Chapter 20
Tristan
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.
"Yes," she says, the single word hanging in the air between us, changing everything.
My heart thunders against my ribs as Julian's eyes find mine over his shoulder, a silent question in them. I give an almost imperceptible nod.
Julian doesn't hesitate. Her consent is all he needs to bridge the space between them. His hand slides to cup the back of her neck, fingers threading through her blonde hair as he leans in. I can’t look away from the sight of Julian's mouth meeting hers, gentle at first, then deeper as she responds, her hand coming up to rest against his chest.
I've seen Julian with countless women over the years. I've witnessed his charm in action, watched him seduce with practiced ease. But this is different. There's a tenderness in the way he touches Camille. He kisses her like she's precious, and the intimacy of it feels almost intrusive to watch.
Almost.
Julian breaks the kiss to glance over at me, his eyes dark with desire but questioning.
He's putting on a show, yes, but he's also inviting me in, making sure I'm still on board with whatever this is becoming.
When he turns back to Camille, his kisses grow more insistent.
He shifts his body, angling them so I can see the flush spreading across her cheeks, the way her lips part for him.
I set my beer bottle aside on a nearby table, not trusting myself to keep hold of it. The room feels ten degrees warmer than it did a few minutes ago.
Julian's hand slides down Camille's side, skimming over her hip to her thigh. His thumb traces small circles there, and she makes a soft sound against his mouth that shoots straight to my groin. I swallow hard.
She's melting under Julian's touch, and he's watching me watch them, a silent invitation in his eyes.
I take a step forward, drawn by something I can't fight anymore. Don't want to fight.
But then Camille pulls back from Julian, her hand pressing firmly against his chest. "Wait," she says, breathless. "Wait, I—" She looks past him to me, her blue eyes wide and serious. "Before this goes any further, there's something Tristan needs to know."
Julian sits back slightly, giving her space but keeping a hand on her knee.
"You should sit," she tells me, gesturing to the armchair adjacent to the couch.
I sink into it, leaning forward slightly. "What is it?"
She chews her bottom lip, a nervous habit I've noticed before. Her eyes dart to Julian, who gives her an encouraging nod.
"I'm pregnant," she finally says, her voice steady despite the vulnerability in her eyes. "And before we... before anything happens between us, you need to know that. It wouldn't be fair to let you go into this blindly."
I keep my expression neutral, watching her gather her courage.
"It's not Julian's," she continues, the words coming faster now. "It's... well, it's complicated. But I understand if that changes things for you. If you don't want—"
"I figured as much," I interrupt gently. "And it doesn't matter to me."
Her eyes widen, lips parting in surprise. "You knew?"
I shrug, the gesture deliberately casual to ease the tension I see in her shoulders.
"I put two and two together. The way Julian's been hovering around you like a mother hen.
The way you excused yourself during our last meeting to be sick in the bathroom.
" I offer a small smile. "I'm observant, Camille. "
"And you're really okay with it?" she asks, searching my face for any sign of hesitation or disgust.
"I said it doesn't matter to me, and I meant it." I hold her gaze, willing her to believe me. "Your pregnancy doesn't define you. It's part of your life right now, yes, but it's not all you are."
Something shifts in her expression—relief, yes, but something else too. A softening around her eyes, as if I've just lifted a weight she's been carrying.
"Thank you," she whispers, and there's a rawness in those two words that makes me want to pull her into my arms.
Julian's hand squeezes her knee gently but his eyes are on me.
"So where does this leave us?" Camille asks, looking between Julian and me. "The three of us, I mean. Is this just..." She trails off, unable to find the right words.
"It's whatever we want it to be," Julian answers, his usual playfulness tempered by sincerity. "Whatever feels right."
I nod in agreement. "No pressure. No expectations. We figure it out together."
Camille's eyes meet mine, and I see the question there, the need for reassurance that this isn't just about Julian—that I want this too, want her.
I move from the chair to the couch, sitting on her other side so she's between us. My hand finds hers, our fingers intertwining. "I want this," I tell her, my voice low. "I want you. The rest—" I glance at Julian, at our hands, at her still-flat stomach, "—we'll just see where it goes."
The smile that breaks across her face is like sunrise, bright and full of promise. She squeezes my hand, then reaches for Julian's with her free one, creating a closed circuit between the three of us.
"Okay," she says, and there's a new confidence in her voice I haven't heard before. "Together, then."
Julian's eyes meet mine over her head, and I see my own mix of desire and hope reflected there. Whatever this is—this strange, unexpected connection between the three of us—it feels right in a way I never could have anticipated. Complicated, yes. Unconventional, absolutely. But right.
And for now, that's enough.