Page 13 of Better When Shared (Kristin Lance Anthologies #2)

Julian

The email notification pinged just as I closed my last work ticket for the day. When I saw the name in my inbox, my hands froze over the keyboard. I hadn’t heard from him in—what, six years? Seven?

Seeing his name conjured specific memories of a wild time in my life that I tried not to think of much now that I was married and settled down. My cock twitched behind my zipper, the predictable response to a highlight reel I’d replayed more times than I cared to admit. Because I loved my wife, and this was how things went. You found a deep, lasting, meaningful connection, and the wild sex and threesomes ended.

I glanced toward our bedroom door, making sure Nisha wasn’t about to walk in before I clicked open the message. Then I told myself I was being an idiot. What would be in an email that she couldn’t see? The email was short and simple.

Hey! Been too long. How are you? Touching base because I’m working for a consulting firm and our newest client is a boutique hotel in Portland. Last I heard, you were living there. Are you still in the area? I have a few trips scheduled and would love to catch up if you have time.

Brief. Professional. Nothing to suggest anything about what had happened the last time we’d hung out, after our college graduation.

I shifted in my chair, adjusting myself as the familiar pressure built. Fuck. Seven years hadn’t dulled those memories one bit.

My screen dimmed from inactivity, yanking me back to our home office. My wedding band caught the late afternoon light streaming through our floor-to-ceiling windows. The weight of it grounded me, reminded me that those college exploits belonged to a different Julian.

And yet.

I clicked back to his email, reading it again. Something about seeing his name had unlocked a door I’d been nudging for months, maybe years. A thought I’d been too chickenshit to voice aloud to my wife.

I heard Nisha’s footsteps in the hallway, the soft padding that meant she was barefoot, and if I was lucky, wearing those yoga pants that hugged her ass like a second skin. My cock, already semi-hard from the memories, throbbed against the seam of my boxers.

“Hey babe,”

she said, leaning against the doorframe.

“Finished with work?”

She was dressed for her afternoon class, in yoga pants and one of those tank tops that’s also a sports bra. Her black hair was piled in a messy bun, her light brown skin flushed and glowing. The sight of her never failed to knock me sideways, even after three years of marriage.

“Just wrapping up,”

I managed, clicking away from the email.

“You heading to yoga?”

“In about an hour.”

She crossed to my chair, spinning it away from the desk to straddle my lap.

“Plenty of time for... other activities.”

Her lips found my neck, teeth grazing my pulse point, and I groaned. Her body pressed against mine, warm and familiar, but the ghost of another presence lingered in my mind—watching us, joining us.

“Nisha,”

I breathed, my hands finding her hips, fingers digging into the soft fabric of her pants.

“I’ve been thinking about something.”

She hummed against my skin, grinding her hips down onto my erection.

“Must be something good,”

she teased, finding the outline of my cock through my slacks.

“You’re already hard.”

I caught her wrists, pulling back to look at her face. Her brown eyes darkened with desire, lips parted. God, she was fucking gorgeous. The thought of watching another man touch her, fuck her while I observed every reaction, every gasp...

“I was just thinking.”

“About?”

I cleared my throat, trying to remember the pitch I’d rehearsed a half dozen times. Something sexy that would inspire her to share my fantasy.

“What if we, er, had—I don’t know—hall passes?”

Smooth, Julian, real smooth.

She blinked down at me for a long second, then laughed.

“What, like celebrity fuck options? If Ryan Reynolds knocks on our door, I get a free ride?”

I swallowed hard. This wasn’t coming out right.

“No, not celebrities. Real people.”

Her lips tilted into a teasing smile.

“Are celebrities not real people? Are they cyborgs? Lizard men?”

The jokes weren’t helping.

“Babe, I’m serious. I was thinking about mixing things up. Like, what if we each got to sleep with someone else? Just once.”

Nisha pulled back a little, studying my face.

“Where’s this coming from?”

Her tone stayed light, but I caught the flicker of confusion in her eyes.

“Just—”

I struggled, already backpedaling.

“Just a thought experiment.”

She smirked, rolling her hips again, making me hiss as her heat pressed against my aching cock.

“Let me guess. That new barista at Stumptown who always gives you extra foam?”

“What? No,”

I laughed, grateful for the break in tension.

“No?”

She raised an eyebrow.

“Hmm. Your department’s new UX designer then? The one with the tattoo sleeve you wouldn’t shut up about?”

I tugged her closer, nipping at her lower lip.

“Not interested.”

I closed my eyes, imagining her writhing under another man’s touch.

“Then who’s got you thinking about hall passes?”

She tilted her head, curiosity sparking in her eyes.

“You must have someone in mind.”

“It’s not about someone specific,”

I lied, my thoughts flitting to the email waiting in my inbox.

“It’s about... the experience.”

Nisha shifted in my lap, studying me now with more focus, less play.

“Julian Brooks-Sharma, are you proposing we swing? Open the marriage?”

Her voice held more genuine interest than outrage, which made my cock twitch again.

“No, not swing,”

I said.

“Not an open relationship. Just—crap, I don’t know—a brief adventure.”

Her lips curved into a slow smile.

“An adventure,”

she repeated.

“With clothes off.”

“A last fling,”

I agreed, my hands sliding under her shirt to trace the curve of her waist.

“Before we get all settled and boring.”

She smacked my chest.

“We are not boring. We’re awesome! And very cool.”

“Not yet.”

I might have been pushing her buttons. Nisha’s greatest fear was becoming her parents—comfortable, predictable, devoid of passion.

“But you know how it goes. First the mortgage, then kids, and soon enough you’ve got scheduled sex on Wednesdays and Saturdays...”

Her eyes narrowed.

“Scheduled sex? That’s not happening.”

“Not yet,”

I teased again, hands roaming higher, finding the undersides of her breasts.

“But give it time...”

She squirmed as my thumbs brushed her nipples through her sports bra.

“Screw you,”

she gasped, but there was no heat in it.

“And fuck your hall pass idea.”

I leaned forward, catching her earlobe between my teeth.

“Fucking is sort of the point.”

Nisha grabbed my face between her hands, forcing me to look at her.

“You’re serious about this? You want me to fuck someone else?”

My cock strained against my zipper at her direct language. “I—”

I hesitated, confessing the full truth before catching myself, still hesitant to share the true fantasy.

“I think it could be hot.”

“And you’d... what? Do the same?”

I swallowed. This was the tricky part, because that wasn’t what my fantasy was about.

“Maybe. If I find the right partner. And if you approve.”

She studied me for a long moment, and I wondered if she could read the truth on my face—that my fantasy wasn’t about me sticking my dick in someone else. It was about watching her come apart under someone else’s touch, then reclaiming her as mine.

“You know what?”

she said, sliding off my lap.

“Fuck it. Sure.”

I blinked, startled by her sudden agreement. “Really?”

“Yeah.”

She shrugged, a mischievous glint in her eye.

“There’s this new guy in my yoga class. Fucking gorgeous body, British accent, a little quiet.”

My mouth went dry. I hadn’t expected her to have someone already in mind.

“He’s got this way of moving,”

she continued, stretching her arms above her head so her shirt rode up, exposing a strip of golden-brown skin.

“You can tell he’d be amazing in bed.”

“Yeah?”

My voice came out rough, strangled.

“Mmm-hmm. Total eye candy. All the women stare when he does downward dog.”

She cocked her head.

“Maybe I’ll invite him for drinks after class.”

I couldn’t tell if she was serious or trying to get a rise out of me. Either way, my body had its own opinion on the matter. The mental image of Nisha beneath some nameless yoga god was making my blood rush south so fast I felt lightheaded.

“You should. Or just fuck him in the locker room.”

Nisha’s eyebrows shot up.

“You’d be okay with that?”

“If it’s what you want.”

I was trying to keep the eagerness from my voice, but it was probably coming through.

“Like you said—an adventure.”

She studied me, narrowing her eyes, but didn’t share what she was thinking. Something shifted in her expression—surprise, then calculation, then a slow smile that made my stomach flip.

“Interesting,”

she murmured, checking her watch.

“I should get ready for class.”

“Have fun!”

She gathered her yoga bag and keys from her desk, glancing back at me with an unreadable expression.

“So we’re doing this hall pass thing?”

“If you want to,”

I said, keeping my voice even despite the pounding of my heart.

Nisha nodded.

“Okay then. I’ll... keep an eye out for opportunities. Do we have rules? Do I have to tell you in advance, or can I act on impulse?”

“I like the idea of you just going for it. Tell me after. Like a sexy story time,”

I said, cheeks hot.

“What about you?”

“I think I’d like to know in advance. To prepare myself. Or… back out.”

She let out a soft, forced laugh, almost like a release of tension.

“Could we have veto power?”

“Veto power works for me.”

With that, she leaned in for a quick kiss that deepened when I tangled my fingers in her hair, pulling her closer. When we broke apart, her pupils were dilated, breathing faster.

“Don’t start something you can’t finish,”

she warned, though her voice had gone husky.

“I’ve got yoga in forty minutes.”

“Rain check,”

I promised, letting my hand trail down her arm.

She grinned, shouldering her bag.

“Better be ready when I get home.”

The door closed behind her, and I collapsed back in my chair, adjusting my erection. I could picture it: Nisha in those tight yoga pants, bending and stretching next to some faceless Adonis with bulging biceps and a sexy accent. Would she flirt with him? Would she tell him about our arrangement?

Would she bring him home to me?

“Fuck,”

I whispered to the empty room, my hand sliding down to press against my cock through my pants. I was way over my head, but I couldn’t bring myself to care.