Page 85 of Better When Shared
Marco asked something about load-bearing structures while I let myself drift ahead, trailing my fingers along the rough stone walls. The mill felt alive somehow, all creaking timber and water rushing through ancient channels.
I could picture it transformed—guests sipping wine by restored grinding wheels, candlelight flickering off exposed beams, the whole space humming with intimate conversation.
When I turned back to Tristan and Marco, they looked so good together. The morning light streaming through the windows caught the gold threads in Tristan's hair, while emphasizing the warm tan of Marco's skin. They were both devastatingly handsome. All that controlled power just begging to be unraveled by patient hands.
I moved toward a narrow window set deep in the stone wall, drawn by glimpses of the countryside beyond. The dress I'd chosen this morning—a flowing sundress in a soft yellow floral print that made my skin glow—caught on the rough sill as I leaned forward to peer out at rolling green hills dotted with sheep, pulling the fabric a little too high.
When I turned back, Tristan was staring at the curve of my thigh, where my caught skirt had slipped up. The hunger I'd seen last night flickered behind his professional mask, raw and real, before he caught himself and looked away with a sharp intake of breath.
How could he resist the pull that was so clearly there between the three of us? One thing was certain: Tristan was stronger than both of us combined. Marco and I were impulsive by nature, and restraint wasn't something we did well. If Tristan had been the one in the pool, naked and asking us to join him, we'd be beside him before he even finished the question.
It should have been such a simple gesture—pushing crisp white fabric back from his wrists so he could show Marco something about how the mill's machinery worked. The crisp white cotton revealed forearms that were nothing like the pale, soft limbs I'd expected from a man who spent his days behind a desk.
I couldn't decide if he was unconsciously sexy, or if he was stringing us along, enjoying our unhinged lust.
These were the arms of someone who worked with his hands, all corded muscle and fine blonde hair that caught the morninglight. A thin scar ran along the inside of his left wrist, and I had the irrational urge to kiss it better.
When he gripped the wooden lever to show us how to adjust the water flow, Marco made a sound low in his throat, his eyes fixed on the flex and play of muscle under Tristan's skin.
My pulse jumped as I watched my husband watch another man, imagining what they'd look like together, their big, muscled bodies clashing as they tore at each other's clothing.
They were beautiful together. Both tall and broad-shouldered, but where Marco radiated warmth and easy confidence, Tristan was all sharp edges and barely leashed control. The contrast made my mouth water and my pussy clench with need.
"Fascinating craftsmanship," Marco murmured, moving closer to examine the mechanism. Close enough that his shoulder brushed Tristan's as they both leaned over the wooden controls. Close enough that I could see the way Tristan's breathing hitched at the contact.
I'd been concerned that Tristan was straight until that moment. He may not have been sure about his sexuality, but he definitely showed all the signs of attraction to us both.
Thunder rumbled in the distance, low and ominous. Through the windows, I could see dark clouds building on the horizon, turning the morning light gray and threatening. The storm that had been lurking as we drove out here was finally making its presence known.
Tristan straightened abruptly, putting space between himself and Marco with movements that were just shy of panicked. "We should head back," he said, his voice rougher than it had been moments before. "The weather's turning, and these country roads can be treacherous in heavy rain."
The sky split open.
One moment we were stepping out of the mill's sheltered entrance, and the next we were drowning in sheets of rain that turned the world into liquid chaos. The deluge hit with such sudden violence that I gasped, my sundress plastering to my skin in seconds as water poured from the darkened sky like punishment for every dirty thought I'd been harboring.
"Holy shit!" Marco shouted over the thunder, grabbing my hand as we made a mad dash across the gravel parking lot toward Tristan's gleaming Range Rover. My sandals skidded on wet stones, sending me sliding sideways until Marco's brawny arm caught me around the waist, pulling me against his solid warmth as we stumbled toward shelter.
Behind us, Tristan was fighting with his keys, rain streaming down his face and turning his perfectly styled hair into dark gold. His crisply starched shirt clung to his chest like a second skin, revealing the muscular definition I'd only imagined.
The electronic locks finally engaged with a cheerful beep that seemed absurd given our current state, and we tumbled into the vehicle, panting and laughing. The Range Rover's leather interior was getting far too wet, and I glanced towards Tristan,concerned, but he was dripping just as badly as I was. I collapsed into the passenger seat, wringing water from my wild curls while trying to catch my breath.
"Fuck," Tristan gasped, slamming the driver's door and immediately cranking the heat to the maximum setting. His hands were shaking as he adjusted the vents, whether from cold or adrenaline or something else entirely. "The forecast said possible showers, not a bloody monsoon."
Marco had claimed the back seat, and when I turned to check on him, my brain short-circuited completely. His white t-shirt was practically transparent now, clinging to every ridge and valley of his gorgeous tattooed chest. Water droplets caught in the dark hair of his forearms, and his jeans molded to his thighs in ways that warmed me better than any heating system could have.
I glanced from Marco to Tristan and back, unsure where to look as lust slammed through me like lightning. The two of them looked like romantic heroes stepped out of some Jane Austen fever dream, all wet fabric and masculine beauty and barely contained intensity.
Tristan's shirt had gone nearly see-through where it stretched across his broad shoulders, revealing defined muscles that spoke to a life of discipline and control. Was that why we were so drawn to him? Because he was so controlled, while we lived in the moment, carried along by wild impulse?
Every encounter with him was brief, erotic, and charged with something I didn't quite understand.
Steam began fogging the windows as the heat battled the chilly rain, creating an intimate cocoon that felt separate from the storm raging outside. The confined space amplified everything—the sound of our breathing, the rustle of wet clothing, the electric tension that sparked every time one of us moved and accidentally brushed against another.
"We should get back," Tristan said, but his voice lacked conviction. Like he was reciting lines from a script he didn't quite believe in anymore.
He put the Range Rover in gear and pulled out of the parking lot. He drove with the same careful precision that he showed in the rest of his life, which only made me wonder how he fucked. Was he attentive and focused, or did he finally let go of control?
The country roads had transformed into rivers punctuated by brief stretches of asphalt. Rain hammered against the windshield faster than the wipers could clear it, turning the world outside into an impressionist painting of green and gray. Every few seconds, lightning would illuminate the flooded landscape in stark detail before plunging us back into premature twilight.
