Page 145 of Saddle and Scent
"Doesn't mean you have to handle it alone, Juniper."
I sit on the edge of the bed, careful to maintain distance even as every instinct screams at me to pull her into my arms. To cover her with my scent, my body, my protection. To give her everything she needs and more.
She looks at me for a long moment, and I let her. Let her see that I'm not judging, not pitying, not even hoping. Just here. Just available if she needs me. I catalog every detail—the flush spreading down her neck, the way her back arches involuntarily, the death grip she has on the sheets like they're the only thing keeping her grounded.
"Do you want help?"
The words hang between us, heavy with possibility. I watch her struggle, watch pride war with need, watch her teeter on the edge of surrender. When she finally nods, just once, something primal and possessive surges through me.
"Fine. Help." The words are grudging, but they're enough.
"Lie back. You're overheating."
She does, and I get my first real look at just how far gone she is. The tank top clings to every curve, transparent with sweat. Her nipples are hard points against the fabric, begging for attention. The shorts have ridden up impossibly high, revealing the junction of her thighs where everything is wet and swollen and ready.
My mouth waters. My hands itch to touch. But I stay still, stay calm, even as my wolf howls for action.
"It's just a flare," I tell her, voice steadier than I feel. "But you have to let yourself have it."
She looks at me like I've suggested she set herself on fire. But I know what I'm talking about. Fighting it only makes it worse, makes it last longer, makes the suffering pointless when relief is within reach.
I watch her hands slowly unclench from the mattress. Watch her try to relax muscles that have been wound tight for hours. When I peel the sheet away from her death grip, she lets me. The gesture exposes more of her—that gorgeous thigh, the evidence of her arousal that makes my head spin.
"It helps if you breathe," I say, folding the sheet with careful precision. Anything to keep my hands busy, to keep from reaching for her.
"Hard to breathe when my lungs are melting."
The dry humor surprises a near-smile out of me. Even desperate and suffering, she's still Juniper. Still fighting even as she surrenders.
"Slow, then. In and out."
She tries, but it turns into a gasp that goes straight to my cock. Every point of contact between her body and the bed seems to spark, making her shift and squirm. She presses her knees together, but I can see it just makes things worse.
I know my eyes have gone dark, pupils blown wide with want. I can feel it, the way my control frays at the edges. But I hold steady. For her.
"You can touch yourself, if you want," I say, keeping my voice neutral. Clinical. Like I'm not imagining my own fingers in place of hers.
Her hand shakes as it travels up her thigh. I watch, transfixed, as she finally makes contact. The sound she makes—half gasp, half moan—nearly undoes me. Her hips buck against her palm, seeking friction, seeking relief, and I've never seen anything more beautiful than Juniper Bell coming undone.
"That's good," I manage, voice dropping despite my best efforts. "Don't fight it."
She presses harder, chasing sensation with single-minded focus. Her back arches off the bed, legs spreading wider, and for a moment I think she's forgotten I'm here. Then her eyes find mine, and the raw need there nearly breaks my control.
Want floods through me—hot and demanding and absolute.
"You're doing perfect, Juniper." The words come out rougher than intended, but they seem to help. "Let it happen."
I watch her fingers work against herself, watch the flush spread across her chest, watch her mouth fall open on silent pleas. My name is on her lips, barely voiced, and it takes everything I have not to answer that call with my hands, my mouth, my cock.
Her orgasm builds visibly—in the tension of her thighs, the arch of her spine, the way her breathing goes ragged and desperate. When it crests, she claws at the sheets hard enough totear them, her vision going unfocused as wave after wave crashes through her.
She's beautiful like this. Powerful. Unashamed in her pleasure even if shame waits in the wings.
When it's over, she collapses back into the ruined bedding, boneless and panting. I hand her the water glass, careful not to let our fingers touch. If I touch her now, I won't stop.
"You should eat something when you can," I say, falling back on practical concerns.
"Maybe later, if my legs work again."
