Page 20 of Saddle and Scent (Saddlebrush Ridge #1)

MORNING CONFESSIONS

~WES~

T he thing about being an early riser is that you catch people at their most vulnerable—and sometimes, that's exactly what breaks your heart.

Puddles reflect the purple-pink sky, and the air smells like wet earth and new beginnings.

Or it would, if I wasn't drowning in my own cocktail of nerves and determination.

The bag crinkles as I raise my fist to knock, but something stops me.

A sound, faint but unmistakable, coming from around the side of the house. Water running. The shower.

I should knock. Wait on the porch like a civilized person. That's what the rational part of my brain insists, the part that remembers I'm a veterinarian with a reputation to maintain, not some hormone-driven kid who can't control himself.

But my feet are already moving, drawn by an invisible thread that's been pulling at me for ten goddamn years.

The path around the house is overgrown with morning glory and wild blackberry vines, thorns catching at my jeans as I navigate the narrow space between the wall and the untamed hedgerow. I'm not trying to peek— Jesus, I'm not that guy . I just need to make sure she's okay.

That sound could be distress, or surely ? —

A moan cuts through the morning air, low and desperate, and my entire body goes rigid.

Fuck.

That's not distress.

That's... damn…that's Juniper in the shower, taking care of business, and I should turn around right now.

Just march my ass back to the front door and pretend I never heard anything.

Instead, I freeze like a deer in headlights, caught between propriety and the primal part of my brain that's suddenly very, very awake.

Another sound escapes—a whimper that could be frustration, need, or both—and my cock responds with embarrassing enthusiasm, going from zero to painfully hard in seconds.

The Alpha in me wants to break down the door, offer help, and be the solution to whatever problem has her making those sounds.

But I'm not an animal.

I've spent years learning control, years pushing down these exact impulses. So I dig my boots into the soft earth and force myself to stay still, even as every instinct screams at me to move.

The water keeps running, and through it, I can hear her.

Soft gasps, desperate little moans that paint vivid pictures in my mind.

I’ve always been able to hear better than the average person, and its going to be my downfall here, because they pick up everything— the slick sound of fingers working, the catch in her breath, the way she's trying to muffle her cries against what I imagine is her forearm.

My jeans are suddenly way too tight, cock straining against the denim with single-minded determination. I should leave. This is a violation of her privacy, standing here listening like some kind of pervert.

But then the wind shifts, and her scent hits me like a freight train.

Holy fucking shit.

Honeysuckle and need, so thick I can taste it on my tongue.

But underneath that familiar sweetness is pure, concentrated arousal—the kind that only comes from an Omega in desperate need of release.

It floods my senses, short-circuits my higher brain functions, leaves nothing but want-want-want echoing in my skull.

My hands are shaking as I lower the bag to the wooden plank by my feet, careful not to make a sound. This is insane and so fucking wrong…on so many levels.

But my fingers are already working at my zipper, and I can't seem to stop them.

The first touch of cool morning air on my cock makes me hiss through clenched teeth. I'm already leaking, the head slick with precum, and I have to bite my lip hard to suppress the growl building in my chest.

I angle myself deeper into the shadows cast by the overgrown oak, grateful for the cover.

The sun won't hit this side of the house for another hour at least, and the hedge provides additional screening.

Not that anyone's likely to be wandering around at this ungodly hour, but the last thing I need is to get caught jerking off outside Juniper's window like some kind of stalker.

Man, that’s how desperate I’ve gotten at the mere sound of her…

Another moan drifts through the air, higher this time, more desperate, and my hand moves without conscious thought. The first stroke is almost painful, oversensitive from going zero to sixty so fast, but I match her rhythm as best I can guess it.

Slow at first, teasing, the way I imagine working her up if I was in there with her.

God, what I wouldn't give to be in that shower right now.

To pin her against the tile and replace those fingers with mine.

To learn exactly what makes her gasp and whimper and beg.

I've imagined it a thousand times over the years, but having the soundtrack makes it devastatingly real.

Her breathing changes, gets more erratic, and I know she's close. My hand speeds up, chasing my own release as I paint mental pictures of water sluicing over her skin, of her head thrown back in pleasure, of those perfect pink lips parted on my name.

"Please," I hear her whimper, barely audible over the water, and it nearly ends me right there.

In my mind, she's not alone.

I'm beside her, one hand between her legs while the other plays with her breasts. Callum's got her pressed against the wall, kissing her like he's trying to devour her, while Beckett whispers filthy praise in her ear.

She's surrounded, supported, cherished the way she always should have been.

My cock pulses in my grip, and I'm close, so fucking close. I lean harder against the wall, free hand braced for support as I work myself faster.

The fantasy shifts— now she's on her knees, those storm-gray eyes looking up at me while her mouth ?—

"Fuck," I breathe, barely a whisper, as her cries reach a crescendo.

The sound of her coming apart destroys what's left of my control.

My orgasm slams into me like a sledgehammer, and I have to bite down on my fist to muffle the growl that wants to escape.

Cum paints the ground in thick spurts as my hips jerk forward, chasing every last second of pleasure.

For a moment, I just stand there, breathing hard, cock still twitching in my hand as reality slowly seeps back in.

The shower's still running, but it's quiet now except for the sound of water hitting tile.

Jesus Christ, what did I just do?

The post-orgasm clarity hits like a bucket of ice water.

I just jerked off outside Juniper's house while she was in the shower.

That's... that's crossing about seventeen different lines, and no amount of Alpha instincts can justify it.

I tuck myself back in with shaking hands, grateful for the small mercy that I managed not to get any on my clothes. The bag of pastries sits innocently by my feet, and I pick it up, trying to pretend the last ten minutes didn't happen.

Inside, I hear movement—the squeak of old pipes as the shower turns off, the shuffle of feet on wooden floors.

Time to make my presence known before this gets even more awkward.

I circle back to the front of the house, taking a moment to compose myself. My heart's still racing, and I can smell her arousal clinging to my clothes, but there's nothing to be done about that now.

The show must go on, even if that show involves me and my pack lusting over an Omega we’ve dreamed of having for years after fucking it up the first time…

I knock, three quick raps that echo in the morning quiet.

More shuffling, then the door opens to reveal Juniper in all her post-shower glory.

Her hair is damp, falling in waves around her shoulders, and her cheeks are flushed pink. She's wearing an oversized t-shirt and leggings, but might as well be naked for how my body responds to the sight of her.

"Wes?" She blinks up at me, clearly surprised. "What are you doing here?"

The flush on her cheeks deepens, and I have to fight the urge to reach out and trace it with my fingers.

"Rough night?" I ask, aiming for casual and probably missing by a mile. "Or did you go for a morning run?"

Her blush goes nuclear, spreading down her neck in a way that makes me want to follow it with my mouth.

"I—what? No, I just... Why are you here?"

I hold up the bag like a peace offering, while trying not to be turned on by her flushed expression and how desperate I want to smash her lips with mine.

"Beckett's been stress-baking again. Figured you could use some breakfast that doesn't come from a box." I give her my best charming smile, the one that usually gets me out of trouble. "Plus, he knows you can't resist his cinnamon rolls. Man's got your number when it comes to baked goods."

She narrows her eyes, but I can see her weakening.

The smell of cinnamon and fresh bread is already wafting from the bag, and her stomach gives an audible growl.

"This better not be some kind of Alpha posturing thing," she warns, but she's already stepping back to let me in.

"Scout's honor," I say, following her into the disaster zone she calls a living room. "Just a friend bringing another friend some breakfast. If I start acting up, you have my permission to throw me out on my ass."

That would be rather fun to experience her try at least.

"Oh, I will," she assures me, leading the way to the kitchen. "Don't think I won't."

"Wouldn't dream of it, Junebug." The nickname slips out before I can stop it, and she shoots me a look over her shoulder.

"What did I say about calling me that?"

"That it's adorable and you secretly love it?" I guess, setting the bag on the counter.

"Try again."

"That it makes you think of summer nights and sneaking out to go swimming in the quarry?"

She pauses in reaching for coffee mugs, and I know I've hit a nerve.

We did spend a lot of nights at that quarry, the four of us, back when things were simpler.

Or at least when we were better at pretending they were.

"Coffee," she says instead of responding. "If you're staying, you're getting put to work."

"Yes, ma'am." I lean against the counter, watching as she moves around the kitchen with practiced efficiency.

Even in the chaos of boxes and mismatched dishes, she makes it look like home.

She's reaching for the coffee filters when I move. I don't plan it, or think it through, just follow the invisible thread that's been pulling me toward her since I was eighteen years old.

My arms wrap around her from behind, and she goes completely still.

I can feel her heart racing where my chest presses against her back, can smell the soap and shampoo mixing with her natural scent. It's intoxicating and terrifying and exactly where I need to be.

"Wes?" Her voice is barely a whisper. "Are you okay?"

I rest my chin on her shoulder, careful to keep the embrace friendly rather than sexual despite every instinct screaming for more. She's so small in my arms, fitting perfectly like she was made to be held by me.

By us.

I don't answer right away, just breathe her in and let myself have this moment.

Ten years of distance, of pretending she was just another face from our past, and here she is.

Real and warm and smelling like she’s right where she belongs…in my arms.

"Just wanted to say welcome back, Junebug," I murmur against her shoulder.

She doesn't respond immediately, standing rigid in my arms like she's afraid to move. But slowly, incrementally, she relaxes. Her weight settles back against me, and one of her hands comes up to rest lightly on my forearm.

"Guess..." she starts, then stops. Takes a breath that I feel through my whole body. "Guess it's good to be back home."

The words are so quiet I almost miss them, but they hit me like a lightning strike.

Home.

She called this place home, despite everything that drove her away — despite the walls she's built so high we need a ladder just to see over them.

I want to turn her around, want to kiss her until she remembers why we were inevitable. Want to tell her about the dreams that have haunted me for a decade, about the way no other woman has ever smelled right or felt right or laughed at my dumb jokes the way she does.

But this moment is fragile, precious.

One wrong move and she'll retreat back behind those walls, and I'm not sure we'd survive losing her again.

So I just hold her, memorizing the feeling of her in my arms, the way her breathing syncs with mine, the tentative trust in how she's letting herself lean into me.

Outside, Pickles lets out his morning bray, shattering the spell.

Juniper steps forward, breaking the embrace, and busies herself with the coffee maker. But there's something different in the set of her shoulders, something that might be hope if I'm not imagining it.

"So," she says, not looking at me. "How about that coffee?"

"Sounds perfect," I reply, and mean it.

We don't talk about the embrace, about the admission that slipped out, or the way the air between us feels charged with possibility. But as she hands me a mug and our fingers brush, I see it in her eyes—the same recognition that's been dogging me since she drove back into town.

We're not over yet...not by a long shot.

The morning sun finally crests the trees, flooding the kitchen with golden light. It catches in her hair, turns her eyes to silver, and I have to look away before I do something stupid like tell her I've been in love with her since before I knew what love was.

Instead, I dig into the bag and pull out Beckett's offerings—cinnamon rolls, apple turnovers, and what appears to be some kind of experimental croissant situation.

"Beck's really going through it, huh?" Juniper observes, eyeing the haul.

"You have no idea," I confirm. "Yesterday he made three different kinds of bread before noon. Callum's running out of freezer space."

She snorts, reaching for a cinnamon roll.

"The horror."

We eat in companionable silence, and I try not to watch the way she licks icing off her fingers.

Try not to remember the sounds she made in the shower.

Attempt to not imagine how different this morning could be if we hadn't fucked everything up ten years ago.

But mostly, I just enjoy being here with her.

My Junebug, back where she belongs, even if she doesn't know it yet.

The sun climbs higher, and I know I should go. I've got appointments starting at eight, and she's got a ranch to wrangle into submission. But I'm reluctant to break this fragile peace we've found.

"Thanks for breakfast," she says finally, walking me to the door. "And for... well. Thanks."

"Anytime," I tell her, and mean it. "I'm serious, Juniper. Anything you need."

She nods, not quite meeting my eyes.

"I know."

I want to hug her again, want to kiss her goodbye, want to stake some kind of claim that says mine to anyone who might be watching. But I settle for a smile and a wave as I head back to my truck.

As I drive away, I catch sight of her in the rearview mirror.

She's standing on the porch, coffee mug cradled in both hands, watching me go.

The morning light makes her look like something out of a dream, beautiful and untouchable and absolutely worth the wait.

Welcome home, Junebug.