Page 45 of Saddle and Scent
Callum Hayes doesn't kneel for anyone, but here he is, looking up at me with those predator's eyes, hands already reaching further up and sliding my long t-shirt up with it, exposing the sight of my thong
"Let's try communicating differently," he murmurs, voice rough with want. "In a way that makes you understand."
His hands are steady as they encourage my legs to spread further, revealing the mess I've become. The cool air hits my heated flesh, and I gasp, hands flying to his shoulders for balance. He spreads my legs even wider, positioning me against the wall, and the first drop of slick that’s been long overflowing in the thin fabric of my thong rolls down my inner thigh makes him groan like he's in pain.
"Fuck, Bell," he breathes, and the reverence in his voice has me clenching around nothing. "You smell like heaven."
My scent must be flooding the room by now—honeysuckle gone heavy with arousal—that telltale Omega sweetness that broadcasts exactly how affected I am.
There's no hiding it, no pretending I don't want this with every fiber of my being.
Wes's hand slides under my shirt, palming my breast, while Beckett's lips find that spot where neck meets shoulder that has always made me melt.
I'm surrounded, overwhelmed, consumed by them.
Callum leans in, his breath hot against my core, and I'm already shaking with anticipation. His tongue extends, just barely, aimed for that first taste?—
CRASH.
Thunder explodes overhead, so loud it shakes the windows, and I jolt awake with a gasp.
My bedroom.
My empty, cold, Alpha-free bedroom.
"Fuck," I groan into my pillow, body still thrumming with arousal that has nowhere to go. "Fuck, fuck,fuck."
The sheets are soaked with sweat and slick, twisted around my legs like I've been fighting a war in my sleep.
My pussy throbs with unfulfilled need, clenching around nothing, and I can still taste phantom kisses on my lips.
A dream. Of course it was a fucking dream. It always is!
Because the universe isn't done making me its personal cosmic joke.
I roll onto my back, staring at the water-stained ceiling as my heart rate slowly returns to normal.
My skin feels too tight, too hot, and the ache between my legs is getting worse, not better. Every shift of my thighs sends another pulse of need through me, and I know from experience that trying to ignore it will only make things worse.
"This is pathetic," I tell the ceiling. It doesn't respond, which is probably for the best.
Outside, the storm that woke me continues its assault on the ranch. Rain pounds against the windows with renewed fury, and somewhere in the distance, something metal is banging against something else metal in a rhythm that's going to drive me insane if the sexual frustration doesn't get me first.
I check the time—5:47 AM. The sun won't be up for another hour, but there's no way I'm getting back to sleep.
Not with my body staging a full revolt against my better judgment.
With a groan that comes from the depths of my soul, I drag myself out of bed. The floorboards are cold against my bare feet, a shock that does nothing to cool the fire under my skin. I catch sight of myself in the mirror as I pass—hair a wild tangle, cheeks flushed, eyes still glazed with want.
"Get it together, Bell," I mutter, but my reflection just stares back, unimpressed.
The shower is my only hope. I crank the water as cold as I can stand, stepping under the spray with a hiss.
For about three seconds, it helps.
Then my traitorous brain supplies helpful images from the dream—Callum's hand around my throat, Wes's tongue tracing patterns that made me see stars, Beckett's careful strength as he held me steady.
"Nope," I say out loud, like speaking can banish the memories. "Not happening."
