Page 133 of Saddle and Scent
The crude honesty of his confession sends such a shock of arousal through me that I actually squeak, my face going supernova with embarrassment and desire in equal measure.
The mental image he's just painted is so vivid and appealing that it takes several seconds for my brain to remember how to form words.
"I'm leaving," I announce, backing toward the barn entrance before I do something that proves I have zero self-control where he's concerned.
"Don't go touching yourself now," he calls after me, his voice thick with amusement and heat. "Or I'm walking in there and joining you."
The threat stops me in my tracks, and for a moment I seriously consider calling his bluff.
Because the idea of Wes appearing in my bedroom to follow through on that promise is appealing enough to override most of my remaining common sense.
But something about his expression suggests he's not bluffing at all, and I'm not quite ready for that level of escalation.
Not tonight, anyway.
Though the temptation to test his resolve is almost overwhelming.
27
HARVEST MOON
~JUNIPER~
The wine-red dress hangs on the back of my bedroom door like a question I'm not sure I know how to answer.
I've been staring at it for the better part of an hour, alternating between excitement and terror at the thought of actually wearing something so deliberately feminine. It's not that I'm opposed to dresses in principle, but my wardrobe for the past few years has consisted almost entirely of practical clothing—jeans, t-shirts, flannel shirts borrowed from various Alphas, and boots designed for function rather than fashion.
This dress has intentions.
The fabric is a deep burgundy that shifts between red and purple depending on the light, with a neckline that's modest but flattering and a hem that hits just above my knees. It's the kind of dress that says you put thought into your appearance, that you wanted to look beautiful for someone specific.
Which is exactly what makes it so terrifying.
Admitting I want to look beautiful for Callum, Wes, and Beckett feels like crossing a line I've been carefully maintaining since I returned to Saddlebrush Ridge. Up until now, I've beenable to tell myself that we're taking things slow, exploring possibilities, keeping our options open.
But you don't spend two hours getting ready for a harvest festival unless you've already made some fundamental decisions about what you want.
My hair has grown out significantly since returning to the ranch, the silver-to-purple ombre now reaching past my shoulders in waves that I've spent an embarrassing amount of time curling into what I hope are effortless-looking spirals. The purple ends catch the light when I move, creating flashes of color that feel both familiar and entirely new.
And then there's the makeup.
The collection of cosmetics spread across my vanity—the beautiful wooden piece that appeared in my room like everything else the guys thought I might need—represents an investment in femininity that feels both exciting and slightly overwhelming. Foundations and concealers, eyeshadows in shades I can't even name, lipsticks that promise everything from subtle enhancement to dramatic transformation.
I have no idea how to use any of it.
Which is why I'm meeting Piper in town before the festival, hoping her offer to help was genuine rather than polite small talk. The woman strikes me as someone who might know her way around a makeup brush, and I'm desperate enough to risk embarrassment if it means avoiding the kind of makeup disaster that becomes local legend.
The drive into town gives me time to second-guess every decision I've made in the past few hours. The dress feels different when I'm actually wearing it—more substantial somehow, like it's announcing intentions I'm not sure I'm ready to own. But there's also something liberating about the way the fabric moves when I walk, the way it makes me feel graceful in a way that jeans and flannel never quite manage.
I find Piper waiting outside the post office, and the grin that spreads across her face when she sees me is worth every moment of self-doubt.
"Holy shit, Juniper," she says, eyes wide with genuine appreciation. "You look amazing. That color is perfect on you."
"Thanks," I say, fighting the urge to tug at the hem self-consciously. "I feel like I'm playing dress-up in someone else's clothes."
"Trust me, you're not," she assures me, then gestures toward the collection of shopping bags at her feet. "I brought everything you ordered, plus a few extras I thought you might like. Are you sure you want me to do this? Because I should probably warn you that I get a little carried away with makeup."
"I'm counting on it," I admit. "I have no idea what I'm doing, and I'd rather look overdone than like I tried and failed spectacularly."
