Page 42 of Saddle and Scent (Saddlebrush Ridge #1)
"You want to know what I think about every time I see you in this clinic?" he continues, his voice dropping to that dangerous whisper that makes my skin feel too tight. "Every time you smile at me or laugh at my jokes or just exist in the same space as me?"
I should say no.
I should maintain some dignity, some sense of self-preservation.
Instead, I nod, mesmerized by the intensity in his eyes.
"I think about lifting you onto my examination table and peeling those tight jeans down your legs inch by inch," he says, each word precise and devastating.
"I think about spreading you open and tasting every drop of slick until you're begging me to stop.
I think about sliding into your perfect little cunt so slowly you cry my name. "
A strangled sound escapes my throat—part whimper, part moan.
Because his words are painting vivid pictures in my mind that make my entire body throb with want.
"I think about fucking you so thoroughly that every Alpha in this town knows exactly who you belong to," he continues, his voice getting rougher, more possessive. "So the next time some kid apprentice asks if you're single, the answer is crystal fucking clear."
"Wes—" I start, but whatever I was going to say is cut off by a sharp knock on the door.
We both freeze like we've been caught doing something illegal.
Which, technically, we kind of have been.
"Uh—Dr. Carter?" comes a young voice from the hallway. "We've got two more checkups scheduled in the main kennel. You said to remind you when Mrs. Henderson arrived with her dogs?"
Wes pulls away from me like he's been burned, running a hand through his hair and taking several deep breaths. The professional mask slides back into place, but I can see the frustrated desire still burning in his eyes.
"Give me five minutes," he calls back, his voice admirably steady considering what we were just discussing.
His eyes find mine again, searching.
"You okay?" he asks quietly.
Am I okay?
I'm standing in a veterinary clinic washroom, soaked in my own arousal after listening to the most explicit fantasy anyone has ever shared with me, feeling like every nerve ending in my body has been set on fire.
But I nod anyway.
"I should go," I whisper, already backing toward the door. "You have patients waiting."
"I'll drive you home," he offers immediately, taking a step forward like he's going to follow me.
I shake my head quickly. "No, you have work. I'm fine. Really."
I'm not fine.
I'm the opposite of fine.
But I also can't handle being in a confined space with him right now when my self-control is hanging by the thinnest possible thread.
His eyes narrow slightly, but he nods reluctantly. "Text me when you get home safe."
It's not a request.
I manage to nod and slip out of the washroom, making my way through the clinic's hallways on unsteady legs. The young apprentice— a sweet-faced kid who can't be more than twenty —is waiting by the front desk with a clipboard and an eager smile.
"You're really pretty, ma'am," he says brightly, his cheeks flushing pink. "I hope you don't mind me saying. I really like your hair—the purple streaks are super cool."
Under normal circumstances, the compliment would make me smile.
Right now, it just makes me acutely aware of how disheveled I must look after everything that just happened.
"Thank you," I manage, attempting a smile. "That's very sweet of you to say."
But before I can make my escape, Wes appears beside me like a storm cloud.
He takes my hand with casual possessiveness, his grip firm and unmistakably claiming.
"I'm going on break," he announces to the apprentice, already steering me toward the door.
The kid blinks in confusion. "But—uh—Dr. Carter, the Henderson appointments?—"
"Tell them I had a veterinary emergency," Wes says smoothly, not slowing down. "Shouldn't take long."
Before I can process what's happening, he's dragged me out the back door of the clinic and into the narrow alley that runs behind the building.
The same alley where the dumpsters live and delivery trucks unload supplies.
Definitely not the most romantic location in Saddlebrush Ridge.
"Wes, what are you?—"
He doesn't let me finish the question. Instead, he pins me against the brick wall with a kiss that's so intense, so consuming, it nearly knocks the wind out of my lungs.
This isn't the careful, testing kiss.
This is desperation and possession and ten years of pent-up wanting finally given free rein.
His mouth moves against mine with devastating precision, all tongue and teeth and breathless gasps. One hand tangles in my hair while the other grips my hip, holding me exactly where he wants me.
"Wes—" I try to protest, but he swallows the word with another searing kiss.
"I'm jealous," he grits out against my lips, his voice rough with honesty and frustration. "I know it's stupid and possessive and completely unreasonable, but I'm fucking jealous."
"I didn't do anything," I protest weakly, though my hands are already fisting in his shirt, pulling him closer instead of pushing him away.
"I know," he growls, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses down the column of my throat. "Doesn't matter. I still wanted to rip his throat out for looking at you like that."
His thigh pushes between my legs, forcing them apart.
The pressure is immediate and devastating—right against my clit through the denim of my jeans.
"Fuck," I gasp, my hips bucking forward without conscious thought.
Because the sensation is electric, overwhelming, exactly what my body has been craving since he started talking about examination tables and thorough fucking.
"You think you're slick, driving me wild in that clinic?" he mutters against my ear, his voice dark with arousal and accusation. "Walking around smelling like you want me, letting that kid flirt with you right in front of me?"
"I wasn't—oh God?—"
He presses harder, his muscled thigh flexing against my center.
I can't help myself—I grind down against him, seeking more pressure, more friction, more of whatever magic he's working with nothing but his leg and his determination to drive me insane.
Slick soaks through my underwear, probably through my jeans too, and I should be embarrassed but I'm too far gone to care.
"That's it," he encourages, one hand gripping my hip to help guide my movements. "Take what you need, sweetheart. Let me feel how much you want this."
I'm panting, sweating, grinding against his thigh like a woman possessed.
The pressure builds and builds until I'm balanced on the knife's edge of release, every muscle in my body drawn tight with anticipation.
And then he bites my lower lip—not hard enough to hurt, but with enough pressure to send me flying over the edge.
I come with a strangled cry that I barely manage to muffle against his shoulder. My entire body locks and shudders against his thigh, wave after wave of sensation washing over me until I'm boneless and trembling in his arms.
"That's my girl," he murmurs against my temple, his voice filled with satisfaction and possessive pride. "Perfect and messy and so fucking beautiful when you let go."
I can barely breathe.
I'm humiliated and aroused and completely wrecked, and he looks absolutely delighted with himself.
"You—" I pant, struggling to form coherent thoughts. "You're an asshole."
His grin is pure masculine smugness. "I'm an Alpha who's very late for work."
He kisses me again—softer this time, almost tender.
A stark contrast to the fierce claiming that just took place.
Then he steps back, adjusts himself with casual efficiency, and gives me a look that's equal parts affection and dark promise.
"I'll text you later," he says simply.
And then he's gone, disappearing back into the clinic like nothing happened.
Leaving me standing in an alley, panting and disheveled and trying to figure out how I'm supposed to walk back into public when I'm still trembling from the orgasm he just gave me with nothing but his thigh and his filthy mouth.
The scent of my arousal is definitely clinging to his clothes.
Everyone in that clinic is going to know exactly what we were doing out here.
And from the satisfied smirk on his face as he disappeared through the door, that was probably exactly his intention.
I don't know what this thing between us is becoming. I don't know how to categorize the way he makes me feel— desired and cherished and completely out of control all at once.
But one thing is crystal clear:
Wes Carter doesn't follow anyone's rules but his own.
And God help me, I think I'm ready to stop following mine too.