Page 90 of Better When Shared
Juniper nodded. "And the passion behind it hints at hidden depths, so we're curious. We don't want to make you feel uncomfortable, though."
There was a moment of silence, heavy as a velvet curtain.
"You don't have to be afraid," Marco said. "We're only interested in getting to know you better."
It took everything I had to hold her gaze. "I'm not afraid," I lied. "I just don't—"
"Don't want to lose control," Juniper finished for me.
I swallowed. "Something like that."
Marco leaned across the table. "Tristan. It's okay to want things. But it's okay to say no, too. If you want us to stop the flirting, we'll stop. Juni won't make you stick your hands in any more dough."
For a second, I saw how it could be: the three of us, tangled in sheets and sweat, mouths and hands and hunger. My cock twitched, pressing hard against the borrowed sweats, and I cursed myself for wanting it so much.
We could have fucked right there on the table. I knew it. They knew it. But I stood up, pushing back my chair, and shook my head.
"We should get some rest," I said.
They both watched me with a mixture of amusement and frustration.
"Sleep well, Tristan," Juniper said. "Try not to dream about anything too naughty."
Marco rolled his eyes. "I think he's telling us to stop. We really didn't mean to do anything inappropriate. We're sorry to be so much trouble, really."
I nodded curtly, afraid of what I'd say if I tried to speak, and turned and stalked out of the room before anyone could say more.
Chapter 10
Tristan
Sleep was a fucking impossibility.
I'd been lying in bed for hours, my body rigid beneath the scratchy sheets. Every time I closed my eyes, images crashed through my mind like waves against rocks. Juniper's brown skin gleaming in firelight, the way she’d looked in that pool, lost in passion, Marco's lean body, and the invitation in his eyes.
The sheets twisted around my legs as I shifted for the hundredth time, my skin too hot despite the lack of good heating. My cock pressed insistently against my boxer briefs, a persistent reminder of desires I'd been fighting all evening. The expensive fabric that usually felt smooth and comfortable now seemed to drag against oversensitive skin with every movement.
I kicked off the blankets with more force than necessary, then immediately pulled them back up when the cool air hit my overheated body. The contrast was maddening—too hot underthe covers, too cold without them, no position that offered relief from the arousal that had been building since the moment I'd met them.
Why them? Why, of all the temptations I’d faced in life, were they the ones who broke through?
The ornate clock on the nightstand glowed 12:47 a.m. in the darkness. Past midnight, and I was lying here like a schoolboy with his first crush, unable to shut off my brain long enough to get the rest I desperately needed.
My throat felt like sandpaper. The combination of anxiety, arousal, and the dry air in this old building had left me parched. Water. I needed water, and maybe the simple act of walking to the kitchen would clear my head.
I swung my legs out of the bed, my bare feet hitting cold wooden floors that made me hiss through my teeth. The inn felt different at night—shadows deeper, sounds magnified, every creak and whisper of wind through ancient timbers seeming to echo with life. As a boy, it was these nights that had made me believe in the ghost stories.
I padded toward the door in just my underwear, not bothering with a shirt since I planned to make this a quick trip.
The hallway stretched before me in darkness, broken only by moonlight filtering through tall windows.
As I approached the main floor, a warm glow spilled from the kitchen doorway into the corridor. Low voices drifted toward me, accompanied by quiet laughter that made my pulse quicken. They were still awake. And I was in my underwear.
The scent of our earlier baking session still lingered in the air: yeast, cinnamon, and the ghost of warmth from the massive range. My stomach clenched with something that might have been hunger but felt more complex, more dangerous. I should have announced myself, called out a greeting, and maintained the kind of polite distance that kept situations manageable.
Instead, I found myself slowing as I approached the kitchen doorway, drawn by curiosity and something darker that I didn't want to examine too closely.
They’d let me off the hook, promising me they’d stop teasing me if it bothered me.
