Page 157 of Saddle and Scent
The song faded, the speaker sputtering as the battery died. But we stayed there on the grass, breathless and tangled, the world’s weirdest pile-up, and for the first time ever, I let myself believe in happy endings.
Even if they started with “fuck it, let’s dance.”
There’ssomething about post-dance euphoria that makes every touch feel electric. Maybe it’s the adrenaline, or the whiskey, or the fact that I’d finally stopped pretending I didn’t want them—all of them, at the same time.
We were sprawled in the grass, a tangle of limbs and laughter, the black silk of my lingerie barely holding together under Beckett’s head, Wes’s legs thrown over mine, Callum bracing us all with one arm planted behind him and the other looped protectively around my waist. It should have been awkward. Instead, it felt like sinking into a hot bath after a week of walking home in the rain: shivery at first, then delicious.
The last dregs of music from the dead speaker faded into the wind, but none of us moved to get up. I felt wild, loose-limbed, reckless. I wanted to do something about it.
So I did.
I rolled over and straddled Callum, who made a sound that was half-groan, half-chuckle. His shirt rode up on his ribs, exposing a line of muscle dusted with hair, and I pressed my palm flat against it.
“You said you didn’t know how to dance,” I teased.
He scowled, but there was a faint smile at the edge of it.
“Didn’t step on your feet, did I?”
I leaned down, slow, until my mouth hovered over his.
“You were perfect.”
I kissed him—soft, almost chaste, but when his lips parted I felt the heat there. I ground down, just a little, and his hands found my hips, clamping hard enough to bruise if I’d been less stubborn about showing off.
“You wearing this for me?” he rumbled, running a thumb under the edge of my bra.
“For all of you,” I said, and then Wes’s hands joined in, warm and greedy on my bare thighs.
Beckett rolled upright, eyes dark and hungry. “If you’re offering, don’t hold back,” he said. The way he looked at me made my skin prickle; I’d never felt so wanted, not by one, not by three, and it was starting to dawn on me that maybe I could have it. All of it.
I let Callum kiss down my neck, nipping at the skin until I yelped, then twisted and caught Wes’s mouth with mine. He tasted like soda and cinnamon, and he smiled against my lips, pulling me onto his lap like we were back in junior prom and had the whole gym to ourselves.
“God, I missed this,” he whispered, hands sliding up to cup my ass. He kneaded, then gave it a little slap. “You get even cuter when you’re bossing us around.”
I giggled and bit his lip, and he groaned, deep and throaty.
The sound made my nipples go tight, even through the lace. He tugged at the ribbon, loosening it just enough for the cups to slip.
Before I could say a word, Beckett was there, steady hands sliding under the band of my bra, fingers warm against my skin. He was careful, reverent, almost worshipful as he peeled it away.
For a second I thought I’d feel shy, but the way he looked at me—like I was a feast and he’d been fasting—made my breath catch.
“You’re gorgeous, Junebug,” he said, not an ounce of doubt in his voice. “Let us show you how much.”
He pressed his mouth to my breast, tongue swirling around my nipple. My head snapped back, and I let out a moan so loud the birds in the trees took flight.
“Jesus, Beckett,” I gasped.
Wes laughed, bright and wicked, and kissed my throat. “He’s got a thing for making you lose control. It’s like his love language.”
I reached back, dragging Wes’s mouth up to mine, and at the same time tangled my fingers in Callum’s hair, pulling him closer. For a second, I didn’t know which way to turn, who to give myself to first, and then I realized: I didn’t have to choose.
I could have them all.
I could be greedy.
I could be theirs, and they could be mine, and it could feel this good.
