Page 110 of Saddle and Scent
His eyes narrow slightly, but he nods reluctantly. "Text me when you get home safe."
It's not a request.
I manage to nod and slip out of the washroom, making my way through the clinic's hallways on unsteady legs. The young apprentice—a sweet-faced kid who can't be more than twenty—is waiting by the front desk with a clipboard and an eager smile.
"You're really pretty, ma'am," he says brightly, his cheeks flushing pink. "I hope you don't mind me saying. I really like your hair—the purple streaks are super cool."
Under normal circumstances, the compliment would make me smile.
Right now, it just makes me acutely aware of how disheveled I must look after everything that just happened.
"Thank you," I manage, attempting a smile. "That's very sweet of you to say."
But before I can make my escape, Wes appears beside me like a storm cloud.
He takes my hand with casual possessiveness, his grip firm and unmistakably claiming.
"I'm going on break," he announces to the apprentice, already steering me toward the door.
The kid blinks in confusion. "But—uh—Dr. Carter, the Henderson appointments?—"
"Tell them I had a veterinary emergency," Wes says smoothly, not slowing down. "Shouldn't take long."
Before I can process what's happening, he's dragged me out the back door of the clinic and into the narrow alley that runs behind the building.
The same alley where the dumpsters live and delivery trucks unload supplies.
Definitely not the most romantic location in Saddlebrush Ridge.
"Wes, what are you?—"
He doesn't let me finish the question. Instead, he pins me against the brick wall with a kiss that's so intense, so consuming, it nearly knocks the wind out of my lungs.
This isn't the careful, testing kiss.
This is desperation and possession and ten years of pent-up wanting finally given free rein.
His mouth moves against mine with devastating precision, all tongue and teeth and breathless gasps. One hand tangles in my hair while the other grips my hip, holding me exactly where he wants me.
"Wes—" I try to protest, but he swallows the word with another searing kiss.
"I'm jealous," he grits out against my lips, his voice rough with honesty and frustration. "I know it's stupid and possessive and completely unreasonable, but I'm fucking jealous."
"I didn't do anything," I protest weakly, though my hands are already fisting in his shirt, pulling him closer instead of pushing him away.
"I know," he growls, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses down the column of my throat. "Doesn't matter. I still wanted to rip his throat out for looking at you like that."
His thigh pushes between my legs, forcing them apart.
The pressure is immediate and devastating—right against my clit through the denim of my jeans.
"Fuck," I gasp, my hips bucking forward without conscious thought.
Because the sensation is electric, overwhelming, exactly what my body has been craving since he started talking about examination tables and thorough fucking.
"You think you're slick, driving me wild in that clinic?" he mutters against my ear, his voice dark with arousal and accusation. "Walking around smelling like you want me, letting that kid flirt with you right in front of me?"
"I wasn't—oh God?—"
