Page 95 of Better When Shared
But now, with my mind churning with images I couldn't suppress, my purpose was clear.
I settled into the leather chair behind the desk, yarn spilling across the dark wood surface like liquid silk. My crochet hook felt familiar in my palm, the weight and balance as comfortable as an extension of my body. For a moment, I sat perfectly still, just staring at the yarn.
Then my hands began to move.
The first stitches slowly formed into something with shape and substance, a chain foundation that would become the neckline of something I could already envision in perfect detail. But as the pattern took shape under my fingers, muscle memory kicked in and my movements became faster, more confident. The rhythm of the hook, the twist and pull of shaping different knots, had always been meditative for me. This was the only activity that could quiet the constant analysis and control that dominated every other aspect of my life.
Except this time, meditation felt more like an obsession.
My mind filled with images of Juniper as I worked. I saw the way her curls had caught firelight in the kitchen, the warm golden undertones in her brown skin that made it seem to glow, and the curve of her breasts beneath thin cotton as she kissed her gorgeous husband on the kitchen counter.
Each stitch became an act of worship, yarn flowing through my fingers like I was spinning dreams into reality. The dresstook shape with frightening speed—a creation that was part couture fashion, part fetish wear, part love letter written in fiber and thread. Strategic openings that would frame her breasts without quite revealing everything. A hemline that would skim her thighs and hint at treasures hidden underneath. Fabric that would cling to every curve while moving like liquid when she walked.
Time became fluid as I lost myself in the work. Morning light shifted to afternoon shadows, but I barely noticed the change. My world narrowed to the space between my hands and the growing garment that represented every desire I'd been fighting to suppress.
I pictured her wearing it, imagined how the yarn would look against her skin, how the cut would emphasize her waist and hips. Marco's reaction when he saw her in something I'd created specifically for her body, for her beauty, would be enough to break the last threads of my control.
And maybe that was okay.
The thought sent heat racing through my nervous system, my cock hardening against my zipper as my hands continued their steady rhythm. This was madness. I was creating clothing for a woman I barely knew, but somehow understood more than any woman I’d ever met. I was pouring sexual frustration into yarn like some sort of textile pervert.
But I couldn't stop.
The final stitches came together with the inevitability of gravity, my hook securing the last thread in a pattern that had consumed hours I couldn't account for. When I finally set down my tools and held up the completed dress, my breath caught in my throat.
It was perfect. Absolutely, impossibly perfect.
The cashmere blend draped like liquid silk, creating lines that would transform any woman's body into art. But this wasn't for any woman. Every measurement, every curve, every strategic opening was designed specifically for Juniper Torres. For her proportions, her coloring, her particular brand of sensual confidence.
I stared at the garment in my hands, feeling like I'd just completed some sort of ritual whose significance I didn't fully understand. This dress was confession and invitation rolled into one, a physical manifestation of desires I'd never been brave enough to voice.
The sound of footsteps in the corridor made my pulse jump against my collar. They were coming downstairs. Coming to find me after my earlier outburst, probably to collect their things and leave as soon as the bridge reopened, running from my asshole accusations.
I should have hidden the dress, should have shoved it back in the drawer with the rest of my secret shame. Instead, I spread it carefully across the desk surface, smoothing imaginary wrinkles with hands that shook with more than just exhaustion.
Whatever happened next, I was done hiding.
The study door opened with a soft creak, and I felt my entire body go rigid as Juniper and Marco stepped into the space. Their eyes found me immediately, then shifted to the dress spread across the desk surface like evidence of some beautiful crime.
Juniper's sharp intake of breath was audible in the sudden quiet. She moved toward where I sat with careful steps, her dark eyes tracking every detail of the garment I'd spent hours perfecting. Marco followed close behind, his expression shifting from curiosity to something approaching awe as he took in the intricate construction.
"That’s beautiful," Juniper said softly, her voice carrying none of the playful confidence I'd grown accustomed to. Instead, she sounded almost uncertain, like she was approaching a wounded animal that might bolt. "We came to apologize. We never meant for you to feel manipulated. We just get excited, and…" She trailed off, her eyes dropping to my hands again.
I said nothing, my throat too tight for words as I watched her fingers hover over the cashmere blend without quite touching. She was wearing her sundress, and it was pretty on her, but all I could see was how she'd look wearing my creation.
"We were inappropriate." Marco’s voice was unusually formal. "The flirting, the suggestions, the way we pushed boundaries without clear consent. That wasn't fair to you, and it upset you, and we're sorry."
Juniper nodded, finally meeting my eyes. "We get carried away sometimes. We’re told we can be... intense. But that's no excuse for making you uncomfortable."
The sincerity in her voice hit me like a physical blow. After my earlier outburst, after the accusations I'd thrown at them, they were here apologizing for behavior that had been driving me insane with want. The irony was almost unbearable.
"You don't understand," I said, my voice coming out rougher than intended. "I wanted it. All of it. That's what terrified me."
Something shifted in the air between us, the careful distance they'd maintained dissolving like sugar in tea. Juniper's eyes darkened with recognition, with possibility, with something that looked like relief.
"We know," she said simply. "And we’re sorry. Not for wanting you, but for pushing when you weren't ready."
She turned her attention back to the dress, her fingers finally making contact with the yarn in a touch so reverent it made my chest tight. "This is beautiful," she whispered, lifting one corner to examine the stitchwork. "The detail, the construction... you made this, just now? That quickly?”
