Page 132 of Saddle and Scent
"Come here," he says, and there's something in his voice that makes it impossible to refuse.
I approach with the kind of cautious steps usually reserved for potentially dangerous situations, though the danger here is entirely of the self-inflicted variety.
Every step closer makes me more aware of his scent, the heat radiating from his skin, the way his eyes track my movement with predatory focus.
"Want to talk about what's really keeping you awake?" he asks when I'm close enough for him to read my expression in the work lights.
The gentle understanding in his voice breaks through my attempt at casual deflection, and I find myself unable to maintain the pretense that everything is fine. Because this is Wes, who notices things and cares about the answers, and lying to him feels both impossible and wrong.
"I'm jealous," I admit quietly, the words coming out smaller than I intended. "Which is stupid and petty and completely unfair to you, but I can't seem to stop feeling it."
"Jealous of what?" he asks, though something in his expression suggests he already knows the answer.
"Mrs. Thornfield," I say, the name tasting bitter on my tongue. "She had everything. Money, the perfect ranch, and she's beautiful in that polished way that comes from never having to worry about anything practical. She could offer you—any of you—things I never could."
Wes is quiet for a moment, studying my face with the kind of careful attention he usually reserves for sick animals. There's no judgment in his expression, just the focused concern of someone trying to understand a problem so he can help solve it.
"You want to know what I saw when I looked at that ranch today?" he asks finally.
I nod, not trusting my voice to remain steady.
"Lifeless perfection," he says simply, his voice carrying the kind of certainty that comes from deep conviction. "Beautiful on the surface but sterile underneath. Everything there exists to impress rather than to nurture or support actual life. And Mrs. Thornfield herself? She's lonely enough to throw herself at a veterinarian she barely knows because her money can't buy the one thing she actually wants."
"Which is?"
"Connection," he says, stepping closer until I can feel the heat radiating from his skin. "Real, genuine human connection that isn't based on what she can provide or how much she can spend. Everything in her life is transactional, including her relationships. There's nothing attractive about that, Junebug."
He reaches up to cup my face in his hands, his palms warm and slightly rough against my cheeks.
The gesture is gentle but firm, forcing me to meet his eyes and see the sincerity there.
"You know what is attractive?" he continues, his voice dropping to that particular register that makes my insides turn to liquid. "Someone who cares more about a struggling mule than her own comfort. Someone who'll get covered in blood and birth fluids to help bring new life into the world. Someone who looks at a broken-down ranch and sees potential instead of problems."
Before I can respond, he leans down and kisses me—soft and sweet and full of the kind of affection that makes my chest ache with feelings too big for words.His lips are warm and gentle, moving against mine with careful attention rather than demanding passion, like he's trying to communicate something too important for words alone.
"Oops," he says when we break apart, though his grin suggests the kiss was entirely intentional. "Forgot to ask permission. But I needed you to know that you're everythingwe've wanted and more for the last ten years, and nothing's going to change that."
The simple honesty in his words does more to settle my doubts than any amount of logical argument could accomplish. Because this isn't just reassurance—it's truth delivered with the kind of certainty that can only come from deep conviction and years of knowing exactly what he values.
"Well," I say, attempting to inject some lightness into the heavy emotion of the moment, "when you put it that way, I guess Mrs. Thornfield can keep her fountain and her butler. I've got something better."
"What's that?" he asks, though his eyes are already dancing with anticipation for whatever smartass comment I'm about to deliver.
"Three Alphas who think I'm worth fighting for," I say with a grin that feels more genuine than anything I've managed all day. "Even when I'm being insecure and ridiculous."
He groans, dropping his forehead against mine in a gesture of fond exasperation that somehow manages to be both affectionate and slightly theatrical.
"You're going to be the death of me, you know that?"
"Sorry," I say, though I'm not sorry at all and we both know it.
"No, you're not," he says accurately, his voice carrying the kind of amused resignation that comes from understanding someone too well to be fooled by their attempts at innocence. "And now you better get yourself to bed before we end up doing everything except sleeping."
The suggestion sends heat racing through my veins, and I find myself seriously considering the implications of staying right where I am. Because the idea of 'everything except sleeping' with a shirtless Wes in a barn full of shadows andpossibilities sounds like exactly the kind of trouble I'm in the mood for.
"I don't mind," I admit quietly, surprised by my own boldness.
"I know you don't," he says, his voice rough with want and something that sounds like barely controlled restraint. "But I'm trying to be a good boy tonight, and I already jerked off earlier to the idea of having you spread across that barn table while I'm balls deep inside you, so I'm going to need another rain check."
