Page 111 of Saddle and Scent
He presses harder, his muscled thigh flexing against my center.
I can't help myself—I grind down against him, seeking more pressure, more friction, more of whatever magic he's working with nothing but his leg and his determination to drive me insane.
Slick soaks through my underwear, probably through my jeans too, and I should be embarrassed but I'm too far gone to care.
"That's it," he encourages, one hand gripping my hip to help guide my movements. "Take what you need, sweetheart. Let me feel how much you want this."
I'm panting, sweating, grinding against his thigh like a woman possessed.
The pressure builds and builds until I'm balanced on the knife's edge of release, every muscle in my body drawn tight with anticipation.
And then he bites my lower lip—not hard enough to hurt, but with enough pressure to send me flying over the edge.
I come with a strangled cry that I barely manage to muffle against his shoulder. My entire body locks and shudders against his thigh, wave after wave of sensation washing over me until I'm boneless and trembling in his arms.
"That's my girl," he murmurs against my temple, his voice filled with satisfaction and possessive pride. "Perfect and messy and so fucking beautiful when you let go."
I can barely breathe.
I'm humiliated and aroused and completely wrecked, and he looks absolutely delighted with himself.
"You—" I pant, struggling to form coherent thoughts. "You're an asshole."
His grin is pure masculine smugness. "I'm an Alpha who's very late for work."
He kisses me again—softer this time, almost tender.
A stark contrast to the fierce claiming that just took place.
Then he steps back, adjusts himself with casual efficiency, and gives me a look that's equal parts affection and dark promise.
"I'll text you later," he says simply.
And then he's gone, disappearing back into the clinic like nothing happened.
Leaving me standing in an alley, panting and disheveled and trying to figure out how I'm supposed to walk back into public when I'm still trembling from the orgasm he just gave me with nothing but his thigh and his filthy mouth.
The scent of my arousal is definitely clinging to his clothes.
Everyone in that clinic is going to know exactly what we were doing out here.
And from the satisfied smirk on his face as he disappeared through the door, that was probably exactly his intention.
I don't know what this thing between us is becoming. I don't know how to categorize the way he makes me feel—desired and cherished and completely out of control all at once.
But one thing is crystal clear:
Wes Carter doesn't follow anyone's rules but his own.
And God help me, I think I'm ready to stop following mine too.
22
FLOUR AND FIRE
~JUNIPER~
The Orchard Bakery at dawn is a completely different creature than it is during the busy afternoon rush.
