to my lap before quickly darting away. The blush on her cheeks deepened, and she bit her lower lip in a way that made my cock throb painfully.
I forced my mind back to sailing, away from the dangerous images that had taken root there. This was supposed to be a simple day on the water—show the anxious British guy and his gorgeous wife around the San Juan Islands, maybe convince them to book another tour before they left. Not spend the afternoon with my dick hard as steel, imagining them naked and willing.
I focused on Hamish, who was now hauling up the anchor. Water dripped from the chain, catching sunlight as it streamedback into the sea. Beautiful—just like the man handling it, his muscles flexing beneath newly tanned skin. Fuck. Watching him wasn’t helping.
“Anchor’s up,” Hamish called, securing the chain with newfound expertise.
I moved to the mainsail, preparing to catch whatever breeze we could find. But as I raised the sail, it hung limply from the boom. The water around us had turned glassy and still. The forecast had been right about the wind dying, but wrong about the timing.
“That’s not good,” I muttered, checking the telltales on the sail. Not even a flutter.
Hamish joined me in the cockpit, wiping his hands on his shorts. “Problem?”
“Wind’s gone.” I nodded toward the sails. “We might need to motor back.”
I moved to the control panel and turned the key for the engine. Nothing happened. Not even a click. I frowned and tried again, with the same result, pressing a few buttons at random, not wanting to admit that I wasn’t sure what they all did.
“Come on, baby,” I coaxed, checking the fuel gauge—full—and trying a third time. Still nothing. Had I done something wrong? “What the fuck?”
I’d never had issues with this engine. Skylar handled all the maintenance religiously, and we’d had it serviced last month. I pulled up the engine compartment access panel and peered inside. Nothing obviously wrong, but I knew almost nothing about engine mechanics, so I probably would have only noticed an issue if the damn thing was on fire.
“Is everything alright?” Imogen asked, her British accent more pronounced with concern.
“Not sure.” I straightened up, wiping sweat from my forehead. “Motor’s dead, and we’ve got no wind.”
I expected panic—especially from Hamish, given his previous anxieties—but instead, they exchanged a look I couldn’t quite interpret. Something almost... pleased?
“So we’re stuck here?” Hamish asked, his tone oddly neutral.
