Page 62 of Saddle and Scent (Saddlebrush Ridge #1)

It was a gift, this trust. I understood that on a bone-deep level.

I’d spent my whole life around creatures—two-legged and four—who only showed their throats when they were too tired to keep fighting.

I’d pulled trembling foals from their mothers, patched up mangled strays, comforted ranch hands who thought crying was an act of treason.

But none of them had ever looked at me like this.

Like I was the only thing that could save her from herself.

I tried to remember how to speak. "Are you sure?"

But she wasn’t listening, not really. She fumbled for my hand and brought it to her thigh, the heat of her skin burning before I touched flesh. "Now. Please, just?—"

My breath caught. She didn’t want slow. Didn’t want coaxing or gentle platitudes. She wanted to be seen, to be claimed, to have her need met without apology. The ache of her scent, thick and sweet in my lungs, made my heart stutter and my cock strain with helpless empathy.

I could have said no. I could have told her to wait out the storm, to handle it herself like she handled everything else. Maybe she even expected me to. But all I saw was her desperation, the surrender in her voice, the plea in her eyes. She wanted this, and she wanted me.

So I leaned in, close enough to feel the heat radiate from her skin, close enough that her ragged exhale fogged the air between us. She shuddered at the first brush of my fingers, the muscles in her legs tightening, her breath going sharp and needy.

I kept my eyes on her face. Not the mirror this time—her. I wanted her to see that I wasn’t looking away, wasn’t ashamed or afraid of what she was, or what she wanted. If anything, the sight of her like this—open, hungry, trembling—made me want to give her everything.

"Tell me if you want to stop," I managed.

She shook her head, once, so fast her hair whipped her jaw. "Don’t stop."

Her voice cracked on the word. I let my hand slip beneath the fabric, found her slick and already trembling. She gasped, hips jerking up into my palm, and I nearly lost it myself. But I held steady, slow at first, giving her room to adjust, letting her get used to someone else being in control.

She went pliant fast, the stubbornness draining out of her in waves as I circled her clit, marveling at the velvet heat and the way she arched into every touch.

Her hands fisted in the sheets, then reached up and locked around my wrist, as if grounding herself to the moment.

As if she’d float away if she didn’t hold on.

I spoke to her, low and steady, feeding her praise and reassurance. "You’re doing so good, Bell. You feel incredible. I’ve got you, just let it happen."

She whimpered, and the sound went straight to my spine.

I pressed on, finding the rhythm her body wanted even before she could say it.

She was close, her muscles tensing, her breath going choppy in anticipation.

I watched the pleasure build in her eyes, the way her jaw dropped and her gaze went glassy.

When she came, she did it with her whole body, hips bucking up off the bed, a ragged cry tearing from her throat.

I didn’t stop, not right away. I drew her through the aftershocks, gentling my touch as she shook and shuddered, until she finally went limp beneath my hand.

Her face was beautiful. Not just flushed or satisfied, but alive—like she’d just found the center of the world and decided to camp out there. She looked at me, really looked at me, and for once there was no armor in her gaze. Just gratitude, and relief, and a savage kind of joy.

I let myself smile, not the careful one I wore for the world, but the real thing. "You okay?"

She nodded, breathless, voice ruined but certain.

"Better than okay."

I stroked her thigh, grounding us both. The air was thick with our scents, a tangle of sweet and sharp, heat and relief and a hint of something new.

I wanted to live in that moment forever, but I knew better.

Want like this never settled. It either burned out or built higher, and with Juniper Bell, it was always the latter.

I watched the stages of recovery wash over her—first the limp satisfaction, then the gathering of will, and finally the stubborn set of her jaw as she shifted upright again.

She didn’t waste time.

She reached for my hand, drew it up to her mouth, and licked her slick from my fingers with a look that dared me to do something about it.

Fuck…

I’m mesmerized, and my cock is even harder.

She was back. And she wanted more.

"Are you sure?" I have to ask, have to give her one more chance to maintain the walls between us. Remind her that she has a choice and we don’t need to go down this route if it’s going to upset her.

"Stop being noble and help me," she snaps, but there's desperation beneath the irritation.

I move slowly, giving her time to change her mind. My hand hovers over her thigh, and I can feel the heat radiating from her skin. "This changes things between us."

"Everything's already changed," she says, and she's right.

When my palm finally makes contact with her thigh, we both inhale sharply. Her skin is silk-soft and fever-hot, slick with perspiration and need. I stroke gently, learning the texture of her, the way she trembles under my touch.

"You're burning up," I murmur, voice rough.

"Feels good," she admits, eyes fluttering closed. "Your hands are cool and possessive."

I trace patterns on her skin, moving slowly higher. Each inch reveals new responses—a hitch in her breathing, a flex of muscle, a soft sound that might be my name.

By the time I reach the junction of her thigh, we're both shaking.

"Look at me," I command softly.

Her eyes open, locked on mine as I continue my exploration.

There's trust there now, mixed with the need. It's headier than any aphrodisiac.

"You're doing so well," I tell her, meaning it. "So strong. So beautiful."

A laugh escapes her, breathless and disbelieving.

"I'm a mess."

"You're perfect." The words come out with too much feeling, but I can't take them back.

Don't want to.

My thumb traces the sensitive skin of her inner thigh, and she gasps, hips lifting. The movement brings her closer to my hand, seeking more contact. I like easing her into what she wants, or maybe I’m trying to delay this just a bit longer to make sure it’s not a dream.

That I’m not hallucinating.

"Please," she says again, and this time I don't make her wait.

I touch her with reverent care, learning what makes her gasp, what makes her moan, what makes her eyes roll back and her hands clutch at the sheets. She's responsive in a way that makes my chest tight, abandoned to sensation, trusting me to guide her through.

"That's it," I told her, voice hoarse, as she started to spiral again, her breath hitching with each trembling rise.

"Let me take care of you." If she thought surrender was a one-time gift, she had another thing coming—her body was desperate to crest again, and I wanted to be the one to show her how good it could get.

I let my fingers move with a little more confidence this time, less afraid to overwhelm her, more sure of what she needed from me.

Her hips pressed into my hand, greedy and restless, but I kept my pace, refusing to let her dictate the rhythm.

This was about her giving up control, about learning how to trust someone else with her need.

She reached for my other hand, found it on the bedspread, and grabbed hold like she was pulling me under with her.

The shock of her grip shot through me—her palm was hot and insistent, her fingers squeezing mine with the kind of raw force that should have hurt, but just made everything more intense.

I squeezed back, an anchor in her storm, holding on tight as she started to climb.

The air between us thickened, charged with a tension that buzzed through my bones.

Her eyes flicked between my face and our joined hands, disbelief and hunger warring in her gaze.

I knew exactly how she felt—like if she let go, she'd shatter apart.

Maybe that was what she wanted. Maybe that was what I wanted, too.

"You're doing so good," I murmured, my thumb drawing small, deliberate circles as I watched her unravel. "Just let go, Bell. I've got you."

She whimpered my name, the sound low and pleading, and her grip on my hand tightened until our knuckles went white.

I adjusted my angle, feeling the way her body arched for more, how she chased every flicker of pressure.

With each new wave, her breathing grew louder, more ragged, and it was all I could do not to lose myself right there.

Her thighs flexed, clamping around my wrist, but I didn't stop.

I wanted to see how far she could go, how much she could stand before she broke.

My own heart pounded so loud I was sure she could hear it, and my cock throbbed with sympathy, aching for the release I was giving her. But this wasn't about me. Not yet.

"That's it, my Sweet Bell," I encouraged, letting the nickname slip out before I could stop it. "You're so close. Just let it happen. Come undone for me."

She gasped, her whole body bowing off the mattress, and I saw in her face the exact moment it overtook her.

Her eyes squeezed shut, her teeth bared in a snarl of pleasure, and she let out a cry that was half my name, half some wild animal sound.

Her nails bit into my palm, leaving marks I knew I'd cherish later.

But even as she came, even as her body seized and shuddered and finally went limp, she didn't let go of my hand.

When she comes this time, it's with my name on her lips and her nails digging into my palm. I work her through it, drawing out her pleasure until she's limp and gasping, collapsed back against the pillows.

I should pull away. Should give her space to process.

But she doesn't let go of my hand.

"Stay," she whispers.

So I do.