Page 93 of Better When Shared
When he smiled, really smiled for the first time since we'd met, it transformed his entire face. The sharp edges softened. His eyes lit up with genuine warmth, and I felt my chest tighten with want that went far beyond physical attraction.
The conversation gained momentum as we moved around the kitchen together, pulling out the bread and setting the table for breakfast. Tristan had shed his earlier formality like an expensive coat, rolling up his sleeves to reveal the muscular forearms that had captured my attention yesterday. And now that we'd seen him in his boxers, we knew everything about Tristan was sculpted and strong.
I grinned as I listened to Tristan and Juniper go back and forth as I ate the delicious bread they'd made together. When he challenged our plan, it wasn't dismissive skepticism but the kind of sharp questioning that made ideas stronger. This was the Tristan we'd been hoping to find. This was the man beneath the CEO facade, someone who actually cared.
"You're thinking like a traditional hotelier," I said, reaching across him for the butter. My shoulder brushed his, and I felt the press of solid muscle beneath expensive cotton, and I felt him tense at the contact. But he didn't move away. "This isn't about competing with luxury chains. This is about offering something they can't."
The brief touch lit up every nerve ending in my arm. I was close enough to catch the scent of his cologne mixed with morning coffee, close enough to see the way his pupils dilated when our bodies made contact.
"The heritage angle is strong," Tristan admitted. "The Bancroft name recognition, authentic period details, and historical significance combined."
"Plus stories," Juniper added. "Every old inn has ghost stories, local legends, and historical events. Guests eat that stuff up."
Something shifted in Tristan's expression—surprise and what might have been gratitude. Like no one had ever suggested that his family's legacy could be an asset rather than a burden. The vulnerability in his face made my throat tight.
"There are definitely stories."
The conversation was flowing now, and our food was all but forgotten as ideas built on each other with the kind of creative energy that made anything feel possible. Tristan's demeanor had changed. His shoulders relaxed, his movements grew looser, even his carefully controlled posture gave way to somethingmore natural. When he got excited about a particular restoration challenge, his voice deepened and took on a warmth that went straight to my cock.
Juniper shifted closer to him. "We should look at the rest of the upstairs rooms," she said, her voice carrying undertones that had nothing to do with business assessment. "Get a feel for the space, discuss layouts and flow."
The suggestion hung in the air like an invitation to something far more personal than renovation planning. Tristan's throat worked as he processed the implications, color rising in his sharp cheekbones despite his obvious efforts to maintain professional composure.
"Yes," he said finally, his voice rougher than intended. "That would be... practical. For planning purposes."
But the way he said 'practical' suggested he understood exactly what Juniper was really proposing, and the knowledge sent heat racing through my veins.
The stairs creaked under our feet as Tristan led us up to the guest quarters, morning light streaming through tall windows to illuminate worn carpeting and faded wallpaper that had probably been elegant in Victoria's time. Everything felt smaller up here, more intimate, the low ceilings and narrow hallways creating a sense of enclosure that made every casual touch feel amplified.
"This would be the premier suite," Tristan said, opening a door to reveal a spacious room with mullioned windows overlooking the courtyard. "Original four-poster bed, fireplace, separate sitting area."
The bed dominated the space—dark carved wood that spoke of centuries of use, draped with hangings that had faded from rich burgundy to something softer and more forgiving. I pictured bodies moving together on that antique mattress, tangled in sheets, while firelight painted shadows on stone walls.
The three of us fucking like there was nothing we wanted more than to touch in every way possible.
"The bed is incredible," Juniper said, running her hand along the carved footboard with obvious appreciation. "Guests will love the authenticity. Maybe update the mattress for comfort, but preserve everything else."
Tristan nodded, but his breathing had become shallower as he watched her fingers trace patterns in the old wood. "The en-suite would need complete renovation. Original plumbing is... inadequate for modern expectations."
"Clawfoot tub?" I suggested, moving to examine the space between the bedroom and what would become the bathroom. Close enough to Tristan that our arms brushed when I gestured toward the wall that would need modification. "Something that fits the period but actually works?"
"Perfect," he breathed, and I could hear the excitement bleeding through his careful control. "Copper fixtures, heated floors, modern function with period aesthetics."
The subtext was killing me. We were talking about beds and mornings and intimate spaces while standing close enough to touch, close enough that I could see the way Tristan's pulse jumped in his throat when Juniper brushed past him to examine window hardware.
"Might be good to add some soundproofing between rooms," I added, my voice coming out rougher than intended. "Important for guest privacy. Some people can be... vocal about their appreciation for good accommodations."
Tristan went completely still, green eyes darting between Juniper and me like he was trying to decode exactly what we were really discussing. The awareness in his expression suggested he understood perfectly, and the knowledge sent arousal spiking through my nervous system.
But then something shifted. His shoulders went rigid again, that careful mask sliding back into place like armor. He checked his expensive watch with movements that were just slightly too sharp, too controlled.
"I should check the road conditions," he said abruptly, backing toward the doorway with the kind of controlled retreat that suggested panic rather than genuine concern. "The county council website will have updates about flooding and closures."
The excuse was transparent as glass, but his body language screamed flight. Despite everything—the obvious attraction, the growing excitement about the project, the way he'd been responding to every subtle touch and loaded comment—Tristan Bancroft was still fighting his own desires with everything he had.
I could see it in the flush creeping up his neck, in the way his breathing had become quick and shallow, in the obvious bulge pressing against his expensive khakis that he was trying desperately to hide. He wanted us. Wanted this. But he was stopping himself.
"Of course," Juniper said smoothly, but I caught the flash of disappointment that crossed her features. "We'll just... finish looking around up here."
