Istep into Julian's apartment without knocking, a habit I've fallen into over the years. The place is quiet, bathed in late afternoon light that spills through the windows and across the hardwood floors. And there she is—Camille—curled up on Julian's leather couch, one hand tucked under her cheek, her blonde hair splayed across a throw pillow. I freeze, not expecting to find her here.
She looks impossibly small, her features softened, that perpetual worry line between her brows smoothed away. Her lips are slightly parted, her chest rising and falling in the gentle rhythm of deep sleep. A throw blankets covers her lower half, but it's slipped down, revealing the curve of her hip.
I should look away. I don't.
"Been standing there a while, mate." Julian's voice, low and amused, comes from behind me. I didn't hear him approach—too caught up in watching her.
"Just got here," I lie, turning to find him leaning against the doorframe to the kitchen, two beers in hand. He extends one to me, a knowing smirk playing at the corners of his mouth.
"Sure." He doesn't believe me for a second. "Poor girl’s been working herself to the bone."
I accept the beer, grateful for something to do with my hands. Taking a long pull from the bottle, my eyes drift back to Camille. Something about seeing her like this—vulnerable, unguarded—stirs a protective instinct I didn't know I possessed. It's more than that, though. It's a wanting so visceral it catches me off guard.
Julian studies me over the rim of his beer bottle, his eyes too perceptive. "If you want her, man, just admit it."
The question blindsides me. "What are you talking about? Why would you say that?"
But even as I ask, I feel my body responding to the thought—a rush of heat, my cock stirring as unbidden images flash through my mind: Camille beneath me, her lips parted in pleasure, her hands gripping my shoulders.
Julian's smile widens, the bastard reading me like an open book. "Because I know that look. I've worn it myself enough times." He glances at Camille, his expression softening. "And because I've seen the way she looks at you too, when she thinks no one's watching."
"She's with you," I point out, my voice tight.
"We could share her, you know."
My beer stills halfway to my lips. "What?"
"With her consent, of course," he adds quickly, voice dropping to a whisper. "We could try it, see what happens."
A dozen responses tangle on my tongue, but what comes out is, "And you'd be okay with that?"
Julian shrugs, but there's nothing casual about it. "I'm not looking to own her. I just want her to be happy, to be taken care of." His eyes meet mine, unflinching. "Don't you?"
And that's the crux of it—the thing I've been avoiding admitting to myself. I do want her to be happy. I want to be the one making her happy. The realization should shock me more than it does.
"It's not that simple," I whisper, glancing back at Camille. "There's history?—"
"There always is." Julian steps closer, his voice barely audible. "But sometimes the complicated things are worth figuring out. And I think she might be worth it. For both of us."
The thought of sharing her—of watching Julian touch her while knowing I'd get my turn, of both of us focused entirely on her pleasure—sends a powerful jolt of desire through me.
"You're serious," I murmur, studying his face for any sign of hesitation.
"Dead serious." He doesn't blink. "I care about her. And you're my best friend. If this is something that could work?—"
A soft rustle from the couch interrupts him. Both our heads turn to find Camille's eyes open, watching us with an unreadable expression. How long has she been awake? How much has she heard?
The color rising in her cheeks answers that question.
"Shit," I mutter, running a hand over my face. "Camille?—"
But Julian is already moving toward her, sitting on the edge of the couch by her hip. His hand reaches out to brush a strand of hair from her face.
"Is that what you want?" he asks her. "To be shared? To be taken care of?"
My breath catches. I should step in, should save her from having to answer such an impossible question. But I find myself frozen, waiting, hoping.
Camille's eyes flick from Julian to me, then back again. She wets her lips, and I track the movement of her tongue.
