Page 28 of Better When Shared (Kristin Lance Anthologies #2)
Marco
“You know I love that top, but after last night’s run-in, should you really be wearing it?”
I asked Juniper as she spread out her yoga mat the next morning.
She chuckled, tilting her head as if she were remembering the expression on Tristan Bancroft’s face when he saw us wearing the evidence of his secret hobby.
“He doesn’t seem like the type to crochet,”
Juniper said.
I replayed the man’s shocked expression from the night before. He’d been furious—and rightfully so—but underneath that, there’d been something else. Hunger.
“Do you think he wants them back? We could wash them or something.”
Tristan had said something about the fabric being intimate with my balls that made me giggle.
“He said he didn’t. And I love this shirt, but I still feel terrible. We had no idea he didn’t want to sell them.”
The intricate, stunning design, the perfect structure, and the attention to detail made it more art than craft, even though he’d said he only did it for therapy—whatever that meant. And instead of being proud of it, he wanted to hide it from the world. All the drama made it the sort of secret that left me desperate to learn more.
“If you want, we can track him down and force him to accept our apology, then force him to show us his secret craft closet so we can get more?”
She burst out laughing; the sound echoing around the courtyard. I’d reserved one of the hotel’s small private courtyards for our morning yoga session, and it was lovely. It was like a secret garden tucked away from the Bancroft’s pristine marble halls. Warm honey-colored stone tiles caught the early sunlight, while climbing jasmine and ancient wisteria created living walls that promised complete privacy.
And Juniper was even more breathtaking than the space.
Even now, I was stunned by the intricacy of Tristan’s crochet creation. The delicate yarn work clung to her curves like a lover’s touch. The pattern of knots and yarn traced along her ribs and sternum, leaving tantalizing glimpses of smooth brown skin visible beneath. Her curls caught the morning light, creating a halo effect around her face as she bent to adjust her mat.
“Come on,”
Juniper said, moving into our opening pose.
“Enough about the sexy CEO.”
“Hey! I was thinking about my sexy wife.”
Though now that she mentioned it…
“Focus, Marco. Let’s work through some sun salutations while the weather is nice. No distractions. And no telling me about the 1840s stonework or whatever.”
I hadn’t even noticed the stonework. What was wrong with me? I tried to focus on my breathing, on the familiar rhythm of moving through the sequence we’d done more times than I could count, but every time Juniper flowed into a new position, the crochet top shifted and stretched in ways that made my mouth go dry.
Why hadn’t she worn a t-shirt like she usually did? Was she trying to tempt me?
The delicate yarn work emphasized rather than concealed—when she raised her arms overhead, the yarn shifted, letting me see the underside of her breasts. When she folded forward, the fabric pulled taut across her back, highlighting the graceful line of her spine.
“Downward dog,”
she murmured, moving into the pose with deliberate sensuality. The crochet top shifted, and her breasts hung heavy against the delicate yarn, nipples almost visible through holes in the pattern.
“It’s very difficult to focus when you look so gorgeous,”
I groaned, trying to maintain my pose while enjoying her beauty.
“Someone who truly appreciates the female form designed this top.”
The thought of Tristan designing this piece, carefully crafting each strategic opening, each curve-hugging line, sent another jolt of arousal through me. I could picture those large hands working the yarn, calculating how the fabric would drape over a woman’s body.
Over Juniper’s body.
She arched her back in her pose, and the crochet top pulled tight across her chest.
“It makes me wonder about his inner world. What drives him to make such beautiful things, but never show them to anyone?”
“Maybe it doesn’t match his corporate image?”
I speculated.
“Mm. But beneath the businessman facade, he’s an artist. All that controlled intensity just begging to be unraveled.”
She moved into a seated twist, the crochet top shifting to reveal more than it should have.
“And I saw the way you looked at him.”
“I don’t know what you mean,”
I said, raising my eyebrows at her.
Juniper’s smile was understanding and a little wicked.
“Liar. You think he’s handsome.”
“Anyone with eyes would think he’s handsome.”
I shot back, making her giggle.
“But yes, he’s sexy as hell.”
The sharp sound of footsteps on stone cut through our intimate bubble. We both turned toward the courtyard entrance to see who was approaching, and my breath caught. Had we summoned him somehow?
Tristan Bancroft stood in the archway like an avenging angel in Armani. His dark blonde hair was more disheveled than it had been when we’d last seen him, as if he’d been running his hands through it.
His jaw was set in a hard line that somehow made him even more devastatingly attractive. Those piercing green eyes locked onto Juniper’s chest where his crochet creation clung to her curves, and I watched his controlled features crack.
Tristan’s fury was magnificent to watch. Those sharp green eyes darted around, as if he couldn’t decide where to look—Juniper’s face, the crochet top that clung to her curves, or anywhere else that might offer him some semblance of composure. His pupils dilated, his hands clenched into fists at his sides, like he was fighting the urge to reach out and touch.
The realization that I wanted to see him give in to that urge sent heat spiking through my veins.
He cleared his throat and shook himself.
“Caleb is setting up in the meeting room on the second floor.”
“You made a special trip out here just to tell us that?”
Juniper asked.
Tristan adjusted his tie.
“I was passing by.”
Juniper stood and stepped closer to him, all predatory grace.
“You know,”
she said, running her fingertips along the edge of the crochet top, fiddling with the knots there.
“I’m so sorry that we ended up with your work without your consent. I would never have purchased it if I’d known it would upset you. But it is exquisite.”
Tristan stilled, like a deer caught in headlights—if deer wore thousand-dollar suits and looked like they could bench press a car.
“It wasn’t for sale.”
“It’s too bad. There’s a market for pieces like this. The craftsmanship is incredible, the tension is perfect,”
she continued, her voice taking on that husky quality that usually preceded mind-blowing sex.
“You’ve placed every stitch where it needs to be for maximum impact. You understand how fabric should move with a woman’s body.”
Color flooded Tristan’s sharp cheekbones. The poor bastard was fighting a losing battle against his own desire, and it was the hottest thing I’d seen in years. There was something satisfying about watching this man—who probably controlled every aspect of his ordered life—struggle against something as base and human as lust.
“Doesn’t it fit me perfectly?”
Juniper asked, her fingers still tracing the yarn work. My mouth went dry. Each movement drew attention to how the crochet clung to her curves, how it revealed just enough skin to be devastating.
Tristan’s breathing was growing less steady by the minute.
“I… that’s not…you shouldn’t have…”
“You should be proud of your work,”
she interrupted, and there was genuine admiration in her voice.
“This is art. Lovely, sensual art that makes the wearer feel incredible.”
Something shifted in Tristan’s expression then, surprise flickering through the desire and anger. Like no one had ever called his secret craft “art”
before. Maybe he’d been hiding this part of himself for so long that hearing it acknowledged was overwhelming.
I studied the sharp line of his jaw, the way his broad shoulders filled out his tailored jacket. I imagined those hands on skin instead of yarn, creating an entirely different tension.
Watching another man desire my wife should have been disturbing. Instead, it felt like the most natural thing in the world. Like Juniper and I were two parts of the same hunger, drawn to the same sexy, untouchable man.
“This conversation is inappropriate,”
Tristan said, but his voice had gone rough around the edges. His eyes were still fixed on the crochet top, on the way it framed Juniper’s breasts, and I could see the outline of his cock pressing against his expensive slacks, as if the sight of her alone was making him hard.
Juniper’s smile was pure sin.
“Is it? I’m only appreciating craftsmanship.”
“You’re...”
Tristan swallowed hard, his careful composure cracking further.
“This is not how these things are supposed to work. It’s against the rules.”
“What rules?” I asked.
He shot me an indecipherable look.
“I’m going to have words with Gemma about her use of conference rooms,”
he said, turning stiffly away from us.
“You may keep the clothing, but please make sure not to take what does not belong to you in the future.”
“Tristan,”
Juniper called after him, and something in her voice made him pause without turning around.
“Thank you. For making something so beautiful. I’ll cherish it, knowing I’m one of the few people who has a chance to wear the things you create.”
His shoulders went rigid, and for a moment I hoped he would turn back and say something that would crack this careful dance wide open. Instead, he stalked away like a man fleeing a burning building, his expensive shoes loud against the stone tiles.
“Oh my god,”
Juniper gasped, breaking the silence.
“Why are uptight guys so fucking hot?”
We collapsed onto our yoga mats in a fit of helpless laughter, and I poked her.
“Because you want to unwind them, right?”
“We,”
she corrected, reaching over to thread her fingers through mine.
“We both want to unwind him. I saw how you were looking at him, Marco. It’s time to bring back that old threesome fantasy we used to talk about.”
I settled beside her on the warm stone, thinking about the late-night horny talks we’d had back in college, where I’d admitted all my truths to her. “Yeah,”
I admitted finally.
“It’s time.”