Page 38 of Saddle and Scent (Saddlebrush Ridge #1)

brUNCH WITH BENEFITS

~JUNIPER~

W es Carter is fucking my pussy so deeply with his tongue, I think I’ll lose my goddamn mind.

It’s not even fair, how good he is at this—on his knees on my kitchen floor like he was built to worship me from below, hands gripping my thighs like he’s trying to keep me from floating away. And honestly? He probably should.

Because I am not on this planet anymore.

My back’s arched, shirt wrinkled and half-rolled under my breasts, ass barely on the edge of the kitchen chair, legs draped over his broad shoulders like I’m the day’s damn special and he’s starving. I’ve lost count of how long he’s been down there. Minutes? Hours? Eternity?

All I know is my knees keep trying to close, but Wes doesn’t let me. His palms are warm against my inner thighs, spreading me open as wide as he wants, thumbs occasionally dipping lower to press just below my entrance, like he knows exactly how to wreck me.

Spoiler: he does.

He drags his tongue up the center of my soaked pussy, a slow, firm stroke that makes my head fall back with a cry.

“Jesus—Wes?—”

He chuckles against me, the sound rumbling right through my clit, and my whole body jolts. My hands scramble for the table behind me, something to hold , but nothing feels solid. Not even me.

“Don’t go invoking the Lord when your Omega’s got her own god on his knees,” he mutters, voice thick, sinful. “Fuck, baby—you taste like warm peaches and heaven.”

I let out a strangled laugh that breaks halfway into a moan. “That—was the maple syrup. And maybe heat. And maybe—holy hell—Wes, more , don’t stop?—”

He doesn’t.

His tongue dips inside me, slow and possessive, like he wants to memorize the shape of me from the inside out. Each stroke is devastating. Intentional . My thighs quake, my heels digging into his shoulder blades like I can climb him with desperation alone.

He groans low in his throat, the sound vibrating against me again, and suddenly, I’m purring .

The sound slips out unbidden—this low, sultry rumble that vibrates from my chest and hums through the air—and the second I hear it, I freeze.

My eyes snap open. “Did I just?—?”

Wes pulls back just enough to grin up at me, chin gleaming with slick, hair ruffled from where I’ve no doubt been yanking on it.

“Oh, you did , sweetheart.” He looks so damn proud of himself I could scream. “You just purred. Like a spoiled little Omega who knows she’s about to be fucked stupid.”

I slap a hand over my mouth. “I’ve never—I didn’t even know I could?—”

His tongue flicks against my clit with devilish precision.

“You can,” he says, smug as hell. “You just needed the right encouragement.”

His mouth is back on me before I can protest, and this time, it’s savage .

Messy, consuming, utterly without mercy.

He eats me like he’s got nothing else to do for the rest of the day—and maybe he doesn’t, because it’s not even noon and I’m already dripping down his chin, legs shaking, cunt clenching around nothing.

And that tongue— fuck , that tongue.

It alternates between stroking deep inside me and curling upward to tease my clit, working in maddening rhythms that never last long enough to predict. I swear he knows the exact second I get close—because he’ll switch it up, back off, make me whimper.

“You like that, baby?” he murmurs into me, voice muffled by slick and skin. “Like when I taste you like this?”

I nod frantically, words gone.

“Say it,” he commands, pressing a kiss to my inner thigh, then a bite that makes me twitch. “Tell me you like my mouth on your pussy.”

“I—fuck—I love it,” I pant. “Please don’t stop. Please, Wes. I’m—I’m so close.”

He hums again, mouth already back on me, and that vibration sends another purr crawling up my throat. This one, I don’t fight. I moan with it, hips bucking, thighs squeezing around his head like I want to trap him there forever.

He rewards me with his fingers.

Two thick fingers slide into me like nothing, the stretch immediate and perfect , and my vision goes white around the edges.

“Oh god,” I gasp, hands flying to my tits, squeezing hard. I need pressure. Need something to ground me.

“Yeah, that’s it,” he growls, lips slick and dark. “Touch yourself. Let me see you fall apart.”

I do.

I pinch my nipples, twist, moan—and Wes growls , like he likes that too damn much.

His fingers pump into me steadily now, curling just right, just right , while his tongue flicks mercilessly over my clit, faster and harder until my thighs are trembling, my voice wrecked, and all I can do is sob out his name.

And when I purr again, louder this time, stronger ?

He fucking moans like it’s the best thing he’s ever heard.

“You hear that?” he pants, voice wrecked. “That’s your body tellin’ me she wants it. My sweet girl’s so fuckin’ close, ain’t she?”

“Yes,” I breathe. “Yes, yes, yes— don’t stop ?—”

He doesn’t.

He devours me.

And when the orgasm hits, it’s volcanic. My body locks, shakes, then shatters. I scream—full-bodied, messy, feral—as my cunt clamps around his fingers, thighs crushing his head, tears slipping down my cheeks.

He doesn’t stop until I push at him, whining too sensitive, too raw, and even then—he only eases off a little, licking me gently like he’s coaxing me down.

I slump back into the chair, legs spread, tits out, throat raw, pussy ruined.

And Wes?

Wes just grins , standing slowly, tongue sweeping his bottom lip like he’s licking away the evidence.

“Damn, Junebug,” he drawls, eyes dark with hunger. “That was breakfast, lunch, and dinner all in one.”

I blink up at him, still floating.

Then I glance toward the counter and mutter, “Was savin’ that last bit of waffle for brunch.”

He raises a brow. “You still hungry?”

My lips twitch. “Not for waffles.”

“Oh?” he says, cocking his head, already reaching for the maple syrup. “Well then.”

I blink up at Wes Carter, dazed and drenched and still twitching, just in time to see him grab the damn syrup bottle again.

“Oh no,” I murmur, catching my breath. “Wes—don’t you dare.”

His grin is wolfish. Dangerous.

“You said you weren’t hungry for waffles,” he says, twisting the cap off slow and deliberate, like he’s opening a bottle of champagne. “Thought I’d offer dessert.”

My eyes drop—because how could they not?—to where his cock is standing proud and flushed, the thick length gleaming already with a sheen of arousal. And then I watch, open-mouthed, as he tips the bottle.

A golden stream of maple syrup drizzles down the head, trailing along the thick vein on the underside, gliding past the ridge and pooling at the base. The scent hits me instantly—sweet and sinful, sugar clinging to musk, and heat coils low in my belly.

“You filthy man,” I whisper, already sliding off the table. My knees hit the floor with a soft thud, and Wes’s breath stutters.

“Juniper…” His voice is gravel and tension. “You don’t have to?—”

I cut him off with a smirk and a slow, lingering lick up his syrup-coated shaft.

“Brunch, remember?” I murmur, licking my lips. “And this looks like my kind of buffet.”

He groans, long and low, when I swirl my tongue around the head, gathering syrup like honey from a hive.

I savor the taste— sweet and masculine, syrup and skin—and drag my tongue along his length again, slower this time.

My hands wrap around the base, thumb smearing through the sticky mess, spreading it like frosting.

“Holy shit,” he breathes. “You’re gonna kill me.”

I hum around the tip of his cock, letting my tongue flick over the slit, tasting everything he has to give. Then I take him deeper, letting the syrup coat my tongue, my lips, my chin. I’m a mess, and I love it.

He grips the edge of the table behind him, knuckles white, abs flexing every time I bob my head.

“You always this good with your mouth, Junebug?” he pants, voice shredded. “Or is it just ‘cause I brought syrup?”

I pop off with a soft laugh and a slow stroke of my hand along his shaft.

“It’s ‘cause I like hearing you lose control.”

“Oh, I’m close,” he says, voice cracking. “You keep doing that—I swear—I’m gonna—fuck?—”

But I’m not done.

I press a kiss to the base of his cock, then drag my tongue all the way back up before rising to my feet.

His eyes are wide. Dark. Feral.

But I’m not giving him mercy. Not yet.

I climb into his lap, straddling him on the kitchen chair, my sticky hands braced on his shoulders, his cock pressed hot and heavy against my belly. He reaches to line himself up, desperate and panting—but I bat his hand away.

“Nuh uh,” I whisper. “We’re not there yet.”

“Juniper—baby—please?—”

“I said,” I purr, rolling my hips so my folds glide along the length of him, “not. Yet.”

He howls . Hands flying to my hips, holding me still—but I move anyway, rocking my slick folds along his shaft, smearing syrup and arousal in messy, sinful patterns.

“Jesus,” he growls, head falling back. “You’re—fuck— teasing me.”

I lean in and lick a drop of syrup from his jaw. “Good boy,” I whisper. “Hold it.”

He twitches beneath me, cock pulsing against my folds, and I feel just how close he is. So I move again—slow, grinding strokes, the head of his cock nudging my clit just enough to make me bite my lip.

Then I reach between us and drizzle another line of syrup along his length.

“Oh, fuck me—” he gasps.

I do not.

Instead, I bend forward, breasts swaying as I lick it off him inch by inch —letting my tongue flick, tease, torment—until he’s shaking, thighs tight beneath me, cock red and leaking and angry with need.

I ride him without taking him inside, hips circling in tight, syrup-slick figure eights until his mouth drops open and his eyes squeeze shut.

“Baby, please —you’re gonna make me?—”

“That’s the point,” I murmur. “Let go for me.”

And then I squeeze him between my thighs, press one more kiss to his swollen head?—

And he breaks .

He comes with a ragged groan, thick spurts of hot release painting my stomach, my tits, sticky and warm and so damn satisfying .

I watch his face the entire time.

Eyes fluttering. Jaw slack. Lips parted on my name.

It’s fucking gorgeous.

But I don’t stop.

I stroke his cock slowly, coaxing every drop from him, then rub along the swollen ridge of his forming knot. He shudders, his whole body going tense.

“Jesus Christ , Juniper?—”

I smile and press my lips to his temple. “Still not getting this pussy.”

He laughs—breathless, wrecked—and groans into my shoulder.

“You’re gonna kill me,” he rasps. “I’m gonna lose my damn mind.”

I giggle, tugging lightly at his knot, making him grunt again. “Then go crazy, cowboy. Because I told you—I’m not rushing.”

He leans back enough to look at me—sweaty, sticky, and clearly ruined—and then pulls me in for a slow, syrup-tinged kiss. His mouth is warm. Tender. Unapologetically adoring.

“Then I’ll wait,” he whispers. “You’re worth the wait.”

My heart flips in my chest.

I swallow around the lump in my throat, stroking his hair back with syrup-slick fingers. “You really mean that?”

His hands trace my hips, gentle now. “Every damn word.”

Something about that makes me ache in a whole different way.

“Alright,” he finally says with a sigh, glancing around. “We better clean up before Callum or Beckett stumble in and start askin’ why the kitchen smells like sex and breakfast.”

I snort. “Fair.”

He shifts beneath me, still a little shaky. “So, uh… this might be random, but… you still into video games? Or do you read more now?”

The whiplash of that question nearly makes me fall off his lap. “What?”

He shrugs, smiling sheepishly. “Just thinking. You used to hog the PlayStation at your aunt’s when we were kids. Remember? You made me play Stardew Valley for eight hours just to get the stupid golden chicken.”

I blink. “You remember that?”

“Course I do.” His smile softens. “But I realized I don’t know what you’re into anymore. Not really.”

I glance away, heart sinking a little.

“I… haven’t really done anything in a while,” I admit. “Since moving to the city, it’s been work. Hustling. Trying not to drown. I haven’t picked up a book in forever, and gaming felt like a luxury I couldn’t afford.”

His expression turns serious. “That’s not okay.”

“I didn’t have a choice.”

“Well, you do now,” he says firmly. “Starting today.”

I lift a brow. “Starting today ?”

He nods. “We’re doing mini dates.”

“Mini dates?”

“To explore each other’s hobbies,” he says. “Yours, mine, all of it. To get to know each other again. The real stuff. Not just the flirting and syrup sex.”

I snort. “As if that’s not a whole personality.”

He winks. “Yours maybe. I’m more of a stables-and-coffee guy.”

I consider it. And for the first time in what feels like years , something in me unclenches.

“That actually sounds… really nice.”

His eyes crinkle with genuine affection. “It’s been eons since we truly knew each other, Junebug. Let’s fix that.”

I smile, slow and real. “Okay.”

He taps my thigh. “Go shower before the syrup crusts. I’ll handle the kitchen.”

I roll my eyes but stand up, syrup and cum sliding down my stomach in a slow, obscene drip.

“You sure you’re good?”

He smirks, eyes dropping to my mess-covered skin. “Let’s just say I’ll be dreaming of this moment next time I crack open the maple bottle.”

I laugh all the way to the bathroom.