Page 19 of Saddle and Scent (Saddlebrush Ridge #1)

Callum Hayes doesn't kneel for anyone, but here he is, looking up at me with those predator's eyes, hands already reaching further up and sliding my long t-shirt up with it, exposing the sight of my thong

"Let's try communicating differently," he murmurs, voice rough with want. "In a way that makes you understand."

His hands are steady as they encourage my legs to spread further, revealing the mess I've become. The cool air hits my heated flesh, and I gasp, hands flying to his shoulders for balance. He spreads my legs even wider, positioning me against the wall, and the first drop of slick that’s been long overflowing in the thin fabric of my thong rolls down my inner thigh makes him groan like he's in pain.

"Fuck, Bell," he breathes, and the reverence in his voice has me clenching around nothing. "You smell like heaven."

My scent must be flooding the room by now— honeysuckle gone heavy with arousal— that telltale Omega sweetness that broadcasts exactly how affected I am.

There's no hiding it, no pretending I don't want this with every fiber of my being.

Wes's hand slides under my shirt, palming my breast, while Beckett's lips find that spot where neck meets shoulder that has always made me melt.

I'm surrounded, overwhelmed, consumed by them.

Callum leans in, his breath hot against my core, and I'm already shaking with anticipation. His tongue extends, just barely, aimed for that first taste?—

CRASH.

Thunder explodes overhead, so loud it shakes the windows, and I jolt awake with a gasp.

My bedroom.

My empty, cold, Alpha-free bedroom.

"Fuck," I groan into my pillow, body still thrumming with arousal that has nowhere to go. "Fuck, fuck, fuck ."

The sheets are soaked with sweat and slick, twisted around my legs like I've been fighting a war in my sleep.

My pussy throbs with unfulfilled need, clenching around nothing, and I can still taste phantom kisses on my lips.

A dream. Of course it was a fucking dream. It always is!

Because the universe isn't done making me its personal cosmic joke.

I roll onto my back, staring at the water-stained ceiling as my heart rate slowly returns to normal.

My skin feels too tight, too hot, and the ache between my legs is getting worse, not better. Every shift of my thighs sends another pulse of need through me, and I know from experience that trying to ignore it will only make things worse.

"This is pathetic," I tell the ceiling. It doesn't respond, which is probably for the best.

Outside, the storm that woke me continues its assault on the ranch. Rain pounds against the windows with renewed fury, and somewhere in the distance, something metal is banging against something else metal in a rhythm that's going to drive me insane if the sexual frustration doesn't get me first.

I check the time—5:47 AM. The sun won't be up for another hour, but there's no way I'm getting back to sleep.

Not with my body staging a full revolt against my better judgment.

With a groan that comes from the depths of my soul, I drag myself out of bed. The floorboards are cold against my bare feet, a shock that does nothing to cool the fire under my skin. I catch sight of myself in the mirror as I pass—hair a wild tangle, cheeks flushed, eyes still glazed with want.

"Get it together, Bell," I mutter, but my reflection just stares back, unimpressed.

The shower is my only hope. I crank the water as cold as I can stand, stepping under the spray with a hiss.

For about three seconds, it helps.

Then my traitorous brain supplies helpful images from the dream—Callum's hand around my throat, Wes's tongue tracing patterns that made me see stars, Beckett's careful strength as he held me steady.

"Nope," I say out loud, like speaking can banish the memories. "Not happening."

But my hand is already moving south, fingers sliding through the slick that even cold water can't wash away.

The first touch to my clit has me gasping, other hand bracing against the tile wall for support.

I try to think of literally anything else—the broken fence posts, Pickles' attitude problem, my mile-long list of repairs—but my fingers have their own agenda. They circle and press with embarrassing expertise, finding exactly the rhythm that has me climbing toward relief.

They don’t just circle—they tease, they torment, they chase each pulse and tremor like they’re hungry for it.

The pads of my fingers find that slick, swollen clit and work it with a precision that is, frankly, undignified for someone who spent all of middle school convinced she was a late-blooming Beta and not destined for the Omega life that was waiting for her.

My knees go weak, and I have to brace harder on the tile so I don’t collapse like a dramatic Victorian invalid.

There’s no gentleness to it, no slow buildup, just frantic, ruthless pressure that has me shivering and panting and cursing the combined existence of every Hayes, Carter, and Ford within a hundred-mile radius.

Every time I blink, I see flashes—Callum’s mouth, Wes’s hands, Beckett’s voice rumbling soft and thick right at my ear, and it’s obscene how much it turns me on.

My body doesn’t care that they’re just ghosts, just echoes from a subconscious so starved it’s inventing new ways to ruin me.

My clit is throbbing under my own touch, slick everywhere, my breath fogging the glass and echoing around the empty bathroom like a desperate animal’s plea.

I can’t stop thinking of the way they would take over, how I could lean into it, let my body go slack, and let someone else drive.

I want to be ruined. Crave the obliterating sensations of pleasure they would deliver again and again, and I wouldn’t have to beg for it.

I want—I want— fuck, I don’t even know what I want except more.

My fingers move faster, circling, pressing, chasing the sweet spot that makes my vision blur at the edges.

I let my head fall forward, forehead pressed to the cold tile, and let myself imagine it’s not my own hand but someone else’s, the hands that held me steady and made me forget for a second that I was supposed to keep it together at all times.

It’s a fantasy, but for a minute I let it be real, let myself get lost in the sensation, the relentless heat, the promise of release just out of reach.

"Fuck," I whimper, giving up on resistance. My fingers slide lower, pushing inside where I'm molten and desperate. It's not enough—it's never enough—but it's what I have.

I fuck myself with a desperation that borders on anger, free hand coming up to pinch at my nipples through the soaked tank top I didn't bother removing. The dual sensation has me moaning, loud and unashamed, because who's going to hear?

The ghosts? Pickles?

In my mind, it's not my fingers but theirs. Callum's thick digits stretching me open while Wes plays with my clit and Beckett whispers filthy promises in my ear.

The phantom of their scents fills the shower, makes me lightheaded with need. My real body braces harder against the tile as the ghost ones take over—I surrender to the image of being surrounded, bracketed, unable to move unless they let me.

Callum’s fingers crook just right, and I clench down, helpless and greedy.

Wes leans in, catches my lower lip between his teeth, and murmurs sweet filth that sets my pulse thrumming in my ears.

Beckett’s tongue traces the shell of my ear before he drags his teeth across my neck, and it’s so real I’m almost frightened by how my body reacts, hips bucking in the air, seeking more.

Every nerve ending is lit up, hypersensitive, and I’m a wet, panting mess; I want to beg, but all three of them are already reading my body, giving me exactly what I crave before I can say the words.

The fantasy-me arches into their touch, desperate, shameless.

I’m utterly at their mercy, and it’s glorious, a relief so sharp it’s almost pain.

I want to be claimed, marked, owned, and the image of their hands pinning me, their mouths and fingers everywhere, makes my real fingers move even faster.

The coil inside me tightens, threatening to snap; I chase it, greedy for the explosion that will finally, finally take the edge off.

I can almost hear them coaxing me, telling me to let go, that it’s okay, that I’m safe and wanted and perfect like this.

The fantasy is so vivid I’m certain if I open my eyes, I’ll see them—their eyes wild with hunger, their mouths softening into the rare, private smiles they wore only for me.

The longing is a physical ache, sharp and relentless, but for just this moment, in the haze of steam and sensation, I let myself believe it’s real.

"Please," I beg the empty shower, fucking myself harder. "Please, please, please?—"

The orgasm hits like a lightning strike, back arching as I clench around my fingers.

I ride it out with broken moans, forehead pressed against the cool tile, legs shaking with the force of it.

But even as the aftershocks fade, I know it's not enough. It simply tames, but doesn’t feed the true beast that’s only fulfilled by an Alpha’s knot…and no amount of self-service is going to scratch that itch.

I slide down the shower wall until I'm sitting on the floor, water beating down on my oversensitive skin.

The truth sits heavy in my chest, undeniable even through layers of stubbornness and self-preservation.

Ten years. Ten fucking years, and no other Alpha has even come close to affecting me the way they do.

I've tried— Goodness, hell knows I've tried.

Coffee dates with nice Beta men who bored me to tears.

Tinder hookups with city Alphas who smelled wrong and touched me like I was generic, interchangeable.

Even that disastrous six-month relationship with Nemo, who checked all the boxes on paper but left me cold in practice.

None of them made me burn.

None of them made me want to submit and fight back in equal measure.

None of them kissed me like they were trying to crawl inside my skin and take up permanent residence.

"This is so fucked," I whisper to the shower floor.

Because what's the alternative?

Give in?

Let them back into my life, my bed, my heart?

I know how that story ends.

We've already written that tragedy once, and the ending nearly killed me.

But the stubborn truth remains: my body recognizes theirs on a molecular level. Every cell in me screams mine when they're near, even as my brain shouts warnings about history repeating itself.

I finally drag myself up, turning off the water and wrapping myself in a towel that's seen better days. The bathroom mirror is fogged, mercifully hiding my reflection.

I don't need to see the look on my face to know what's written there— want, frustration, and the bone-deep exhaustion of fighting a war against my own nature.

The sunrise is painting the sky purple and gold by the time I'm dressed and somewhat human again.

I stand at the kitchen window, coffee mug warm in my hands, and watch the storm clouds retreat toward the mountains.

The ranch looks even worse in the growing light—fences down, debris scattered everywhere, puddles the size of small ponds dotting the yard.

But it's mine.

This disaster, this responsibility, this chance to build something without anyone's help or interference— it's mine.

I just have to survive the three Alphas, determined to remind me of everything I left behind.

"You can dream," I tell my reflection in the window. "Dreams are free. Dreams are safe. Dreams don't require you to risk everything you've worked to rebuild."

The reflection doesn't look convinced, but I raise my mug in a mock toast anyway.

"Here's to cold showers and self-sufficiency," I say. "May they be enough to get me through whatever fresh hell today brings."

Outside, Pickles brays his morning greeting, loud and demanding.

At least someone around here has their priorities straight.

The dream clings to me like cobwebs, whispers of what could be if I were brave enough— or stupid enough —to try again.

But I'm neither.

I'm just a woman with a broken ranch and a body that won't stop craving what it can't have.

Story of my fucking life.