Our Three-Way Marriage
Description
Grace Miller has spent eighteen months trying to give her husband the family he dreams of. Eighteen months of negative tests and growing doubt that something is wrong with her. Then a car accident changes everything. Ryan survives, but the diagnosis destroys him: he's infertile. He withdraws completely-won't touch Grace, won't look at her, won't let her in. The man she married disappears, leaving behind a stranger who flinches at her touch. Desperate and broken, Ryan makes an unthinkable offer. He wants his best friend Cole to give Grace what he no longer can-physical intimacy, desire, connection. A polyamorous arrangement between the three of them-because Ryan would rather share his wife than watch her wither from loneliness. Cole has wanted Grace since the day they met. He's spent years burying that desire, telling himself she was off-limits. Now his best friend is handing him permission. But permission to touch isn't permission to feel. What begins as an arrangement to save a marriage becomes something none of them expected. And when the lines between duty and desire blur beyond recognition, all three must face a devastating truth: some contracts can't contain the human heart.
Chapter 1
Feb 6, 2026
The bathroom tile bites into my thighs through thin pajama shorts as I sit here, frozen for what feels like hours but has probably only been three or four minutes.
The pregnancy test lies face-down in my palm, its weight both insignificant and crushing.
Ryan's voice drifts through the door, warm and easy in a way I haven't heard in months, painting pictures of a future that might never exist.
"I've been thinking about names," he says, his words carrying the kind of hope that makes my chest ache. "For a boy. Something strong. Classic. Maybe after my grandfather—Thomas. Tommy for short when he's little."
I press my thumb against the plastic edge of the test, delaying the inevitable moment when I'll have to flip it and face another potential disappointment.
"We'll get him one of those mini baseball bats. Start him young, you know? Batting practice in the backyard every Sunday."
"You'll be out there in your coaching shorts," I say, forcing lightness into my voice that I don't feel. "Living your Little League dreams."
Ryan laughs, and the sound wraps around me like a memory of happier times. "Damn right I will. I'll teach him to throw a curveball before middle school."
My chest aches as he continues building this elaborate fantasy, already constructing a complete life for someone who doesn't exist yet.
"What about his sixteenth birthday?"
"A car. Nothing fancy—just something reliable. Maybe a used Honda. Teach him that everything worth having takes work."
I finally turn the test over, and the single line stares back at me like an accusation.
Negative. Again.
The word settles into my bones like cold water. Eighteen months of trying, of ovulation kits and elevated hips and holding my breath every time my period was late.
Eighteen months of wondering if something's wrong with me, if I'm the reason Ryan doesn't have the son he dreams about.
What if it's me? What if I'm the broken one, the defective piece in our perfectly planned future?
I stand slowly, and my reflection stares back from the mirror—tired eyes, messy ponytail, a woman slowly disappearing into her own disappointment and self-doubt.
When I open the door, Ryan's smile falters the moment he sees my face, the hope draining from his eyes. But he recovers fast, crossing the space between us in two quick steps.
"Negative?" he asks quietly, and when I nod, unable to make my voice work, his arms wrap around me solid and warm.
His lips find my neck, pressing soft kisses against my pulse as if he can kiss away the disappointment.
"Hey," he murmurs against my skin. "It's okay. We'll keep trying."
"Ryan..."
"I mean it." He pulls back to look at me, his hands cupping my face with gentle determination. "This doesn't change anything. It's just a matter of time, Grace."
"What if it's not?" The words slip out before I can stop them, carrying all the weight of my secret fears. "What if something's wrong with me? What if I'm the problem?"
"The doctors say it can take time for some couples," His thumbs stroke my cheekbones, but I hear the uncertainty beneath his reassurance. "We're both healthy. We're doing everything right."
But what if we're not? What if I'm not? The thought gnaws at me constantly, a persistent voice whispering that all those negative tests are my fault, that I'm letting him down month after month with my defective body.
"I want this. I want you. Let me show you." His hands slide to my waist, already guiding me backward toward the bed with practiced familiarity.
He lays me down gently, and I let him because this is what he needs, what we both need maybe—the comfort of routine, the illusion that if we just keep trying, everything will work out.
Missionary. Always missionary, as Ryan settles between my thighs and I feel him hard against me, eager and wanting in a way that has to mean something.
"You're so beautiful," he whispers, pushing inside with a low groan that vibrates through both of us.
I arch into him, wrapping my legs around him and matching his steady, purposeful rhythm—those efficient strokes that hit the same spots every time.
I moan softly beneath him because that's what he expects, what he needs to hear, even as part of me drifts somewhere else entirely.
I want to ask for more—want his hands rougher and his pace less predictable, want him to grip my hips hard enough to bruise, to flip me over and take me like he can't help himself.
But Ryan has never wanted to experiment, satisfied with what works, and I swallowed that desire years ago, buried it so deep I almost forgot it existed. Almost.
"You feel so good," I whisper instead, giving him what he needs to hear as his breath quickens and his movements sharpen.
He finishes with a groan, spilling inside me and staying there for a moment with his forehead pressed to mine before rolling off. The ceiling stares back at me, white and blank and endless as reality settles back in.
"It'll work eventually," Ryan says, catching his breath beside me.
I nod without speaking because our intimacy has become arithmetic—ovulation windows and temperature charts and quiet prayers whispered into pillows.
Not passion or lust, but duty dressed in desire's clothing.
I wanted motherhood too, ached for it with a desperation that surprised me. But month after month delivers nothing but single lines and silent grief, and now the added weight of wondering if I'm the cause of it all.
Ryan props himself on one elbow, facing me with eyes bright again, already moving past the disappointment.
"I've been thinking about the house," he says, launching into another elaborate plan. "We should look at something bigger. Three bedrooms at least. Maybe four, if we want room to grow."
"That's a lot of space for two people."
"We won't be two people forever." He grins with unwavering certainty. "You know the plan. Two kids by thirty-five. Maybe three if we're lucky."
"The plan," I echo, tasting the bitterness of it.
He continues describing his perfect future—big backyard for the inevitable dog, maybe a pool when the kids are older, Sunday dinners with the whole family while arguments about football echo through the house.
The Mitchell dynasty, he calls it, and I smile because he expects me to, because that's what I do.
"Five years from now, you'll look back at this moment and laugh," he says, pulling me closer and resting his hand on my stomach—flat, empty, possibly defective.
I close my eyes and try to see what he sees, but all I see is eighteen negative tests and the growing certainty that I'm failing him. "I trust you," I whisper, because it's easier than voicing my fears.
"That's my girl."
He settles back against the pillows and within minutes his breathing deepens into sleep. Ryan doesn't carry worry past bedtime—he never has.
I lie awake, the wanting curling through me again, that nameless ache I can't examine too closely.
It's not just about babies, not entirely, but something else I've been ignoring for longer than I want to admit—a hunger that Ryan's efficient touches never quite satisfy, a restlessness that grows louder in the silence.
I turn my head to watch my husband sleep, good dependable Ryan with his five-year plan and steady job and future mapped out in spreadsheets. He loves me and I love him, and this has to be enough.
I stare at the ceiling until exhaustion finally pulls me under, but somewhere in the dark, the questions linger: Is this enough?
Our Three-Way Marriage
30 Chapters
30
Contents
Save
Passion Exclusive
My Passion
Copyright © 2026 Passion
XOLY LIMITED, 400 S. 4th Street, Suite 500, Las Vegas, NV 89101