Page 44 of Saddle and Scent
I turn my head—when did Callum's hand gentle from control to caress?—and there he is, blue eyes dancing with heat and mischief.
"Wes, I?—"
But he's already cupping my face with both hands, tilting my chin up with heartbreaking gentleness.
Where Callum's kiss was wildfire, Wes's is a slow burn. His lips brush mine softly at first, teasing, coaxing.
He teases at my lower lip, nipping just hard enough to make me gasp, then soothes the sting with the feather-light brush of his tongue. Wes kisses with the kind of focus I’ve only ever seen him use on a surgical table: meticulous, unhurried, making absolutely certain I feel every millimeter of contact. The sweetness of it almost hurts. I feel my spine arch, involuntary, seeking more even as he keeps the pace criminally slow. One of his hands slides back to tangle in my hair, tilting my head to shift the angle, and it’s so gentle, so tender, I could start sobbing on the spot.
By the time I remember to breathe, my lips are tingling, my lungs tight, and all the blood in my body has apparently relocated southward. My knees are useless. I’d be on the floor if not for the twin anchors of Wes’s arms and Callum’s silent presence in front of me.
When I sigh into it, he takes it as invitation, deepening the kiss with a thoroughness that has my knees threatening to buckle.
He kisses like he has all the time in the world, like there's nothing more important than learning every corner of my mouth. His tongue traces patterns that make me shiver, each stroke deliberate and devastating. One hand slides into my hair,fingers tangling in the damp strands, while the other traces the line of my jaw with feather-light touches.
I'm so lost in the contrast—Callum's demanding heat versus Wes's patient exploration—that I don't notice the third set of hands until they're spanning my waist.
Beckett.
His touch is instantly recognizable, firm but tender, grounding me even as I threaten to float away.
He’s always been the anchor, the steady hand, the slow drawl that could settle the wildest filly or the most frantic heartbeat. I don’t have to look to know it’s him—he smells like cinnamon and sawdust and the barest hint of whiskey, the way my old quilt used to after he’d crashed on our couch in high school.
He stands behind me, his chest pressed to my shoulder blades, bigger somehow than I remember, a wall of comfort and promise. I feel the slow inhale and exhale against my back, the subtle flex of his arms as they draw me firmly but gently into the circle of the three of them. My body is caught between Callum’s hurricane force, Wes’s teasing warmth, and Beckett’s gravity.
There’s nowhere else in the world I could possibly be.
His thumbs rub slow, careful circles against my ribs, soothing the wild pulse leaping there. Then he dips his head, close enough that his breath warms the shell of my ear.
"You okay, Sweetpea?" he murmurs, and the nickname ricochets straight to my heart. I want to say something snarky, something to break the spell, but all I can do is nod, lips parted and trembling.
I can’t even keep track of whose hands are whose—Callum’s at my throat, Wes’s in my hair, Beckett’s encircling my waist—but it doesn’t matter. I’m held, bracketed, caged by gentleness and hunger and a decade of what ifs.
Beckett’s lips brush my neck, a feather-light graze that makes my knees buckle for real this time. He catches me with a softlaugh, squeezing me tighter, his chest rumbling against my back. The sound is pure reassurance, grounding me even as I threaten to float away on the tidal wave of sensation.
Their scents swirl around me, creating a cocktail that goes straight to my head. Pine and smoke from Callum, citrus and storm from Wes, cinnamon and fresh bread from Beckett. It's overwhelming, intoxicating, everything I've tried so hard to forget and everything I've never stopped craving.
When Wes releases my mouth, I'm trembling. My head falls back against the wall, and I look up to find Beckett gazing down at me with those warm brown eyes.
There's no hesitation when he leans down, just quiet certainty.
His kiss is different again—confident but careful, like he's writing promises with his lips.He tastes like the coffee he made, like the cinnamon rolls from his bakery, like home in a way that makes my chest ache. His beard is soft against my skin, and when he nips gently at my bottom lip, the sound I make is embarrassingly needy.
My body is in full revolt against my better judgment.
Slick pools between my thighs and the throb between my legs is becoming unbearable.
Every nerve ending is alive, electric, screaming for more.
The rational part of my brain—the part that knows this is dangerous, that we've been down this road before—is drowned out by pure, primal need.
Beckett pulls back, and I force my eyes open, breath coming in desperate pants.
The three of them are looking at me like I'm something precious, worth worshipping, and it's too much and not enough all at once.
That's when I notice Callum has dropped to his knees.
The sight alone nearly undoes me.
