Page 148 of Saddle and Scent
But as I watch her hand slide between her legs again, as I settle in to guide her through another wave, as our scents continue to mingle and merge in the heated air of her room, I can't bring myself to care.
"Callum," she breathes my name, and it's a question and a plea all at once.
I shift closer on the bed, close enough that she can feel my presence without touch.
"I'm here."
"I need—" She breaks off, frustrated, words failing her.
"I know."And I do.I can see it in every line of her body, smell it in the air between us. "Tell me what you want."
Her eyes meet mine, violet fire in their depths.
"Touch me," she said, and then, almost inaudible, "Please."
The word, of all things, nearly knocked me backward. Juniper Bell, who would sooner wrestle a stampeding bull than ask for help, whose default setting was stubborn and triple-locked, had asked me. Not just for something, but for this. For me.
I went still, as if any sudden move would scare her away. But she was past the point of running—her eyes were wild with frank need, her hair a silver tangle on the pillow, sweat-damp and clinging to her cheeks. The pulse in her throat beat frantic against the hollow of her neck, and for a second I just stared, cataloguing every vulnerable inch she allowed me to see.
It was a gift, this trust. I understood that on a bone-deep level. I’d spent my whole life around creatures—two-legged and four—who only showed their throats when they were too tired to keep fighting. I’d pulled trembling foals from their mothers, patched up mangled strays, comforted ranch hands who thought crying was an act of treason. But none of them had ever lookedat me like this. Like I was the only thing that could save her from herself.
I tried to remember how to speak. "Are you sure?"
But she wasn’t listening, not really. She fumbled for my hand and brought it to her thigh, the heat of her skin burning before I touched flesh. "Now. Please, just?—"
My breath caught. She didn’t want slow. Didn’t want coaxing or gentle platitudes. She wanted to be seen, to be claimed, to have her need met without apology. The ache of her scent, thick and sweet in my lungs, made my heart stutter and my cock strain with helpless empathy.
I could have said no. I could have told her to wait out the storm, to handle it herself like she handled everything else. Maybe she even expected me to. But all I saw was her desperation, the surrender in her voice, the plea in her eyes. She wanted this, and she wanted me.
So I leaned in, close enough to feel the heat radiate from her skin, close enough that her ragged exhale fogged the air between us. She shuddered at the first brush of my fingers, the muscles in her legs tightening, her breath going sharp and needy.
I kept my eyes on her face. Not the mirror this time—her. I wanted her to see that I wasn’t looking away, wasn’t ashamed or afraid of what she was, or what she wanted. If anything, the sight of her like this—open, hungry, trembling—made me want to give her everything.
"Tell me if you want to stop," I managed.
She shook her head, once, so fast her hair whipped her jaw. "Don’t stop."
Her voice cracked on the word. I let my hand slip beneath the fabric, found her slick and already trembling. She gasped, hips jerking up into my palm, and I nearly lost it myself. But I held steady, slow at first, giving her room to adjust, letting her get used to someone else being in control.
She went pliant fast, the stubbornness draining out of her in waves as I circled her clit, marveling at the velvet heat and the way she arched into every touch. Her hands fisted in the sheets, then reached up and locked around my wrist, as if grounding herself to the moment. As if she’d float away if she didn’t hold on.
I spoke to her, low and steady, feeding her praise and reassurance. "You’re doing so good, Bell. You feel incredible. I’ve got you, just let it happen."
She whimpered, and the sound went straight to my spine.
I pressed on, finding the rhythm her body wanted even before she could say it. She was close, her muscles tensing, her breath going choppy in anticipation. I watched the pleasure build in her eyes, the way her jaw dropped and her gaze went glassy. When she came, she did it with her whole body, hips bucking up off the bed, a ragged cry tearing from her throat.
I didn’t stop, not right away. I drew her through the aftershocks, gentling my touch as she shook and shuddered, until she finally went limp beneath my hand.
Her face was beautiful. Not just flushed or satisfied, but alive—like she’d just found the center of the world and decided to camp out there. She looked at me, really looked at me, and for once there was no armor in her gaze. Just gratitude, and relief, and a savage kind of joy.
I let myself smile, not the careful one I wore for the world, but the real thing. "You okay?"
She nodded, breathless, voice ruined but certain.
"Better than okay."
I stroked her thigh, grounding us both. The air was thick with our scents, a tangle of sweet and sharp, heat and relief and a hint of something new. I wanted to live in that moment forever, but I knew better.Want like this never settled.It either burned out or built higher, and with Juniper Bell, it was always the latter.
