Page 78 of Better When Shared
Watching another man desire my wife should have been disturbing. Instead, it felt like the most natural thing in the world. Like Juniper and I were two parts of the same hunger, drawn to the same sexy, untouchable man.
“This conversation is inappropriate,” Tristan said, but his voice had gone rough around the edges. His eyes were still fixed on the crochet top, on the way it framed Juniper’s breasts, and I could see the outline of his cock pressing against his expensive slacks, as if the sight of her alone was making him hard.
Juniper’s smile was pure sin. “Is it? I’m only appreciating craftsmanship.”
“You’re...” Tristan swallowed hard, his careful composure cracking further. “This is not how these things are supposed to work. It’s against the rules.”
“What rules?” I asked.
He shot me an indecipherable look. “I’m going to have words with Gemma about her use of conference rooms,” he said, turning stiffly away from us. “You may keep the clothing, but please make sure not to take what does not belong to you in the future.”
“Tristan,” Juniper called after him, and something in her voice made him pause without turning around. “Thank you. For making something so beautiful. I’ll cherish it, knowing I’m one of the few people who has a chance to wear the things you create.”
His shoulders went rigid, and for a moment I hoped he would turn back and say something that would crack this careful dance wide open. Instead, he stalked away like a man fleeing a burning building, his expensive shoes loud against the stone tiles.
“Oh my god,” Juniper gasped, breaking the silence. “Why are uptight guys so fucking hot?”
We collapsed onto our yoga mats in a fit of helpless laughter, and I poked her. “Because you want to unwind them, right?”
“We,” she corrected, reaching over to thread her fingers through mine. “We both want to unwind him. I saw how you were looking at him, Marco. It’s time to bring back that old threesome fantasy we used to talk about.”
I settled beside her on the warm stone, thinking about the late-night horny talks we’d had back in college, where I’d admitted all my truths to her. “Yeah,” I admitted finally. “It’s time.”
Chapter 4
Tristan
I strode away from that courtyard like my life depended on a hasty escape. My hands shook as I adjusted my jacket, tugging the tailored fabric down to hide any evidence that Juniper and Marco’s flirting had turned me on.
What the fuck was wrong with me?
The image burned behind my eyelids—Juniper Torres in my crochet top, the delicate yarn work I'd crafted with my own hands clinging to her curves, supporting and presenting her breasts like a goddamn gift.
The creamy white yarn contrasted so perfectly with her skin, which was the color of rich mahogany. And her husband had watched her, hunger naked in his dark eyes, while also stealing glances at me with something that looked disturbingly like appreciation.
Fortunately, he had not been wearing the shorts, but his tight athletic T-shirt had left little to the imagination. His upper body was all lean muscle, with broad shoulders tapering to a narrow waist. Not that I’d looked.
My cock throbbed painfully against my boxer briefs, and I gritted my teeth against the sensation. This wasn't supposed to happen. My crochet wasn't for other people—it was mine.
A private ritual my therapist had suggested when the panic attacks had taken over, when the weight of running the Bancroft legacy without my brother by my side threatened to crush me entirely.
I couldn’t explain why the rhythmic motion of a hook through yarn, the careful counting of stitches, the way complex patterns demanded complete focus had quieted the constant noise in my head.
Juniper Torres was wearing something I'd made in the depths of anxiety and loneliness. Its only purpose had been to bring me that little spark of joy that came from creating something beautiful. And though I’d imagined how it might fit a woman, selling my crafts wasn’t in the cards. My work was supposed to be invisible, locked away where no one could see it.
I forced myself to walk normally through the guest corridors, nodding at staff members who greeted me with polite deference. My reflection in a window caught my eye—flushed cheeks, slightly disheveled hair, and a tie that had somehow workedloose at my collar. I looked like a man coming apart at the seams, which was exactly what I couldn't afford to be.
The Bancroft Resort demanded perfection. Our guests expected flawless service from a flawless establishment run by flawless people.
I ducked into a service corridor and leaned against the wall, fumbling to loosen my tie properly. Sweat beaded at my collar despite the cool air conditioning, and my breathing was still too fast, too shallow.
The service corridor was mercifully empty, and I took advantage of that rare moment of quiet and forced my breathing back under control. My erection was finally beginning to subside. I needed to focus on work and pretend this whole mortifying episode had never happened.
The corporate wing of the hotel was a different world from the guest areas—all clean lines and efficient lighting, designed for productivity rather than luxury.
Gemma's office door was closed, which meant she was probably buried in quarterly reports or budget projections—my cousin's idea of light recreational reading. I should knock. I should wait for permission to enter like a civilized human being.
Instead, I gripped the door handle and shoved it open hard enough that it banged against the wall.
