Page 64 of Saddle and Scent (Saddlebrush Ridge #1)

She tsked, shaking her head with mock disappointment, but the spark in her eyes said she was already plotting.

With a sudden whip of motion, she rolled on top of me, knees bracketing my hips and palms splayed flat on my chest, pinning me with the full force of her confidence.

Her hair tumbled forward, curtain-soft and silvery in the dying barn light, and for a second all I could do was stare.

“Careful, Bell,” I said, voice raspier than I meant. “You keep climbing me like this and I’m not responsible for what happens next.”

She grinned, slow and wicked, and leaned forward until her nose brushed mine. “That’s the whole point, dummy. You’re always so damn careful. I want to see what you do when you stop holding back.”

I could feel every inch of her, the heat between us building again—not as frantic and messy as before, but deeper, steady as a wildfire that knows it has all night to burn.

Her weight pressed me into the mattress of hay, and I realized how much I liked the contradiction: being strong enough to lift her, and being just as happy to let her pin me down.

Bell cocked her head, thoughtful, and ran a finger along my jaw. “So what if I said I wanted to drive this time?” she asked, not as a tease, but with a sincerity that punched straight through my chest.

I surprised myself by laughing—really laughing, the kind that felt like a release, not a defense. “Junebug, you can take the wheel anytime you want.”

She searched my face for a beat, making sure I wasn’t bluffing, then nodded once.

Decision made. She kissed me, slow at first and then with a force that would have knocked me flat if I hadn’t already been laid out for her.

Her hands mapped my shoulders, then my arms, then my sides, tracing the shape of me with a kind of reverence I’d never known from anyone.

My own hands, eager but patient, settled on her thighs, thumbs stroking up and down while I let her set the pace.

If she wanted to climb, I was more than happy to be the thing she climbed.

If she wanted to bite, I’d bare my throat and let her leave her mark.

Because for once, I wasn’t afraid of the claim—I craved it.

Bell broke the kiss, breathless, and smiled down at me with a look that was all mischief and no apologies. “You’re a good man, Callum. Even when you’re not trying to be.”

I swallowed, throat dry, but found my voice.

“That’s funny. I was just thinking you’re a menace to society.”

“Damn right,” she said, and ground her hips against me in a way that short-circuited every coherent thought I’d ever had.

I gripped her tighter, fighting the urge to flip her beneath me and show her what happened when I really stopped holding back.

But something in her posture told me she needed this— to be in control, to write the story her way for once.

So I let her.

She leaned in and nipped my ear, then whispered, “Don’t you dare go gentle. I want to remember this.”

She didn’t have to ask twice.

Juniper’s fingers traced the outline of my zipper with deliberate slowness, her gaze never leaving mine, as if daring me to flinch before she did.

She palmed me through denim, her touch unhurried but full of promise, and I felt my hips jerk up, helpless against the jolt of sensation.

I’d barely gotten used to the idea of her in my lap before she was unzipping my pants, grinning at the way my breath hitched, her hands sure and unembarrassed as she fished out the length that had been straining against its prison for the last ten minutes.

Even with the air sharp on my skin, I went fever-hot all over as she wrapped her hand around me, her grip confident and unapologetic.

She stroked once, slow, and I almost lost it—not because it was the first time she’d had her hands on me, but because of the look in her eyes: hungry, pleased, a little bit mean in the way she liked best.

Juniper Bell, hellbent on getting what she wanted and doing it on her terms.

She lined me up, slick and ready, her other hand braced on my chest like she needed to keep me pinned.

I felt every drag of her palm, every flex of her fingers, and I realized there was no amount of self-restraint in the world that could keep me from giving her what she demanded.

She angled her hips, rolled her weight down, and I nearly blacked out when she sank onto me in one smooth, merciless motion.

Fucking hell.

I’m going to lose my mind.

My Bell’s hot slick pussy is swallowing my shaft up like I’m officially hers.

Every misstep, every stubbornly silent night and week and year—the whole damn catalogue of our missed chances—felt like it was getting funneled down into a single, perfect moment of clarity.

I’d spent so damn long avoiding the possibility of this, of us, and now, here, with her thighs caging my hips and her hands working me with that mix of absolute confidence and careful attention, the regret was enough to wind me.

We could have had this all along, I thought, with a kind of awe.

Or at least, we could have been trying. Instead, we’d spent so much time circling each other, too proud or too afraid to admit what a mess we’d make together, what a beautiful, necessary disaster it might be.

This right here— her weight on me, her heat around me, the way her eyes softened even when her mouth was set in that wicked line —was so much more than I’d let myself hope for.

If I’d had any faith in myself at all, I’d have chased her the first time she ran. Would have found her like a needle in a stack of hay.

If I’d believed for a second that I could deserve this, I would have begged.

But instead, I let time keep us apart, told myself the story was already written and I wasn’t meant for happy endings.

Now, every inch of her, every sound she made, felt like it was making up for all those wasted years. Every second was a kind of proof: That we were here, and real, and alive, and not meant to be solitary.

For the first time since I was old enough to know what wanting was, I didn’t care what came next. I just wanted more. I wanted to burn through every last ounce of our old restraint until there was nothing left but the raw, bright heat of now.

All the years we wasted, traipsing around what we wanted, just to finally earn this one solid moment of intimacy. And I knew, with bone-deep certainty, that it was going to end in the kind of pleasurable chaos I’d waited my whole life to see.

It started as a tremor—a tiny, involuntary twitch in her hands, a gasp that slipped out despite her best effort to keep it together. My own control snapped like a dry twig.

She ground down, slow but relentless, and I could feel every flutter and clench as she took me deeper.

My hands, desperate for something to hold onto, mapped the shape of her hips, her waist, the strong curve of her back.

The rhythm we found was nothing like I’d expected: not desperate, not wild, but patient and steady, like she wanted to make a meal of me and savor every bite.

She rode me slow, rolling her hips in tight, purposeful circles, and I realized she was orchestrating the whole thing— not just fucking me, but claiming me in the way only a true Omega can.

The pleasure, sharp and molten, built in layers under my skin until I couldn’t remember a time I hadn’t been at her mercy.

“Look at me,” she commanded, and I did, because there was nowhere else I’d rather look, nothing in the world I wanted more than to see her— really see her— at the exact moment she lost control.

Her hand found mine, fingers interlacing, and she squeezed hard enough to leave marks.

The contact grounded us, tethered us together even as the rest of the world faded to a blur. It was just us and the heady scent of sex and sweat and hay, the tiny sounds she made as she bounced on my cock, the way her body shook when she hovered right on the edge.

That’s when I realized: this wasn’t just about here and now.

It was about all the moments we’d forfeited, all the longing we’d bottled up for so long it had started to ferment into something dangerous. She was pouring it all out at once, and I was the only vessel she’d chosen to fill.

Her lips found my ear, her breath coming in ragged gusts.

“You’re not going to last, are you?” she whispered, half triumphant, half pleading.

I shook my head, gritting my teeth.

“Not with you like this.”

“Good,” she said, and then she bit me—hard, just above the line of my jaw, marking me in a way that made my whole body tense with answering pleasure.

The pressure spiked, unbearable and sweet, and I felt myself coming undone.

It was like a fuse had been burning down all those wasted years, and now the charge hit and went off in a firework behind my eyes.

“Fuck,” I warned, barely recognizing my own voice as it was smothered and Bell’s full weight bearing down on my hips.

The dam inside me, always so tightly held, snapped.

I jerked once, twice, and then I was coming so hard I thought I might black out—every nerve ending lighting up in a chain of pure, helpless white.

My hands scrabbled for something to hold, found her thighs, her waist, the rough cloth of her shirt where it bunched at her lower back.

She didn’t slow, not for a second; she rode the crest with me, her body flexing around me in a greedy, exquisite clutch that milked every last drop of sensation from my trembling frame.

I’d always prided myself on restraint, on being the guy who could hold it together, but Bell made a meal of my self-control and licked the plate clean.

Even as the first wave of pleasure crashed over me, she kept her rhythm brutal and steady, rolling her hips with merciless precision, like she wanted to wring every last gasp and twitch out of my body before she let up at all.

I couldn’t even articulate a warning—could only let out a strangled groan, legs locking beneath her, as my whole sense of self narrowed to the spot where we were joined and the relentless, perfect friction.

It was a full-body event; my mind emptied out, nothing left but the sound of our bodies, and Bell’s breathless, wicked giggle as she watched me come undone beneath her.

I’d never known anything like it, had never been fucked so thoroughly out of my own head, reduced to a shivering, spent mess by a woman who looked at me like she’d just made the winning shot at state.

She stayed on me the whole time, never once letting up, even as the aftershocks made me twitch and spasm in her hold.

She didn’t let up, not even after I’d gone soft and half-delirious. She rolled her hips a few more times, squeezing every last drop from the moment before finally collapsing onto my chest, sweaty and spent, her laughter tickling against my throat.

We stayed like that for a while, not bothering to speak, the only sound our hearts pounding in sync. When I finally caught my breath, I let out a shaky chuckle, pressing a kiss into her hair.

She propped herself up, eyes bright and wild.

“You look like you just got struck by lightning.”

“Feels about right,” I managed, still trying to believe it was real. “If you ever decide to run again, you better warn me first.”

She just grinned, wicked as a fox.

“I don’t run. Not anymore.”

And I believed her, because we’d finally burned through all the distance, all the years, all the bullshit that used to keep us from this.

The only thing left was pleasure, chaos, and the certainty that I’d never let her go again.