Page 159 of Saddle and Scent
I lost track of time after that—everything a blur of hands and mouths and heat. We swapped places, lost ourselves in each other, no hurry, no script. I rode Callum, slow and grinding, loving the way he filled me. When I came again, it was with his hands gripping my ass, his mouth buried in my shoulder. He held me through every wave, then spilled inside with a grunt, the feeling warm and perfect.
Wes took his time, teasing me until I was begging, then pinning my wrists above my head as he thrust into me. He was gentler than I expected, more careful, his eyes never leaving mine. When he came, he bit my neck, not hard enough to break skin, just enough to leave a mark.
Beckett was last, as always—the patient one, the anchor. He cradled me in his arms, fingers gentle, voice soft. He kissed every inch of me, then slid inside, slow and deep and unhurried. He didn’t chase his own pleasure—he waited, building me up with every stroke, until I came so hard I blacked out for a second.
After, he lay with me, holding my hand, breathing with me until my pulse slowed.
I was spent, fucked-out, but so happy I wanted to bottle the feeling for the rest of my life.
The scents of our bodies mingled in the air:sweat, cum, wildflowers, and the clean, sharp smell of the lake. It was animal, but not in a gross way—in the way that made you feel safe, claimed, wanted.
We curled up together on the blanket, limbs tangled, skin on skin. Wes draped himself over me from the opposite side in front of me, breath soft and even. Callum spooned me from behind, his hand splayed protectively over my belly. Beckett wrapped around my legs, chin resting on my thigh.
For a long time, no one said a word. We just existed, together, in the little world we’d made. My heart felt too big for my chest, my body too full for words.
Finally, Wes broke the silence, voice muffled against my neck. “So, Junebug. You ever regret coming home?”
I thought about it. About all the things I’d run from, all the ways I’d tried to be something I wasn’t. About the years of convincing myself I didn’t need this—didn’t need anyone.
“No,” I said, certain. “Never.”
Callum pressed a kiss to my shoulder. Beckett squeezed my hand. Wes nuzzled my neck, warm and content.
I drifted off to sleep with all of them there, holding me, the fairy lights above our heads and the lake lapping at the shore.
For the first time ever, I didn’t dream of running away.
I dreamed of roots, and hands, and the three men who’d made me believe I could have both.
The world lookeddifferent at dawn, especially when you hadn’t bothered to close your eyes all night.
I woke to the weirdly familiar smell of wet earth, moss, and man sweat, a blend of Alpha pheromones so thick it should have been illegal, plus the faintest trace of wildflowers and last night’s whiskey.
My tongue was dry, my hair plastered to my cheek, and I couldn’t feel my left leg—but I was happy. That’s the only word for it, even if my brain hadn’t caught up.
We’d ended up under the swing chair, the four of us, a nest made of two blankets and about twenty pounds of human bodies. I was on my side, Callum pressed tight behind me, his arm a concrete band across my stomach. His hand was open, as if he needed to anchor me in place in case I got slippery and tried to escape before breakfast. Wes had wedged himself in front of me, his head pillowed on my bicep, hair tickling my chin and his arm thrown across my chest like he’d called shotgun in his sleep. Beckett’s legs tangled with mine, his hand wrapped around my ankle with a hold that was gentle but immovable.
I didn’t move, not for a long time. Just lay there, breathing it in, the air thick with lake fog and whatever hormones we’d cooked up the night before. The fairy lights above our heads were still on, washed out by sunrise, but I could see them reflected in the eyes of a curious rabbit watching from the tall grass. When I shifted, Callum’s hand tensed instinctively, but his voice was a sleep-rough murmur in my ear: “You good?”
I smiled. “Never better.”
Wes snuffled awake next, blinking in confusion before remembering where he was, who he was with, and exactly how naked we all were. “Morning, Junebug,” he yawned, then flopped his head back on my arm like it was a perfectly reasonable pillow. “Anyone else starving?”
Beckett groaned, then propped himself up on one elbow.
“I could eat,” he said, voice low and content. His hand traced lazy patterns on my calf, his thumb catching the seam of the scarI’d gotten in seventh grade from falling off a bike I didn’t know how to ride. He looked at me with the kind of warmth I’d only ever seen in cookbooks with happy families on the cover.
The lake was glassy, light flickering off it in shards, the surface broken by the occasional fish or dragonfly. I thought about how little it took to make this perfect: some rocks, some lights, some hands to hold and not let go.
Callum finally let go of my waist, rolling onto his back with a satisfied groan.
“Didn’t think I’d sleep,” he said, “but I guess you wore me out.”
“Ditto,” Wes said. “I’m a shell of a man.”
I snorted.
“You’re both ridiculous.”
