Page 98 of Saddle and Scent
“Yeah, that’s it,” he growls, lips slick and dark. “Touch yourself. Let me see you fall apart.”
I do.
I pinch my nipples, twist, moan—and Wesgrowls, like he likes that too damn much. His fingers pump into me steadily now, curling just right, justright, while his tongue flicks mercilessly over my clit, faster and harder until my thighs are trembling, my voice wrecked, and all I can do is sob out his name.
And when Ipurragain, louder this time,stronger?
He fuckingmoanslike it’s the best thing he’s ever heard.
“You hear that?” he pants, voice wrecked. “That’s your body tellin’ me shewantsit. My sweet girl’s so fuckin’ close, ain’t she?”
“Yes,” I breathe. “Yes, yes, yes—don’t stop?—”
He doesn’t.
Hedevoursme.
And when the orgasm hits, it’s volcanic. My body locks, shakes, then shatters. I scream—full-bodied, messy, feral—as my cunt clamps around his fingers, thighs crushing his head, tears slipping down my cheeks.
He doesn’t stop until Ipushat him, whining too sensitive, too raw, and even then—he only eases off a little, licking me gently like he’s coaxing me down.
I slump back into the chair, legs spread, tits out, throat raw, pussy ruined.
And Wes?
Wes justgrins, standing slowly, tongue sweeping his bottom lip like he’s licking away the evidence.
“Damn, Junebug,” he drawls, eyes dark with hunger. “That was breakfast, lunch, and dinner all in one.”
I blink up at him, still floating.
Then I glance toward the counter and mutter, “Was savin’ that last bit of waffle for brunch.”
He raises a brow. “You still hungry?”
My lips twitch. “Not for waffles.”
“Oh?” he says, cocking his head, already reaching for the maple syrup. “Well then.”
I blink up at Wes Carter, dazed and drenched and still twitching, just in time to see him grab the damn syrup bottle again.
“Oh no,” I murmur, catching my breath. “Wes—don’t you dare.”
His grin is wolfish. Dangerous.
“You said you weren’t hungry for waffles,” he says, twisting the cap off slow and deliberate, like he’s opening a bottle of champagne. “Thought I’d offer dessert.”
My eyes drop—because how could they not?—to where his cock is standing proud and flushed, the thick length gleaming already with a sheen of arousal. And then I watch, open-mouthed, as he tips the bottle.
A golden stream of maple syrup drizzles down the head, trailing along the thick vein on the underside, gliding past the ridge and pooling at the base. The scent hits me instantly—sweet and sinful, sugar clinging to musk, and heat coils low in my belly.
“You filthy man,” I whisper, already sliding off the table. My knees hit the floor with a soft thud, and Wes’s breath stutters.
“Juniper…” His voice is gravel and tension. “You don’t have to?—”
I cut him off with a smirk and a slow, lingering lick up his syrup-coated shaft.
“Brunch, remember?” I murmur, licking my lips. “And this looks like my kind of buffet.”
