Page 96 of Saddle and Scent
The fear that I'll shut her down, laugh at her, or worse—react like those assholes who wanted to put her in a tent like a disobedient pet.
Instead of answering with words, I release her chin and take a step back. Then another. I walk to the stove, turn around to face her, and drop to my hands and knees on the kitchen floor.
Her blush spreads like wildfire across her cheeks.
Her eyes go wide with shock and something that looks like arousal as she realizes what I'm doing.
The room is silent except for the tick of the kitchen clock and the faint, animal hush of our breathing.
Juniper’s flush creeps down her throat, the apples of her cheeks blooming with a fierce, impossible color, but she doesn’t say a word—not right away.
Her eyes are wide, almost black with the way her pupils have swallowed the irises, and she turns that storm straight on me as I crawl across the splattered linoleum. My knees scuff the floor, but I don’t stop, not even when the static in my brain surges so loud I can barely remember my own name.
I crawl like I was built for it, like some part of me has been waiting years for her to ask—no, not even ask, just wonder if I’d do it. And I do, with slow, measured deliberation, every muscle in my arms and thighs flexing to show her:I meant it. I’ll do this.
By the time I reach her, the scent is everywhere, thick and undiluted. It’s her, it’s us, but mostly her—sharp, sweet, feral and perfectly alive. It hits every reward center in my brain at once, makes my mouth flood with saliva and my blood pressure spike so hard I see stars for a second. I want to speak, want to ask if this is what she wants, but I can’t seem to get my vocal cords to cooperate. All I know is that I have never, ever wanted to be good for someone so fucking badly in my entire life.
Juniper’s legs are parted just enough that I can see the wet, gleaming slick painting the inside of her soft thighs, and it takes every ounce of control I have not to groan. Instead, I look up at her, waiting for any sign she wants me to stop, but all she does is fist one hand in the hem of her t-shirt and tug it higher—her own little dare. Her other hand trembles slightly as she anchors herself on the table’s edge, but she keeps her chin high, lips bitten raw, gaze fixed on me with the focus of a predator.
“So…we go at my pace, yes?” she whispers.
I nod. Or try to. My head is so heavy it feels like it’s swimming at the end of my neck, but I make the movement, slow and deep, hoping she understands. The ball is hers. I am hers, for as long as she wants me.
She watches me for a long, breathless moment, then—without warning—she hooks both her thumbs in the band of her gym shorts and peels them down her hips. No underwear. Not even a stitch. The shorts catch on her knees, then puddle on the floor. She kicks them aside with a pointed flex of her foot and slides forward on the chair, spreading her legs enough to show how ready she is, how much she wants this, how much I’ve already wrecked her with nothing but suggestion.
Her scent spikes again, so sharp it’s almost dizzying, and I can feel the heat radiating from her skin. There’s a boldness in the way she holds herself now, a sudden, wild confidence that seems to have surprised even her. The flush on her cheeks is deepest at her throat, and she looks down at me from her new elevation like I’m something she’s ordered and is now deciding whether or not to keep.
“Open your mouth,” she says, and the words are a command, not a request.
My tongue flicks out on instinct. I do exactly as she tells me, and she watches me pant for her, her eyes locked on the desperate, hungry way I breathe her in.
She bites her lip again, harder, teeth dimpling the soft skin. Then she leans forward a fraction, balancing herself with both elbows on the table, and says, “Lick it off me.”
I shudder. The words echo down every nerve ending, leaving me stinging with need. I reach for her, but she shakes her head—no hands, not yet. I drop my arms and lean in, burying my face between her thighs, lapping at the slick that has dripped down her skin. It’s so warm, so sweet, I might fucking die.
She gasps, the sound high and startled, but she doesn’t stop me. If anything, she opens her legs wider, angling her hips so I can get at her properly. I tongue her inner thigh, licking up every last drop, and when I look up again her eyes are squeezed shut, her mouth open in a silent O, head tossed back.
But Juniper isn’t done proving a point.
Without looking down, she fists a hand in my hair and guides my mouth closer, lining me up with her entrance, her grip gentle but unyielding.
“Do you want this?” she whispers, barely audible.
If she could see inside my head she’d know there are no words, only pure, animal need. I nod, once, twice, and she holds me there.
“Then eat me out, Wes,” she says, and this time there’s nothing shy about it. It’s a dare, a demand, a revelation.
I do exactly as I’m told.
19
BRUNCH WITH BENEFITS
~JUNIPER~
Wes Carter is fucking my pussy so deeply with his tongue, I think I’ll lose my goddamn mind.
It’s not even fair, how good he is at this—on his knees on my kitchen floor like he wasbuiltto worship me from below, hands gripping my thighs like he’s trying to keep me from floating away. And honestly? He probably should.
