Page 168 of Saddle and Scent
“Holy shit,” I manage, voice muffled by the pillow. “That’s not fair.”
He laughs, nuzzling my ear.
“You want me to stop being unfair? I could pull out and let Beckett have a turn, but I’d rather keep you all to myself for a little longer.”
I let out a whimper.
“No, don’t—don’t move. I’ll die if you move.”
He pets me some more, the bastard.
“Didn’t peg you as a cockdrunk Omega, Bell, but I’m not mad about it.”
I try to roll my eyes, but they barely open. I’m wrecked, used up, and floating on a cloud of post-orgasmic delirium.
But even through the haze, another scent is worming its way into my brain—something sweet, flaky, unmistakably Beckett.
I open one eye and see him standing at the foot of the bed, naked as the day he was born except for a cowboy hat perched at a jaunty angle, holding a miniature pie on a spatula with the kind of solemnity usually reserved for torch relays or ceremonial first pitches. The pie, of course, is warm and glistening, the crust perfect and the filling bubbling over the edge like it just couldn’t contain itself. Beckett grins, unbothered by his total lack of shame, and announces:
“Our Omega’s snack is ready.”
If I had the energy, I’d laugh. Instead, it comes out as a hiccupping giggle, which sets off a little aftershock in my lower half, which makes Wes groan and tighten his grip around my waist.
“Fuck, she’s clenching again,” he mutters, then raises his head to leer at Beckett. “Don’t suppose you brought a slice for me, too, huh?”
Beckett tips his hat, cowboy to the core.
“For you, anything. But the Omega gets first bite.”
Wes cackles.
“See, this is why you’re the favorite, Becks. Always thinking ahead.”
Callum’s voice comes from the shadows, where he’s been lurking with the stoicism of a professional sniper.
“If you’re gonna start cosplaying, at least pick something original.”
Wes grins at him, pure menace.
“I vote you show up as a fireman next time. Chicks dig firemen. Isn’t that right, Junebug?”
I try to answer, but I’m still shaking, still full, still not quite capable of real speech. It comes out as “buh,” which Wes seems to find extremely funny.
“See? She agrees with me.” He moves my hair off my forehead, sweat-soaked but tender, and kisses my temple. “You okay, Bell?”
I nod, then reach a trembling hand toward the pie, unable to even pretend I’m not starving.
Beckett comes closer, balancing the pie on one hand and using the other to brush a crumb off my cheek. He feeds me a forkful, warm berry and buttery crust melting in my mouth, and I could actually weep at how good it tastes.
“That’s the stuff,” I murmur, licking my lips. “You guys are never allowed to leave. Ever.”
Beckett grins wider, dimples on full display.
“That was the plan all along, Junebug.”
They’re all looking at me like I’m made of spun sugar and gunpowder, like they can’t decide whether to devour me or wrap me in bubble wrap for safekeeping. I can’t believe I ever doubted this, doubted myself, doubted that any of them would want me at my worst. But here I am: ruined, marked, loved.
Wes gets bored of the pie after two bites, pawing at my hip again. “You wanna go again, or you need a break?”
