Page 61 of Saddle and Scent (Saddlebrush Ridge #1)

Her orgasm builds visibly—in the tension of her thighs, the arch of her spine, the way her breathing goes ragged and desperate. When it crests, she claws at the sheets hard enough to tear them, her vision going unfocused as wave after wave crashes through her.

She's beautiful like this. Powerful. Unashamed in her pleasure even if shame waits in the wings.

When it's over, she collapses back into the ruined bedding, boneless and panting. I hand her the water glass, careful not to let our fingers touch. If I touch her now, I won't stop.

"You should eat something when you can," I say, falling back on practical concerns.

"Maybe later, if my legs work again."

I stand to leave—she needs space to process, to decide what comes next. But I pause at the door. "If it gets worse, call for me."

She nods, and we both know it will get worse. Heat cycles don't just stop after one orgasm. They build and build until the body gets what it truly needs. But I'll let her come to that conclusion on her own.

I make it halfway down the hall before I have to stop, bracing myself against the wall.

My cock throbs painfully, demanding attention I won't give it.

Not here. Not when she might need me again.

I focus on breathing, on control, on anything except the memory of her spread out on that bed, coming apart under my watch.

The second time comes faster than either of us expected.

I'm in the kitchen, trying to distract myself with food prep, when I hear her moving around upstairs.

The old house broadcasts every sound—every shifted position, every frustrated whimper.

I last all of ten minutes before I'm climbing the stairs again, bowl of sliced fruit in hand because I need some excuse.

She's in worse shape than before. The brief relief of her orgasm has faded, leaving behind need that's sharper, more demanding.

The sheets are twisted around her like she's been fighting them.

Her shirt is soaked through, clinging to curves that make my mouth water.

And the scent—fuck, the scent is everywhere, painting the air with pheromones that bypass rational thought entirely.

"You didn't call," I observe, setting the bowl on the nightstand.

She's got her face half-buried in the pillow, but I can see the conflict in every line of her body. Want warring with stubbornness. Need fighting with pride. It's a battle she's destined to lose, but she'll make it hurt getting there.

"I thought I could handle it," she whimpers, rolling over.

The movement puts her ass on full display, round and perfect and barely covered by those ruined shorts. My hands clench at my sides, nails digging into my palms. Control. I need control.

I sit on the bed, heavier this time, claiming more space. She needs to know I'm here, solid and real and not going anywhere.

"You did great," I tell her honestly. "But it'll keep coming. You know that, right?"

She nods against the pillow, a tiny movement that speaks volumes. Her body is shaking now, continuous tremors that run from head to toe. She's fighting the next wave already, trying to hold it back through sheer will.

My eyes catch on the mirror above her dresser. It's old, spotted with age, but positioned perfectly to reflect the bed. An idea forms.

"Try facing that way," I suggest. "It helps."

She twists to look, then resists. "What, you want me to watch myself lose it? That's?—"

"Yeah," I interrupt. "You're not seeing what I see."

Her laugh is more bark than humor. "Which is?"

I consider my words carefully. She needs honesty now, not platitudes.

"Someone strong enough to deal with this, even if it sucks. A woman who won't quit." I let my voice soften, let some of what I really feel leak through. "A beautiful Omega, even when she's falling apart."

"You practice these lines in the shower, or is this improv?"

I almost smile at that. Even now, she's fighting. Even now, she's essentially herself.

"Sit up," I say instead of answering.

She does, movements sluggish but compliant. In the mirror, I watch her take in her own reflection—the wild hair, the flushed skin, the way her body trembles with need. She looks wrecked. She looks gorgeous.

I shift to the foot of the bed, kneeling on the mattress. The position puts me between her and the mirror, but also gives her a clear view of us both. Of what we could be, if she lets it happen.

"You said you wanted help," I remind her, voice low and careful. "Let me help."

The next wave is building. I can see it in the way her breathing speeds up, the way her thighs clench, the way her hands start to shake. She's going to come apart again, with or without assistance. But maybe this time she doesn't have to do it alone.

"Lie back," I instruct, and she does.

This time, when her legs fall open, she doesn't try to hide. Progress.

"Watch," I tell her, gesturing to the mirror. "Don't look away. Stay with me."

Her hand slides down her body, disappearing beneath the waistband of her shorts. The first touch makes her gasp, hips jerking up involuntarily. In the mirror, I can see everything—the desperation on her face, the way her body moves, the slick evidence of her arousal.

"That's it. Good girl." The endearment slips out without thought, but she doesn't protest. If anything, she presses harder against her own fingers.

"You look so good like this, Juniper. Do you see it?"

She nods, eyes locked on her reflection. I keep talking, letting my voice guide her.

"Good. Don't stop."

Our eyes meet in the mirror, and something electric passes between us. Her pupils are blown wide, lips parted, skin flushed with arousal. She looks debauched. Perfect. Mine.

No. Not mine. Not yet.

But the want is there, clear as day. She wants me to touch her, to take over, to give her what her body is screaming for. I can see it in every line of her frame, smell it in the air between us. And fuck if I don't want the same thing.

"Spread your legs for me," I say, voice dropping to pure gravel.

She obeys instantly, shorts soaked and clinging. The sight nearly breaks my control. She's drenched, swollen, ready. All for me, even if she won't admit it yet.

"Take your shorts off."

Her hands shake as she complies, peeling the wet fabric down and tossing it aside. Now she's bare from the waist down, spread out like a feast. The mirror shows everything—the pink of her cunt, the way she glistens with arousal, the tremor in her thighs.

"Touch yourself. Like before."

This time there's no hesitation. Her fingers find her clit, circling with growing confidence. The shame is still there—I can see it lurking in her eyes—but it's drowned out by pure need. She's close already, body primed and ready.

I watch her in the mirror, drinking in every detail. The way her chest heaves with each breath. The roll of her hips as she chases sensation. The way her free hand clutches at the sheets, seeking anchor.

My own arousal is painful now, cock straining against my jeans, but I ignore it. This is about her. About giving her what she needs without taking anything in return. Even if it kills me.

"Come on, Juniper," I encourage when I see her getting close. "Let go. I've got you."

She comes with a cry that echoes off the walls, body convulsing with the force of it. I watch her ride it out, watch pleasure transform her face, watch her surrender to sensation completely.

When it's over, she's limp and panting, a satisfied sprawl of limbs and sweat-dampened skin. But there's something different in her eyes now. Not just relief, but determination.

"Again?" she asks, and the word is a challenge.

My control finally cracks, just a little. A real grin spreads across my face.

"You sure?"

"Yes." There's heat in that single word. Promise. Threat. Invitation.

Our scents mingle in the air—her sweetness and my earth and rain combining into something intoxicating. It fills the room, fills our lungs, creates a feedback loop of arousal that has her squirming already.

I meet her eyes, let her see the hunger I've been hiding. Let her see what she does to me, how much I want her, how hard it is to hold back.

"You better be able to finish what you started, Bell," I warn, trying for stern but landing somewhere closer to desperate.

For the first time since she arrived at the ranch, Juniper Bell smiles at me. Really smiles, not the tight, polite things she usually offers. This smile is wicked and wanting and absolutely devastating.

"Challenge accepted."

Fuck.

I'm in so much trouble.

But as I watch her hand slide between her legs again, as I settle in to guide her through another wave, as our scents continue to mingle and merge in the heated air of her room, I can't bring myself to care.

"Callum," she breathes my name, and it's a question and a plea all at once.

I shift closer on the bed, close enough that she can feel my presence without touch.

"I'm here."

"I need—" She breaks off, frustrated, words failing her.

"I know." And I do. I can see it in every line of her body, smell it in the air between us. "Tell me what you want."

Her eyes meet mine, violet fire in their depths.

"Touch me," she said, and then, almost inaudible, "Please."

The word, of all things, nearly knocked me backward. Juniper Bell, who would sooner wrestle a stampeding bull than ask for help, whose default setting was stubborn and triple-locked, had asked me. Not just for something, but for this. For me.

I went still, as if any sudden move would scare her away.

But she was past the point of running—her eyes were wild with frank need, her hair a silver tangle on the pillow, sweat-damp and clinging to her cheeks.

The pulse in her throat beat frantic against the hollow of her neck, and for a second I just stared, cataloguing every vulnerable inch she allowed me to see.