Page 34 of Better When Shared
“Yes,” I confessed, the pressure building inside me. “I wanted—I wanted—”
“What?” Julian demanded, one hand leaving my leg to find my clit, circling it in a perfect rhythm. “What did you want?”
“Both of you,” I cried out as the first wave of orgasm hit me. “I wanted him to fuck me while you watched. I wanted you to see how wet he made me, how desperate—”
Julian groaned, his hips stuttering as he came inside me. The pulsing of his cock triggered another wave of my own orgasm,and I convulsed around him, vision whiting out as pleasure tore through me.
We collapsed in a sweaty tangle, breathing hard. Julian pulled me against his chest, his heartbeat thundering under my ear.
“Fuck,” he whispered, his voice raw. “That was...”
“Yeah.” I traced patterns on his damp skin, feeling the aftershocks still rippling through me. “That was something else.”
He tilted my chin up to look at him. “So, what happened after the kiss?”
I nodded, watching his reaction. “I stopped before it went further. Someone walked by and I—I felt guilty.”
Julian’s eyes softened. “You don’t have to feel guilty. This was my idea, remember?” His fingers traced my jawline. “The hall pass. You followed the rules.”
“I know, but...” I hesitated. “It felt more complicated in the moment. Like I was doing something wrong, even with permission.”
He was quiet for a moment, his hand making soothing circles on my back. “Would you see him again? Outside of yoga, I mean.”
The question hung between us, loaded with implications. “Would you want me to?” I countered, watching his face.
Something flickered in his eyes—desire, possessiveness, something else I couldn’t quite name. “Yes,” he admitted, voice rough. “I think I would.”
Chapter 3
Nisha
I woke up far too early the next Saturday.
Needing a distraction from my spiraling thoughts, I tiptoed downstairs, flounced onto the sofa, and flipped aimlessly through our streaming services, looking for something to watch. It had been over a week since I’d kissed Caleb at yoga class, and worries about what it all meant played on repeat in my mind.
The more distance I got from that steamy night, the more I started to question my decisions. I questioned Julian’s reaction to it. He hadn’t acted on his own hall pass—hadn’t suggested a fantasy of his own. Could that be because what I’d done had upset him?
Caleb had disappeared from yoga class, so nothing more had happened, but it was impossible not to wonder what I would have done if he’d come to class again. And what Julian would have thought of it.
Why didn’t Julian want to use his hall pass? The imbalance gnawed at me, made me question every look my husband gave me. What if he resented me later? What if this whole arrangement was just him testing me, and I’d failed the test by kissing someone else?
The floor creaked above me—Julian moving around, as if my overwhelming guilt had found its way upstairs and roused him. I heard the shower turn on. The familiar sounds anchored me to our shared life, to all we’d built together. Three years of marriage, a home that reflected both our tastes, careers we loved. Why was I willing to risk it all for green eyes and a British accent?
I turned on a show, but paid more attention to what Julian was doing than to the screen. The shower turned off, followed by the buzz of his electric toothbrush, then more footsteps, and I imagined him getting dressed.
Julian appeared at the bottom of the stairs, hair still damp from the shower, wearing nothing but boxer briefs that hugged his ass in all the right ways. My husband was gorgeous—lean and strong from regular outdoor activities, with olive skin that never seemed to lose its summer glow. He caught me staring and waggled his eyebrows, aware of the effect he had on me.
“Morning,” he said, crossing to the coffeemaker. “Couldn’t sleep?”
My mind flashed to how we’d fallen asleep—sweaty, tangled, spent after another night of hot sex. Sex that felt like it had happened back when we’d first gotten together: wild and full of a desperate passion. The story about Caleb had taken on a life of its own, somehow shifting the dynamic between us. Each nightsince that encounter, I’d whispered filthy details about my yoga partner’s hands in my husband’s ear until Julian came so hard he nearly blacked out.
And then I’d start overthinking it.
“Like a baby,” I lied, watching him move through our kitchen with practiced ease. He added a splash of oat milk to his mug, then grabbed the bread to make toast. So normal. This was how he had behaved ever since that night. No suspicion, no jealousy, no awkward morning-after conversation about boundaries or regrets.
Just a hell of a lot more sex.
“You want eggs?” he asked, already pulling the carton from the fridge. This was our routine—him cooking breakfast while I nursed my first coffee, me handling dinner most nights. A division of labor based on who functioned better at which end of the day.
