Page 37 of Saddle and Scent (Saddlebrush Ridge #1)

TESTING BOUNDARIES

~WES~

" O h my God, Wes," Juniper moans around a mouthful of pancakes, her eyes rolling back in genuine bliss. "These are incredible. You might be giving Beckett some serious competition, but don't tell him I said that."

I'm gonna get a boner if she moans like that again.

The thought hits me like a freight train, and I have to grip the edge of the counter to keep myself steady. Watching her eat shouldn't be this erotic, but everything about Juniper turns me inside out.

The way her tongue darts out to catch a drop of syrup from her bottom lip makes those lips look far too inviting for my sanity.

Fuck.

I'm doing everything in my power not to prowl toward her on my damn hands and knees and beg her to use that mouth for something other than breakfast.

It's crazy because I'm not even the submissive type—not even close—but Juniper makes me want to be explorative, makes me want to try things I've never considered with anyone else.

She has this effect on all of us.

Always has.

I try to distract myself by attacking the dishes with unnecessary vigor, scrubbing plates that are already clean, washing the sink twice, and then—in a moment of complete stupidity—attempting to clean the damn stove while it's still on.

"Shit!" I yelp, jerking my hand back from the hot surface.

"Don't do that," Juniper says with a laugh, not even looking up from her pancakes. "It burns."

Yeah, no kidding.

But even with a throbbing hand, I can't peel my eyes away from her for long before I'm captivated again.

She's been bubbly and happy since she saw what we've accomplished inside the house, and that joy is infectious.

Her whole demeanor has shifted from the guarded, defensive woman who collapsed from heat stroke yesterday to something lighter, more open.

More like the Juniper we used to know.

Her room is now a paradise of new furniture that we've been collecting for years.

I think it started as a coping mechanism—buying things that reminded us of her, pieces that felt like they belonged to someone with her particular combination of strength and softness.

It evolved into furniture and decorative items that we justified with excuses about preparing for "our future Omega," but maybe we always knew it would be her.

Even when years were passing and our Junebug wasn't coming back.

Until now.

The room she woke up in—we hope it becomes a nest she actually likes. I remember Juniper always loved to read, though I'm not sure if she'd want a whole library setup or if she's gotten into video games or other hobbies over the years.

That's the thing.

We don't actually know a lot about the older Juniper.

Her current likes and dislikes, whether they've stayed the same or changed completely.

We're operating on decade-old information and hoping some fundamentals remain constant.

I decide to start small, catching her attention as she picks at the blueberries in her pancakes like they're personal enemies.

"So I guess blueberries are still a no?" I ask with a smirk.

"Sometimes," she says, making a face at the offending fruit.

"But you love Beckett's blackberry pies," I point out.

She pouts, an expression that's both adorable and stubborn.

"That's totally justifiable because they're amazing."

"They're the same berries, Junebug."

"Blackberries and blueberries are totally different!" she argues with the kind of passionate conviction usually reserved for important political debates.

"Sure," I say, grinning as I pour myself coffee and settle at the tiny kitchen table across from her.

The table can barely fit two people comfortably.

Callum and Beckett are bringing a bigger one today—something that could practically seat all four of us with room for proper chairs instead of this cramped arrangement.

Another piece of furniture selected with hopeful intentions.

"How did you sleep?" I ask, settling into the conversation I've been wanting to have since she woke up.

Her face lights up in a way that makes my chest warm.

"It was amazing," she says, gesturing with her fork. "That cushion situation was pure paradise. So soft and perfect. I don't think I've ever slept that well in my entire life."

Mission accomplished.

"We had the intention of making that space your nest," I say carefully, not wanting to pressure her. "If you want it, obviously. We're not trying to rush anything."

Her smile widens, and I can see the relief in her expression at my reassurance that we're following her timeline.

"Well, I haven't ever had a really nice nest," she admits. "The last attempt was... less than ideal."

Something in her tone makes me pause, coffee cup halfway to my lips.

"What do you mean by 'less than ideal'?"

She shifts uncomfortably, suddenly very interested in cutting her pancakes into precise squares.

"The last nest was basically a tent outside. They called it the 'dog house.'"

I choke on my coffee, the liquid burning as it goes down wrong. I'm coughing and patting my chest, trying to process what she just said while my lungs stage a revolt.

"Are you okay?" Juniper asks, looking genuinely concerned.

"Can you repeat that?" I manage between coughs.

She sighs, the kind of sound that carries years of disappointment and resignation.

"The last pack—well, I guess I can call the main Alpha my ex, though we didn't really last long enough for me to consider it a real relationship.

Anyway, he and his buddies made a tent outside during winter and told me to sleep there because that's where their Omega belongs when she doesn't listen to what they want.

" She laughs nervously, the sound brittle around the edges.

"You guys know I'm not really the submissive type, so I guess that was a turn-off for them. "

I'm out of my chair before I'm fully conscious of moving.

The idea of someone treating her like that—like an animal to be punished and controlled—sends rage coursing through my veins so hot and fast it nearly blinds me.

She blinks up at me innocently, clearly surprised by my sudden movement, but I'm already reaching for her, fingers gripping her chin gently but firmly to ensure she's looking directly at me.

"You should never not act like yourself with us," I say, my voice coming out rougher than intended. "We don't want a submissive Omega who just does things to make us happy without regard for what pleases her. That's not what we want at all."

That's the furthest thing from what we want.

We fell in love with her fire, her independence, her willingness to challenge us and call us on our bullshit.

Why would we want to extinguish the very things that make her who she is?

She opens her mouth like she's going to speak or maybe argue, but then she pauses, studying my face as if she's weighing something important.

When she finally speaks, her voice is barely above a whisper.

"So if your Omega told you to go on all fours and crawl to her, you'd do it?"

The question hits me like lightning.

I stare into the depths of her storm-gray eyes, recognizing that this is more than just a hypothetical question. This is a test, but also an exploration—she's trying to see how far she can push, what kinds of dynamics might be possible between us.

She's guarding her expression carefully, but I can see the vulnerability underneath.

The fear that I'll shut her down, laugh at her, or worse—react like those assholes who wanted to put her in a tent like a disobedient pet.

Instead of answering with words, I release her chin and take a step back. Then another. I walk to the stove, turn around to face her, and drop to my hands and knees on the kitchen floor.

Her blush spreads like wildfire across her cheeks.

Her eyes go wide with shock and something that looks like arousal as she realizes what I'm doing.

The room is silent except for the tick of the kitchen clock and the faint, animal hush of our breathing.

Juniper’s flush creeps down her throat, the apples of her cheeks blooming with a fierce, impossible color, but she doesn’t say a word—not right away.

Her eyes are wide, almost black with the way her pupils have swallowed the irises, and she turns that storm straight on me as I crawl across the splattered linoleum. My knees scuff the floor, but I don’t stop, not even when the static in my brain surges so loud I can barely remember my own name.

I crawl like I was built for it, like some part of me has been waiting years for her to ask—no, not even ask, just wonder if I’d do it. And I do, with slow, measured deliberation, every muscle in my arms and thighs flexing to show her: I meant it. I’ll do this.

By the time I reach her, the scent is everywhere, thick and undiluted.

It’s her, it’s us, but mostly her—sharp, sweet, feral and perfectly alive.

It hits every reward center in my brain at once, makes my mouth flood with saliva and my blood pressure spike so hard I see stars for a second.

I want to speak, want to ask if this is what she wants, but I can’t seem to get my vocal cords to cooperate.

All I know is that I have never, ever wanted to be good for someone so fucking badly in my entire life.

Juniper’s legs are parted just enough that I can see the wet, gleaming slick painting the inside of her soft thighs, and it takes every ounce of control I have not to groan.

Instead, I look up at her, waiting for any sign she wants me to stop, but all she does is fist one hand in the hem of her t-shirt and tug it higher—her own little dare.

Her other hand trembles slightly as she anchors herself on the table’s edge, but she keeps her chin high, lips bitten raw, gaze fixed on me with the focus of a predator.

“So…we go at my pace, yes?” she whispers.

I nod. Or try to. My head is so heavy it feels like it’s swimming at the end of my neck, but I make the movement, slow and deep, hoping she understands. The ball is hers. I am hers, for as long as she wants me.

She watches me for a long, breathless moment, then—without warning—she hooks both her thumbs in the band of her gym shorts and peels them down her hips.

No underwear. Not even a stitch. The shorts catch on her knees, then puddle on the floor.

She kicks them aside with a pointed flex of her foot and slides forward on the chair, spreading her legs enough to show how ready she is, how much she wants this, how much I’ve already wrecked her with nothing but suggestion.

Her scent spikes again, so sharp it’s almost dizzying, and I can feel the heat radiating from her skin.

There’s a boldness in the way she holds herself now, a sudden, wild confidence that seems to have surprised even her.

The flush on her cheeks is deepest at her throat, and she looks down at me from her new elevation like I’m something she’s ordered and is now deciding whether or not to keep.

“Open your mouth,” she says, and the words are a command, not a request.

My tongue flicks out on instinct. I do exactly as she tells me, and she watches me pant for her, her eyes locked on the desperate, hungry way I breathe her in.

She bites her lip again, harder, teeth dimpling the soft skin. Then she leans forward a fraction, balancing herself with both elbows on the table, and says, “Lick it off me.”

I shudder. The words echo down every nerve ending, leaving me stinging with need.

I reach for her, but she shakes her head—no hands, not yet.

I drop my arms and lean in, burying my face between her thighs, lapping at the slick that has dripped down her skin.

It’s so warm, so sweet, I might fucking die.

She gasps, the sound high and startled, but she doesn’t stop me.

If anything, she opens her legs wider, angling her hips so I can get at her properly.

I tongue her inner thigh, licking up every last drop, and when I look up again her eyes are squeezed shut, her mouth open in a silent O, head tossed back.

But Juniper isn’t done proving a point.

Without looking down, she fists a hand in my hair and guides my mouth closer, lining me up with her entrance, her grip gentle but unyielding.

“Do you want this?” she whispers, barely audible.

If she could see inside my head she’d know there are no words, only pure, animal need. I nod, once, twice, and she holds me there.

“Then eat me out, Wes,” she says, and this time there’s nothing shy about it. It’s a dare, a demand, a revelation.

I do exactly as I’m told.