Page 76 of Better When Shared
“They’re women’s shorts. Designed for a petite female form. Not meant to be stretched over a man’s... endowments.” And fuck, Marco Torres had one of the most impressive endowments I’d seen. Not that I paid much attention to men’s cocks.
“Why didn’t Gemma say anything when we paid her, then?” Juniper asked, folding her hands over her middle in a way that pushed her breasts up and stretched the soft yarn of her top, revealing more skin. I forced my gaze away.
Marco bit his pillowy bottom lip, looking skyward. “She looked a little confused, now that I’m thinking about it.”
“Confused?” I choked.
“We’ll give them back,” Marco offered, reaching for the waistband of his shorts.
“No!” four voices—mine, Caleb’s, Julian’s, and Nisha’s—shouted in unison.
“Keep them,” I insisted, fighting a baffling stir of something hot and shameful in my chest. “I have absolutely no interest in a pair of shorts that have been that intimate with your balls.”
Marco and Juniper dissolved into delighted giggles, Juniper’s eyes sparkling with mischief that almost seemed flirtatious. They said their goodbyes, thanked me, apologized again, and turned toward the elevators. Caleb was still smiling, and they drifted inside. The doors slid shut on the echo of their laughter.
How could two people who were executives in the same industry be so different from me? They seemed happy and carefree. It made me wonder how their hotels were as successful as the ones I ran. Was it dumb luck, or was it Caleb’s doing?
Shaking off that thought, I reached into my pocket and thrust a key card envelope at Caleb. “Your room.”
I spun on my heel, desperate to banish the memory of Marco and Juniper in my yarn—and the electric ache in my veins. I was not turned on. Not even a little. But I couldn’t stop thinking about those tassels grazing Juniper’s back...
How had Gemma gotten hold of my stash? And why? The questions churned in my head long after I fled the lobby.
Chapter 3
Marco
“You know I love that top, but after last night’s run-in, should you really be wearing it?” I asked Juniper as she spread out her yoga mat the next morning.
She chuckled, tilting her head as if she were remembering the expression on Tristan Bancroft’s face when he saw us wearing the evidence of his secret hobby.
“He doesn’t seem like the type to crochet,” Juniper said.
I replayed the man’s shocked expression from the night before. He’d been furious—and rightfully so—but underneath that, there’d been something else. Hunger.
“Do you think he wants them back? We could wash them or something.” Tristan had said something about the fabric being intimate with my balls that made me giggle.
“He said he didn’t. And I love this shirt, but I still feel terrible. We had no idea he didn’t want to sell them.”
The intricate, stunning design, the perfect structure, and the attention to detail made it more art than craft, even though he’d said he only did it for therapy—whatever that meant. And instead of being proud of it, he wanted to hide it from the world. All the drama made it the sort of secret that left me desperate to learn more.
“If you want, we can track him down and force him to accept our apology, then force him to show us his secret craft closet so we can get more?”
She burst out laughing; the sound echoing around the courtyard. I’d reserved one of the hotel’s small private courtyards for our morning yoga session, and it was lovely. It was like a secret garden tucked away from the Bancroft’s pristine marble halls. Warm honey-colored stone tiles caught the early sunlight, while climbing jasmine and ancient wisteria created living walls that promised complete privacy.
And Juniper was even more breathtaking than the space.
Even now, I was stunned by the intricacy of Tristan’s crochet creation. The delicate yarn work clung to her curves like a lover’s touch. The pattern of knots and yarn traced along her ribs and sternum, leaving tantalizing glimpses of smooth brown skin visible beneath. Her curls caught the morning light, creating a halo effect around her face as she bent to adjust her mat.
“Come on,” Juniper said, moving into our opening pose. “Enough about the sexy CEO.”
“Hey! I was thinking about my sexy wife.” Though now that she mentioned it…
“Focus, Marco. Let’s work through some sun salutations while the weather is nice. No distractions. And no telling me about the 1840s stonework or whatever.”
I hadn’t even noticed the stonework. What was wrong with me? I tried to focus on my breathing, on the familiar rhythm of moving through the sequence we’d done more times than I could count, but every time Juniper flowed into a new position, the crochet top shifted and stretched in ways that made my mouth go dry.
Why hadn’t she worn a t-shirt like she usually did? Was she trying to tempt me?
