Page 18 of Saddle and Scent (Saddlebrush Ridge #1)

DREAMS AND COLD SHOWERS

~JUNIPER~

T he words taste like surrender as they leave my mouth.

"You should go," I say finally. "Storm's letting up."

But instead of the shuffle of boots toward the door, instead of mumbled goodbyes and the merciful relief of solitude, Callum's growl cuts through the rain-dampened quiet like a blade through silk.

"No."

The word hangs in the air, heavy with years of unspoken everything.

He rises from the couch in one fluid motion, all coiled muscle and barely leashed control.

His eyes are pure gold fire, the careful distance he's been maintaining since he walked in evaporating like morning mist.

"This is stupid," he continues, voice dropping to that register that makes my insides liquify. "All of it. The pretending, the distance, acting like we don't know every inch of each other's souls. I'm tired of running from this madness."

My back hits the wall before I realize I've been backing up.

"Callum—"

But he's already there, crowding into my space with the inevitability of a storm surge.

His hand comes up, fingers wrapping around my throat—not tight, not threatening, just enough pressure to still me, to make me focus on nothing but him.

"No more talking," he rasps, and then his mouth crashes into mine.

The kiss is nothing like the fumbling experiments of our youth. This is a claiming, pure and simple. His lips move against mine with devastating precision, no hesitation, no uncertainty.

I expect— what? Awkwardness? Or the hesitant nostalgia of two people dancing around half-remembered mistakes.

Instead, Callum all but consumes me. There's no trial-and-error, no cautious recon; he knows what he wants and he takes it, my lips parting on instinct, my hands scrabbling for purchase against his shoulders and finding nothing but hard muscle and the faintest tremor of restraint.

His mouth is hot, relentless, and I feel the intention behind every movement—the way his teeth scrape just barely over my lower lip, the way his tongue traces the seam before demanding entrance, the subtle tilt of his head so noses and breath and desperation align like gears in a clockwork.

It's not gentle. It shouldn't be, not after all this.

He kisses the way he does everything else: thoroughly, with zero wasted motion and enough force to leave bruises if I let him.

My brain shorts out, all the stubbornly rational parts of me reduced to static.

The sound I make is embarrassing, a muffled high-pitched thing, but Callum swallows it greedily, his free hand fisting in the back of my shirt like he can't stand the idea of even a molecule of space between us.

The wall at my back is cold and rough, the only anchor point in a world that's suddenly nothing but him—his hands, his scent, the taste of rainwater and whiskey and the familiar heat that always made me reckless.

I fight at first, just to prove I can, but it’s perfunctory.

Every atom in my body recognizes him, wants him, remembers exactly how this used to feel and how it was never enough. The realization is a sucker punch: I never moved on, not really. All my clever plans for boundaries and independence fizzle out like sidewalk chalk in a thunderstorm.

When I try to turn my head, to maintain some thread of resistance, his grip tightens just enough to keep me exactly where he wants me.

His tongue sweeps across my lower lip, demanding entry, and my traitorous body opens for him without consulting my brain.

The taste of him floods my senses—coffee and rain and something wild, untamed.

He kisses like he's trying to consume me, like he's been starving for a decade and I'm the only sustenance that matters.

A moan escapes me, swallowed by his mouth, and I feel him smile against my lips. Smug bastard . But God, the difference between then and now is staggering.

Teen Callum kissed like he was afraid I might break.

Adult Callum kisses like he knows exactly how to take me apart and is planning to do it piece by piece.

My hands find his chest without permission, fingers splaying across the wet fabric of his shirt.

I can feel his heart hammering beneath my palm, matching the frantic rhythm of my own.

He angles my head with the hand at my throat, deepening the kiss until I'm drowning in him, lungs burning for air I'm not sure I want.

I can’t help but push him forward a little moving away from the wall, as if its not my stability blanket in this wild chase of lust and reunion.

When he finally breaks away, we're both gasping.

My lips feel swollen, sensitized, and the look in his eyes promises this is just the beginning.

"My turn."

Wes's voice comes from my left, honey-smooth and amused.

I turn my head— when did Callum's hand gentle from control to caress? —and there he is, blue eyes dancing with heat and mischief.

"Wes, I?—"

But he's already cupping my face with both hands, tilting my chin up with heartbreaking gentleness.

Where Callum's kiss was wildfire, Wes's is a slow burn. His lips brush mine softly at first, teasing, coaxing.

He teases at my lower lip, nipping just hard enough to make me gasp, then soothes the sting with the feather-light brush of his tongue.

Wes kisses with the kind of focus I’ve only ever seen him use on a surgical table: meticulous, unhurried, making absolutely certain I feel every millimeter of contact.

The sweetness of it almost hurts. I feel my spine arch, involuntary, seeking more even as he keeps the pace criminally slow.

One of his hands slides back to tangle in my hair, tilting my head to shift the angle, and it’s so gentle, so tender, I could start sobbing on the spot.

By the time I remember to breathe, my lips are tingling, my lungs tight, and all the blood in my body has apparently relocated southward. My knees are useless. I’d be on the floor if not for the twin anchors of Wes’s arms and Callum’s silent presence in front of me.

When I sigh into it, he takes it as invitation, deepening the kiss with a thoroughness that has my knees threatening to buckle.

He kisses like he has all the time in the world, like there's nothing more important than learning every corner of my mouth.

His tongue traces patterns that make me shiver, each stroke deliberate and devastating.

One hand slides into my hair, fingers tangling in the damp strands, while the other traces the line of my jaw with feather-light touches.

I'm so lost in the contrast— Callum's demanding heat versus Wes's patient exploration —that I don't notice the third set of hands until they're spanning my waist.

Beckett.

His touch is instantly recognizable, firm but tender, grounding me even as I threaten to float away.

He’s always been the anchor, the steady hand, the slow drawl that could settle the wildest filly or the most frantic heartbeat.

I don’t have to look to know it’s him—he smells like cinnamon and sawdust and the barest hint of whiskey, the way my old quilt used to after he’d crashed on our couch in high school.

He stands behind me, his chest pressed to my shoulder blades, bigger somehow than I remember, a wall of comfort and promise.

I feel the slow inhale and exhale against my back, the subtle flex of his arms as they draw me firmly but gently into the circle of the three of them.

My body is caught between Callum’s hurricane force, Wes’s teasing warmth, and Beckett’s gravity.

There’s nowhere else in the world I could possibly be.

His thumbs rub slow, careful circles against my ribs, soothing the wild pulse leaping there. Then he dips his head, close enough that his breath warms the shell of my ear.

"You okay, Sweetpea?" he murmurs, and the nickname ricochets straight to my heart. I want to say something snarky, something to break the spell, but all I can do is nod, lips parted and trembling.

I can’t even keep track of whose hands are whose—Callum’s at my throat, Wes’s in my hair, Beckett’s encircling my waist—but it doesn’t matter. I’m held, bracketed, caged by gentleness and hunger and a decade of what ifs.

Beckett’s lips brush my neck, a feather-light graze that makes my knees buckle for real this time. He catches me with a soft laugh, squeezing me tighter, his chest rumbling against my back. The sound is pure reassurance, grounding me even as I threaten to float away on the tidal wave of sensation.

Their scents swirl around me, creating a cocktail that goes straight to my head. Pine and smoke from Callum, citrus and storm from Wes, cinnamon and fresh bread from Beckett. It's overwhelming, intoxicating, everything I've tried so hard to forget and everything I've never stopped craving.

When Wes releases my mouth, I'm trembling. My head falls back against the wall, and I look up to find Beckett gazing down at me with those warm brown eyes.

There's no hesitation when he leans down, just quiet certainty.

His kiss is different again— confident but careful, like he's writing promises with his lips.

He tastes like the coffee he made, like the cinnamon rolls from his bakery, like home in a way that makes my chest ache.

His beard is soft against my skin, and when he nips gently at my bottom lip, the sound I make is embarrassingly needy.

My body is in full revolt against my better judgment.

Slick pools between my thighs and the throb between my legs is becoming unbearable.

Every nerve ending is alive, electric, screaming for more.

The rational part of my brain— the part that knows this is dangerous, that we've been down this road before —is drowned out by pure, primal need.

Beckett pulls back, and I force my eyes open, breath coming in desperate pants.

The three of them are looking at me like I'm something precious, worth worshipping, and it's too much and not enough all at once.

That's when I notice Callum has dropped to his knees.

The sight alone nearly undoes me.