Page 37 of Better When Shared (Kristin Lance Anthologies #2)

Tristan

I slammed the front door and stalked across the courtyard, trying to shake off the intensity I’d felt inside as I dug around in my Range Rover for what I needed.

Mrs. Donnelly appeared from the direction of the groundskeeper's cottage like she'd been waiting for me. Her weathered face creased with concern, and I quickly shouldered the bag and closed the rear door, turning to face her. She wore the kind of practical clothing that spoke of decades spent managing rural properties—Wellington boots, canvas jacket, graying hair pulled back in a sensible bun.

"Mr. Bancroft,"

she called, raising one hand in greeting.

"Terrible about the storm, sir. Hope you and your guests managed well enough in the old place?"

I forced my face into something approaching professional courtesy, though every muscle in my body felt coiled tight enough to snap.

"We were quite comfortable, thank you. I was just checking the bridge situation."

Her expression turned regretful.

"Aye, that's what I came to tell you. The county council thinks it'll be another day before the water recedes enough for safe passage. The upstream flooding's worse than they initially thought."

Another night. Another full night trapped in this place with two people who made me question every carefully constructed boundary I'd ever built. The knowledge should have filled me with dread, but relief washing over me like warm water. I was happy to be stuck here with them.

"I see. Well, we'll make do."

Mrs. Donnelly nodded, already turning back toward her cottage and picking up another of her baskets and handing it to me.

"We had plenty of leftovers in the fridge. We made plenty of stew, so you might as well take some. And there are more eggs, milk, and butter in the basket if you need them, plus salad, carrots, and some fresh strawberries from Mr. Logan’s garden. Ring if there's anything else you need."

She bustled off, and I watched her retreating figure until she disappeared behind a cluster of ancient oak trees, then stood alone in the courtyard listening to the sound of my breathing. The inn loomed before me, windows reflecting sky and clouds like they were trying to show me possibilities I was too afraid to consider.

The front door felt heavy, the hinges groaning in a way that sounded almost judgmental. The entryway was empty, but I could hear voices drifting from somewhere upstairs. Juniper and Marco's quiet conversation carried on without me. They were probably discussing what a complete disaster I'd just made of everything.

I needed space. Distance. Somewhere I could think without their energy filling every corner of my consciousness like smoke.

The small study off the main corridor had always been my refuge during childhood visits to this place. Dark oak paneling, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves filled with volumes no one had touched in decades, a massive desk that had probably been here since the inn's construction. More importantly, it contained the old secretary desk where I'd hidden my supplies during previous visits.

My hands were shaking slightly as I opened the bag I’d grabbed from my Range Rover, revealing skeins of yarn in colors that had haunted my dreams for months. Cream silk that felt like skin under my fingers. Deep burgundy wool that reminded me of wine and firelight. And underneath, almost hidden beneath the other materials, a skein of yarn the exact shade of Juniper's brown skin—rich and warm and impossibly soft.

I lifted the yarn with reverent fingers, feeling the weight and texture of an expensive cashmere blend that had cost more than most people spent on clothing. For this project, I wanted to use the best yarn I had.

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 dress took 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?”

I nodded.

“Is it for me?”

She must have realized how that sounded, because she laughed, shaking her head.

“Fuck, forget I asked that. I’m not that full of myself. It’s just my favorite color. Such a pretty yellow.”

"Yes,"

I said, the single word feeling like a confession that would change everything.

“It’s for you.”

Marco moved closer to examine the garment.

"It’s beautiful. This isn't just clothing. This is art."

Something cracked in my chest at his genuine appreciation.

"Put it on,"

I said suddenly, the words escaping before rational thought could stop them.

Juniper's chin slowly lifted, dark eyes meeting mine, filled with mischievous delight.

"Here? Now?"

"Yes."

My voice was steadier now, authority bleeding through uncertainty.

"I want to see how it looks. How it moves with your body."

She glanced toward Marco, some silent communication passing between them. Whatever she saw in his expression made her shoulders relax, made her reach for the hem of her sundress.

"You want me to change in front of you,"

she said, and it wasn't a question.

"I do."

The admission felt like jumping off a cliff.

"I want to watch you put it on. Watch you wrap yourself up in something I made."

Her smile broadened, and the dress came off in one fluid motion, revealing bare skin that I wanted to map every inch of. She wasn't wearing a bra; her breasts rounded and beautiful, nipples already peaked despite the warm air. Her panties followed, a scrap of lace that pooled at her feet like an afterthought.

My breathing became shallow and quick as I drank in the sight of her naked body. Every curve I'd fantasized about, every line I'd memorized through stolen glances and fevered imagination, was suddenly real and present and close enough to touch.

She lifted my creation with careful hands, examining the construction one last time before slipping it over her head. The cashmere blend settled against her skin like it had been painted on, conforming to every curve while creating new ones with strategic gathering and tension.

The fit was perfect. Absolutely, impossibly perfect.

The neckline framed her breasts without quite containing them, revealing the upper curves while leaving just enough to the imagination. The skirt skimmed her hips and thighs; the hemline hitting at exactly the right point to make her legs look endless. When she moved, the fabric moved with her like liquid, creating glimpses of skin that made my mouth water.

"How do I look?"

she asked, but the question was unnecessary. She looked like every fantasy I'd ever had given form and substance, like art that had stepped out of its frame to walk among mortals.

My eyes found Marco across the room, seeking permission. He nodded once, a slight movement that contained multitudes.

My control shattered.

I was across the room before conscious thought engaged, my hands finding her waist as I pressed her back against the oak-paneled wall. Her gasp of surprise turned into something else entirely when my mouth found hers, desperate and hungry and completely without finesse.

She tasted like coffee and cinnamon bread, her lips soft and warm as they opened under mine. My hands roamed over cashmere and skin, feeling the way my creation enhanced every curve while providing access to treasures underneath. The strategic openings allowed my palms to find bare skin, to trace patterns on brown flesh that felt like silk under my fingertips.

Her hands fisted in my shirt, pulling me closer, as her tongue swept against mine with the kind of aggressive desire that made my vision blur. When she arched against me, pressing her breasts against my chest, I groaned into her mouth like a man dying of thirst who'd finally found water.

"Fuck,"

she breathed against my lips, her fingers working at the buttons of my shirt with frantic speed.

"I need to see you. Need to touch you."

My shirt fell away under her determined assault, and her hands were immediately on my chest, nails raking against skin that felt hypersensitive to every touch. When her fingers found my belt buckle, when she worked the leather free with movements that spoke of urgent necessity, I was already on the edge of orgasm.

My trousers hit the floor, followed immediately by my boxer briefs, and suddenly I was naked from the waist down with my cock jutting proud and desperate between us. Juniper's eyes went wide as she took in my length, her lips parting in an expression that was pure appreciation.

"Beautiful,"

she whispered, her hand wrapping around my shaft with a firm pressure that made my knees weak.

"Tristan, you’re so fucking beautiful."

The contact was electric, skin on skin after hours of fantasy and frustration. When her thumb swept across the head of my cock, collecting the pre-cum that had been leaking since the moment she'd put on my dress, I had to brace myself against the wall to keep from falling.

Her smile was full of sin as she brought her thumb to her mouth, tasting me with the kind of deliberate sensuality that made my entire nervous system short-circuit.