Page 48 of Saddle and Scent
I should knock. Wait on the porch like a civilized person. That's what the rational part of my brain insists, the part thatremembers I'm a veterinarian with a reputation to maintain, not some hormone-driven kid who can't control himself.
But my feet are already moving, drawn by an invisible thread that's been pulling at me for ten goddamn years.
The path around the house is overgrown with morning glory and wild blackberry vines, thorns catching at my jeans as I navigate the narrow space between the wall and the untamed hedgerow. I'm not trying to peek—Jesus, I'm not that guy. I just need to make sure she's okay.
That sound could be distress, or surely?—
A moan cuts through the morning air, low and desperate, and my entire body goes rigid.
Fuck.
That's not distress.
That's... damn…that's Juniper in the shower, taking care of business, and I should turn around right now.
Just march my ass back to the front door and pretend I never heard anything.
Instead, I freeze like a deer in headlights, caught between propriety and the primal part of my brain that's suddenly very, very awake.
Another sound escapes—a whimper that could be frustration, need, or both—and my cock responds with embarrassing enthusiasm, going from zero to painfully hard in seconds.
The Alpha in me wants to break down the door, offer help, and be the solution to whatever problem has her making those sounds.
But I'm not an animal.
I've spent years learning control, years pushing down these exact impulses. So I dig my boots into the soft earth and force myself to stay still, even as every instinct screams at me to move.
The water keeps running, and through it, I can hear her.
Soft gasps, desperate little moans that paint vivid pictures in my mind. I’ve always been able to hear better than the average person, and its going to be my downfall here, because they pick up everything—the slick sound of fingers working, the catch in her breath, the way she's trying to muffle her cries against what I imagine is her forearm.
My jeans are suddenly way too tight, cock straining against the denim with single-minded determination.I should leave.This is a violation of her privacy, standing here listening like some kind of pervert.
But then the wind shifts, and her scent hits me like a freight train.
Holy fucking shit.
Honeysuckle and need, so thick I can taste it on my tongue. But underneath that familiar sweetness is pure, concentrated arousal—the kind that only comes from an Omega in desperate need of release. It floods my senses, short-circuits my higher brain functions, leaves nothing butwant-want-wantechoing in my skull.
My hands are shaking as I lower the bag to the wooden plank by my feet, careful not to make a sound.This is insane and so fucking wrong…on so many levels.
But my fingers are already working at my zipper, and I can't seem to stop them.
The first touch of cool morning air on my cock makes me hiss through clenched teeth. I'm already leaking, the head slick with precum, and I have to bite my lip hard to suppress the growl building in my chest.
I angle myself deeper into the shadows cast by the overgrown oak, grateful for the cover. The sun won't hit this side of the house for another hour at least, and the hedge provides additional screening. Not that anyone's likely to be wandering around at this ungodly hour, but the last thing I need is to getcaught jerking off outside Juniper's window like some kind of stalker.
Man, that’s how desperate I’ve gotten at the mere sound of her…
Another moan drifts through the air, higher this time, more desperate, and my hand moves without conscious thought. The first stroke is almost painful, oversensitive from going zero to sixty so fast, but I match her rhythm as best I can guess it.
Slow at first, teasing, the way I imagine working her up if I was in there with her.
God, what I wouldn't give to be in that shower right now.
To pin her against the tile and replace those fingers with mine.
To learn exactly what makes her gasp and whimper and beg.
