Page 46 of Saddle and Scent
But my hand is already moving south, fingers sliding through the slick that even cold water can't wash away.
The first touch to my clit has me gasping, other hand bracing against the tile wall for support.
I try to think of literally anything else—the broken fence posts, Pickles' attitude problem, my mile-long list of repairs—but my fingers have their own agenda. They circle and press with embarrassing expertise, finding exactly the rhythm that has me climbing toward relief.
They don’t just circle—they tease, they torment, they chase each pulse and tremor like they’re hungry for it. The pads of my fingers find that slick, swollen clit and work it with a precision that is, frankly, undignified for someone who spent all of middle school convinced she was a late-blooming Beta and not destined for the Omega life that was waiting for her. My knees go weak, and I have to brace harder on the tile so I don’t collapse like a dramatic Victorian invalid.
There’s no gentleness to it, no slow buildup, just frantic, ruthless pressure that has me shivering and panting and cursing the combined existence of every Hayes, Carter, and Ford within a hundred-mile radius.
Every time I blink, I see flashes—Callum’s mouth, Wes’s hands, Beckett’s voice rumbling soft and thick right at my ear, and it’s obscene how much it turns me on.
My body doesn’t care that they’re just ghosts, just echoes from a subconscious so starved it’s inventing new ways to ruin me. My clit is throbbing under my own touch, slick everywhere, my breath fogging the glass and echoing around the empty bathroom like a desperate animal’s plea. I can’t stop thinking of the way they would take over, how I could lean into it, let my body go slack, and let someone else drive.I want to be ruined. Cravethe obliterating sensations of pleasure they would deliver again and again, and I wouldn’t have to beg for it. I want—I want—fuck, I don’t even know what I want except more.
My fingers move faster, circling, pressing, chasing the sweet spot that makes my vision blur at the edges.
I let my head fall forward, forehead pressed to the cold tile, and let myself imagine it’s not my own hand but someone else’s, the hands that held me steady and made me forget for a second that I was supposed to keep it together at all times. It’s a fantasy, but for a minute I let it be real, let myself get lost in the sensation, the relentless heat, the promise of release just out of reach.
"Fuck," I whimper, giving up on resistance. My fingers slide lower, pushing inside where I'm molten and desperate. It's not enough—it's never enough—but it's what I have.
I fuck myself with a desperation that borders on anger, free hand coming up to pinch at my nipples through the soaked tank top I didn't bother removing. The dual sensation has me moaning, loud and unashamed, because who's going to hear?
The ghosts? Pickles?
In my mind, it's not my fingers but theirs. Callum's thick digits stretching me open while Wes plays with my clit and Beckett whispers filthy promises in my ear.
The phantom of their scents fills the shower, makes me lightheaded with need. My real body braces harder against thetile as the ghost ones take over—I surrender to the image of being surrounded, bracketed, unable to move unless they let me.
Callum’s fingers crook just right, and I clench down, helpless and greedy. Wes leans in, catches my lower lip between his teeth, and murmurs sweet filth that sets my pulse thrumming in my ears. Beckett’s tongue traces the shell of my ear before he drags his teeth across my neck, and it’s so real I’m almost frightened by how my body reacts, hips bucking in the air, seeking more. Every nerve ending is lit up, hypersensitive, and I’m a wet, panting mess; I want to beg, but all three of them are already reading my body, giving me exactly what I crave before I can say the words.
The fantasy-me arches into their touch, desperate, shameless. I’m utterly at their mercy, and it’s glorious, a relief so sharp it’s almost pain. I want to be claimed, marked, owned, and the image of their hands pinning me, their mouths and fingers everywhere, makes my real fingers move even faster. The coil inside me tightens, threatening to snap; I chase it, greedy for the explosion that will finally, finally take the edge off. I can almost hear them coaxing me, telling me to let go, that it’s okay, that I’m safe and wanted and perfect like this.
The fantasy is so vivid I’m certain if I open my eyes, I’ll see them—their eyes wild with hunger, their mouths softening into the rare, private smiles they wore only for me.
The longing is a physical ache, sharp and relentless, but for just this moment, in the haze of steam and sensation, I let myself believe it’s real.
"Please," I beg the empty shower, fucking myself harder. "Please, please, please?—"
The orgasm hits like a lightning strike, back arching as I clench around my fingers.
I ride it out with broken moans, forehead pressed against the cool tile, legs shaking with the force of it.
But even as the aftershocks fade, I know it's not enough. It simply tames, but doesn’t feed the true beast that’s only fulfilled by an Alpha’s knot…and no amount of self-service is going to scratch that itch.
I slide down the shower wall until I'm sitting on the floor, water beating down on my oversensitive skin.
The truth sits heavy in my chest, undeniable even through layers of stubbornness and self-preservation.
Ten years. Ten fucking years, and no other Alpha has even come close to affecting me the way they do.
I've tried—Goodness, hell knows I've tried.Coffee dates with nice Beta men who bored me to tears. Tinder hookups with city Alphas who smelled wrong and touched me like I was generic, interchangeable. Even that disastrous six-month relationship with Nemo, who checked all the boxes on paper but left me cold in practice.
None of them made me burn.
None of them made me want to submit and fight back in equal measure.
None of them kissed me like they were trying to crawl inside my skin and take up permanent residence.
"This is so fucked," I whisper to the shower floor.
