Page 170 of Saddle and Scent
I sag forward, collapsing in a heap of tangled limbs and sticky sweat, my thighs still trembling from the last round. The bed’s adisaster and so am I, but Beckett is already there, scooping me up like I’m a kitten he’s rescued from the rain.
“I’ll go next, then,” Beckett rumbles, voice soft as a fresh-baked roll.
“Perfect,” Wes slurs, rolling over onto his back with a groan of pure satisfaction. “Callum can watch.”
Callum snorts.
“I’m not sure she’s got anything left for you, Ford. Might have to settle for seconds.”
I ignore all of them. I’m floating somewhere above the bed, on a cloud of post-coital euphoria and pie crust. My only coherent thought is that I want Beckett.
I want the slow, careful way he touches me.
I want the heat in his eyes when he forgets to be polite.
I want his goddamn mouth.
“Sit down,” I order, my voice wrecked. “Now.”
He grins, so smug and so patient. “Yes, ma’am.”
He takes his seat on the edge of the bed, cowboy hat still perched on his head like he’s about to star in an adult movie. I crawl into his lap, ignoring the way my muscles scream in protest, and grab the pie tin from the nightstand.
“Open,” I say.
He does, and I feed him a bite so big it leaves berry juice on his chin. He doesn’t complain. He just chews, watching me with that steady, hungry gaze that’s only for me.
I feed him again, slower this time, licking my own fingers as I do. Every bite makes his eyes darker, every slow pass of my tongue turns up the heat between us. By the fourth bite, I’m so wet I could cry, my entire body tuned to the way Beckett’s hands hold my hips and the promise in his smile.
He finishes the last crumb and licks his lips, never breaking eye contact.
“Your turn,” he says, voice gone gravelly.
He’s on me before I can protest, lowering me onto the mattress like I’m breakable, then pushing my thighs apart with hands that are both gentle and unyielding. He kneels between my legs, kisses my knee, then my thigh, then the soft, sensitive flesh just inside. He takes his time, as if he’s got nowhere else to be. As if his only purpose in life is to taste every inch of me.
And god, he’s so good at it.
He starts slow, tongue flicking over my clit in light, teasing strokes, then dips lower, circling my entrance, lapping up the mess that Wes left behind. I’m a little embarrassed by how messy I am, but Beckett doesn’t care. If anything, he seems to like it—his growl vibrates through my whole body.
“Sweetest thing I ever tasted,” he murmurs, then goes right back to work, his tongue relentless and sure.
I arch off the bed, clutching at the sheets, gasping for air.
My brain is so overloaded I can’t even process individual sensations—just an endless wave of pleasure that builds and builds until I’m right there, teetering on the edge.
“Fuck, Beckett—” I choke out. “I’m—oh god, I’m?—”
He doesn’t stop, just doubles down, and I break apart with a scream, coming so hard I see black behind my eyelids.
My whole body shakes, toes curling, fingers twisting the sheets like I’m trying to rip them in half.
He holds me through it, never letting go, mouth working me through every aftershock until I’m limp and whimpering.
Only then does he finally pull away, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, grinning like the world’s happiest idiot.
“You okay, Junebug?” he teases, voice smug.
“Dead,” I gasp. “You killed me.”
