Page 136 of Saddle and Scent
When the song ends, Wes is there to claim the next dance, his approach more playful but no less reverent. He spins me with unnecessary flourishes that make me laugh, but when the music slows, he holds me close enough that I can feel his breath against my ear.
"I almost didn't recognize you," he admits, his voice carrying a note of wonder. "For a second there, I thought some gorgeous stranger had crashed our little town festival."
"Just me," I say, though I'm still adjusting to the way the transformation makes me feel—more confident, more feminine, more aware of my own power to affect the people around me.
"Not 'just' anything," he corrects, his arms tightening around me. "Never 'just' anything. But especially not tonight."
Beckett claims the final dance of the set, his approach the gentlest of the three but no less affected by my appearance. He holds me like I'm made of spun glass, his large hands careful against the fabric of my dress.
"You know," he says as we sway together, "I used to dream about dancing with you at town festivals when we were kids. Never imagined it would actually happen."
"Really?" I ask, surprised by the admission.
"Really," he confirms, a soft smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "Used to practice in my room, trying to make sure I wouldn't embarrass myself if I ever got the chance."
The sweetness of the confession makes my chest tight with emotions I'm not sure how to process. Because the idea of teenage Beckett practicing dance moves in private, hoping for a chance that must have seemed impossible at the time, is almost unbearably endearing.
"Well," I say, leaning closer so my words are meant for him alone, "I'd say the practice paid off."
As the evening winds down and the crowd begins to thin, I find myself reluctant to let the magic of the night end. There's something about the combination of the music, the lights, and the way all three of them have been looking at me that feels like a dream I don't want to wake up from.
But eventually, the band plays their final song and people begin gathering their things for the drive home. The guys walk me to where I parked, their conversation easy and comfortable despite the underlying tension that's been building all evening.
"Thank you for tonight," I say when we reach my truck. "For the dances, for making me feel beautiful, for... everything."
"Thank you for letting us share it with you," Callum says, stepping forward to pull me into a hug that's meant to be goodbye but lingers longer than necessary.
When he leans down to press a soft kiss to my temple, he also nuzzles against the curve of my neck, breathing in deeply before pulling away. The gesture is subtle enough that anyone watching might mistake it for simple affection, but I can feel the deliberate way he's marking me with his scent.
Wes is next, his hug more enthusiastic but equally calculated. His face finds the other side of my neck, and I feel the warm press of his breath against my skin as he leaves his own scent signature.
Beckett's goodbye is the gentlest, but when he wraps me in his arms, he takes his time, his face buried in my hair as he breathes in my scent while leaving his own.
By the time they've each said goodnight, I'm dizzy with the combined effect of their pheromones mixing with my own. The careful layering of their scents creates a cocktail that speaks to every Omega instinct I possess, leaving me feeling claimed and cherished and desperately aroused.
"Drive safe," Callum says, though his voice is rougher than usual.
"Text when you get home," Wes adds.
"Sweet dreams," Beckett finishes, though something in his tone suggests he knows exactly how unlikely peaceful sleep is going to be.
I manage to get myself into the truck and start the engine, though my hands are shaking slightly from the sensory overload. The drive home passes in a haze of their combined scents and the memory of strong arms and careful touches.
By the time I reach the ranch, I'm fairly certain that whatever careful boundaries we've been maintaining just got completely obliterated by three innocent goodnight hugs and one dress that apparently has the power to rewrite the rules of engagement.
But as I make my way up to my room, still wearing the wine-red dress and carrying the lingering scents of three Alphas who've just made their intentions unmistakably clear, I find I don't mind the change as much as I probably should.
In fact, I'm looking forward to seeing what happens next.
28
MIDNIGHT GAMING
~JUNIPER~
Sleep is proving as elusive as ever, and I'm beginning to think my body has developed a personal vendetta against rest.
I've been lying in my regular bedroom for the past two hours, staring at the ceiling and listening to the old house settle around me with its familiar creaks and sighs. The heat flares have been getting worse lately—not full heat, but enough hormonal chaos to leave me restless and uncomfortable and desperately wishing for the kind of exhaustion that would override my biology's apparent determination to keep me awake.
