Page 6 of Shared by my Ex’s Best Friends (Twisted Desires #2)

Chapter six

ETHAN

I tell myself I was just observing. That it was innocent. Casual. That the way my eyes kept tracking Maya as she moved through the party was habit. Curiosity.

But that’s a lie, and I’m not even trying that hard to believe it.

She was magnetic without trying to be. Drifting through clusters of conversation with an ease I’m a little envious of. A glass of wine in one hand, the other gesturing subtly when she spoke. Her voice was low, clear, never rushed. Poised. Polished. She’s clearly done this a million times before.

I watched her tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. I watched her lean in toward Danielle, listening carefully when the bride-to-be seemed worked up over something. And that smile… soft, encouraging, honest.

It made something in me ache.

Because I wanted her to smile like that at me.

She didn’t flirt, not the way I do. Not with clever lines or practiced timing. There was no performance to her. Somehow, she lingered. She left a mark by being in the room.

Now, hours later, I’m alone in my apartment with the windows cracked open to the night and the city humming low beneath me.

The sketchpad rests across my lap, balanced on one knee.

The lo-fi mix I started during dinner still plays in the background, but it might as well be static.

I can barely hear it over the memory of her laugh—sharp and sudden and real. Unpolished. Unscripted.

I close my eyes for a second and it comes back in waves—how her collarbone caught the light, the way her eyes narrowed slightly when someone made a joke she didn’t quite approve of. That little tilt of her head when she was curious. The curve of her lips when she was amused.

My pencil moves without thought.

First a curve, the delicate line of her jaw. Then the slender slope of her neck, the proud, defiant tilt of her chin. I sketch the shape of her eyes, trying to get it right—the way they held so much at once: sharpness and warmth, intelligence and restraint.

I draw her mouth next. Not just the shape, but the moment —the way it looked when she smiled at Danielle like they were the only two people in the world.

I sketch the fall of her dress, the way it clung to her like it had been made for her body.

Like it knew her secrets and was content to keep them.

My strokes get bolder. Less precise. More… visceral.

She’s not even here, and still, it feels like she’s watching me. Or maybe I just want her to be.

Maybe I want her closer.

My hand slows. My breathing shifts. The image on the page is rough but unmistakable—Maya, the way I remember her. The way I feel her.

I stare at the sketch for a bit too long.

My fingers twitch around the pencil. I set it down, slowly, carefully, like I’m afraid any sudden movement will break the spell.

The air in the apartment feels warmer. Closer. It’s pressing in against my skin, making me hyper-aware of every sensation—the brush of fabric against my thighs, the pulse low in my stomach, the faint scent of her perfume still clinging to the sleeve of my shirt from when we hugged hello.

God. That hug.

It had been brief. Polite. Barely anything, really, but her body had fit against mine like a puzzle piece.

I lean back against the couch, the sketchpad sliding to the floor without protest. I close my eyes and let the image of her fill in all the blank space—the way she looked, poised and gorgeous and entirely out of reach.

The soft part of her upper lip. The slight catch in her breath when she laughed too hard.

The way she touched her neck when she was thinking.

I imagine her saying my name. Not casual, not friendly. I imagine it low and breathless, like a confession pulled from between her teeth. Like she wants me.

My hand slips beneath the waistband of my sweatpants without ceremony, without shame. I’m already half-hard, the arousal not sharp or urgent but heavy .

I stroke myself slowly at first. Not chasing anything. Just feeling . Letting the ache settle into something familiar. My mind keeps painting her—Maya, in that dress, walking toward me across the patio.

The image in my mind shifts and she’s here with me in my apartment, slipping it off her shoulders in my imagination, that quiet confidence never leaving her eyes.

I bite my lip. My hips lift slightly off the couch as I stroke myself harder.

She’s naked in front of me, her soft breasts bare, her nipples pink and eager for my mouth. I reach out for her, running my hands up her sides, savoring the softness of her skin. Her eyes close and she lets out a soft moan.

“Ethan,” she breathes. “Don’t stop.”

I pull her down so that she’s straddling my lap and she glides her hand down to wrap around my length. My fist tightens and I grunt as I stroke and stroke and pleasure pulses through me.

God, I can’t help it—my body chasing the feeling of hers. My hand tightens. My breathing goes shallow. I’m not trying to stretch this out. I need release. Closure. Something.

Fantasy Maya watches me as she runs her hand up and down my shaft, biting that full lip of hers, and I can’t stop myself. I cup the back of her head and pull her in for a deep, slow kiss. Our tongues tangle and she presses herself against me, her breasts squishing against my chest.

It feels so goddamn good, but I can already tell it’s not going to be enough.

I want her with me for real. Want her hands on me, her lips pressed against mine. The fantasy is good, but it’s not enough. It’ll never be enough.

The only thing that could truly satisfy me is Maya—flesh and blood, warm and eager.

When I come, it’s sharp and quiet and lonely.

No relief. Just the silence afterward. The too-still air. The smear of regret lingering like fingerprints across my chest.

I stare up at the ceiling, heart thudding, and whisper, “Get out of my head.”

But I know she won’t. Not tonight.

Not any time soon.

***

The next morning is chaos—and not the charming, we-forgot-the-orange-juice kind of chaos. This is full-on, Type-A meltdown, runaway-train-with-rosé-in-hand chaos.

The grand ballroom of the hotel, usually pristine with soft cream walls and sparkling crystal chandeliers, looks like it’s been hit by a confetti tornado.

A pastel macaron tower lies in ruins on the dessert table, crushed and smeared across the silver trays.

A faint sticky scent of almond and sugar hangs in the air.

In the corner, someone’s quietly crying, a muffled sob that gets lost beneath the chatter and clinking glassware. Perched beside a gilded stand, the harpist clutches her instrument nervously.

“The energy here is… very hostile,” she murmurs to no one in particular, her fingers twitching as if she might bolt any second.

Danielle is right in the eye of the storm, standing center stage like a deer caught in headlights.

She’s gripping her phone so tightly her knuckles shine white, the screen’s glow illuminating her pale face.

A furious flush creeps up her neck, painting her cheeks a bright pink.

Her eyes dart around, blinking rapidly, as if she’s debating whether to scream or faint.

Across the room, Simone—or Celine? Something vaguely French and unmistakably furious—is throwing the kind of tantrum only wedding planners know how to pull off.

“I cannot work like this!” she shrieks, voice slicing through the chaos like a whip crack. With dramatic flair, she hurls her clipboard onto the nearest table, knocking over a champagne flute that shatters into sparkling shards. “You ask for miracles and then ignore the plan! I am done! Fini! ”

Without waiting for a response, she storms out, tossing her hair with such theatrical precision it could’ve been choreographed for a soap opera.

Danielle lets out a choked noise somewhere between a laugh and a sob. “I’m going to die,” she whispers, voice cracking. “I’m literally going to die in this linen robe. How can I pull this wedding together without a planner?”

Before I can even move, before anyone can, she steps forward.

Maya.

Her heels click on the marble, and the whole room seems to hold its breath.

“No one panic,” she says evenly, loud enough to cut through the white noise. “We’re not going to let this little setback get in our way.”

People pause. Heads turn.

“Danielle,” Maya continues, walking straight to her and gently prying the phone from her clenched fingers.

“You’re the bride. You’re not supposed to solve this.

Sit down, drink your mimosa, and try to remember that this is still your day.

I can take over as coordinator. I’ve worked enough weddings that I know how things run. ”

Danielle blinks at her, dazed, and then obeys like she’s been hypnotized.Maya’s already moving.

Clipboard in hand, eyes scanning the scribbled notes and half-crossed checklists like they’re battle plans.

She pulls a pen from behind her ear— how long has she been wearing that?

—and starts issuing calm, precise orders.

“We’re going to need extra hands redoing the seating cards. The florist should be here by ten, and I’ll call them directly. Liam—can you double-check the audio setup for the ceremony space?”

He nods, already pulling out his phone.

“Jake, see if you can charm the harpist back. Use your Disney prince face.”

“Which one?” Jake asks, grinning. “There’s a lot in the vault.”

“Just don’t flirt her into quitting again,” she mutters, and he salutes with mock-seriousness before striding off.

I step in before I can talk myself out of it. “What can I do to help?”

Maya looks up. Really looks. Her eyes meet mine and there’s a moment—brief, quiet, electric. But there’s something behind that calm, a flicker of exhaustion, or maybe determination laced with fear.

She’s holding it together for everyone else, but I can tell—barely.

And still, she doesn’t falter. Her expression softens, like I surprised her. Like she forgot I was there and then remembered all at once.

“Can you jump in on the seating?” she asks.

“Can do,” I nod.

I’ll take on the seating chart – hell, I’d go hunting for Big Foot if she asked me to.

Truth be told, even if there wasn’t a wedding on the brink of disaster, I’d follow her anywhere.