Page 77 of Better When Shared
The delicate yarn work emphasized rather than concealed—when she raised her arms overhead, the yarn shifted, letting me see the underside of her breasts. When she folded forward, the fabric pulled taut across her back, highlighting the graceful line of her spine.
“Downward dog,” she murmured, moving into the pose with deliberate sensuality. The crochet top shifted, and her breasts hung heavy against the delicate yarn, nipples almost visible through holes in the pattern.
“It’s very difficult to focus when you look so gorgeous,” I groaned, trying to maintain my pose while enjoying her beauty.
“Someone who truly appreciates the female form designed this top.”
The thought of Tristan designing this piece, carefully crafting each strategic opening, each curve-hugging line, sent another jolt of arousal through me. I could picture those large hands working the yarn, calculating how the fabric would drape over a woman’s body.
Over Juniper’s body.
She arched her back in her pose, and the crochet top pulled tight across her chest. “It makes me wonder about his inner world. What drives him to make such beautiful things, but never show them to anyone?”
“Maybe it doesn’t match his corporate image?” I speculated.
“Mm. But beneath the businessman facade, he’s an artist. All that controlled intensity just begging to be unraveled.”
She moved into a seated twist, the crochet top shifting to reveal more than it should have. “And I saw the way you looked at him.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” I said, raising my eyebrows at her.
Juniper’s smile was understanding and a little wicked. “Liar. You think he’s handsome.”
“Anyone with eyes would think he’s handsome.” I shot back, making her giggle. “But yes, he’s sexy as hell.”
The sharp sound of footsteps on stone cut through our intimate bubble. We both turned toward the courtyard entrance to see who was approaching, and my breath caught. Had we summoned him somehow?
Tristan Bancroft stood in the archway like an avenging angel in Armani. His dark blonde hair was more disheveled than it had been when we’d last seen him, as if he’d been running his hands through it.
His jaw was set in a hard line that somehow made him even more devastatingly attractive. Those piercing green eyes locked onto Juniper’s chest where his crochet creation clung to her curves, and I watched his controlled features crack.
Tristan’s fury was magnificent to watch. Those sharp green eyes darted around, as if he couldn’t decide where to look—Juniper’s face, the crochet top that clung to her curves, or anywhere else that might offer him some semblance of composure. His pupils dilated, his hands clenched into fists at his sides, like he was fighting the urge to reach out and touch.
The realization that I wanted to see him give in to that urge sent heat spiking through my veins.
He cleared his throat and shook himself. “Caleb is setting up in the meeting room on the second floor.”
“You made a special trip out here just to tell us that?” Juniper asked.
Tristan adjusted his tie. “I was passing by.”
Juniper stood and stepped closer to him, all predatory grace. “You know,” she said, running her fingertips along the edge of the crochet top, fiddling with the knots there, “I’m so sorry that we ended up with your work without your consent. I would never have purchased it if I’d known it would upset you. But it is exquisite.”
Tristan stilled, like a deer caught in headlights—if deer wore thousand-dollar suits and looked like they could bench press a car. “It wasn’t for sale.”
“It’s too bad. There’s a market for pieces like this. The craftsmanship is incredible, the tension is perfect,” she continued, her voice taking on that husky quality that usually preceded mind-blowing sex. “You’ve placed every stitch where it needs to be for maximum impact. You understand how fabric should move with a woman’s body.”
Color flooded Tristan’s sharp cheekbones. The poor bastard was fighting a losing battle against his own desire, and it was the hottest thing I’d seen in years. There was something satisfying about watching this man—who probably controlled every aspectof his ordered life—struggle against something as base and human as lust.
“Doesn’t it fit me perfectly?” Juniper asked, her fingers still tracing the yarn work. My mouth went dry. Each movement drew attention to how the crochet clung to her curves, how it revealed just enough skin to be devastating.
Tristan’s breathing was growing less steady by the minute. “I… that’s not…you shouldn’t have…”
“You should be proud of your work,” she interrupted, and there was genuine admiration in her voice. “This is art. Lovely, sensual art that makes the wearer feel incredible.”
Something shifted in Tristan’s expression then, surprise flickering through the desire and anger. Like no one had ever called his secret craft “art” before. Maybe he’d been hiding this part of himself for so long that hearing it acknowledged was overwhelming.
I studied the sharp line of his jaw, the way his broad shoulders filled out his tailored jacket. I imagined those hands on skin instead of yarn, creating an entirely different tension.
