Page 67 of Saddle and Scent (Saddlebrush Ridge #1)

Beckett’s tongue was gentle, then insistent, licking and sucking until I was slick and shaking. Wes kept up a steady litany of praise, whispering filthy encouragements in my ear:

“That’s it, baby. Let us hear you. You look so fucking hot right now.”

Callum’s arms were a vice, holding me together while my body threatened to come apart at every seam.

It hit me like lightning, the first orgasm—hot and bright and explosive, my hips bucking up against Beckett’s mouth. He didn’t stop, not even when I begged, just kept going, gentling his touch until the aftershocks faded into shivers.

I collapsed back against Wes, who kissed my temple and stroked my hair.

“Good girl,” he said, and for some reason it made me ache in a whole new way.

But they weren’t done with me.

Callum eased me down onto the blanket, careful as if I were glass, then laid beside me. His jeans were gone—how had I missed that?—and he was as hard as I’d ever seen anyone, his cock thick and heavy in his palm.

“Want you to touch me,” he said, voice barely more than a growl.

I obliged, wrapping my hand around him and stroking, slow at first.

He hissed, the sound raw and hungry, and thrust into my hand.

Beckett kissed up my body, pausing at every sensitive spot, until his mouth found mine. I tasted myself on his lips and shivered, loving how filthy and intimate it felt.

Meanwhile, Wes moved down, kissing a trail across my belly, then lower.

His tongue was fast and clever, flicking my clit until I was writhing again. He knew exactly how to build me up—how to hold back until I was desperate, how to let me down easy when it got to be too much.

I reached for Beckett, wanting to give him something back. He let me take his cock in hand, and I loved the feel of it—hot and velvet-soft, with a bead of precum at the tip. I leaned up and licked it off, just to watch him shudder.

“Jesus, Bell,” he groaned. “Keep that up and I’m done for.”

I smiled, then wrapped my lips around him, taking him deep. He gasped, bracing himself on the blanket, but he didn’t push or force.

He just let me work at my own pace, gentle and grateful.

I lost track of time after that—everything a blur of hands and mouths and heat.

We swapped places, lost ourselves in each other, no hurry, no script.

I rode Callum, slow and grinding, loving the way he filled me.

When I came again, it was with his hands gripping my ass, his mouth buried in my shoulder.

He held me through every wave, then spilled inside with a grunt, the feeling warm and perfect.

Wes took his time, teasing me until I was begging, then pinning my wrists above my head as he thrust into me. He was gentler than I expected, more careful, his eyes never leaving mine. When he came, he bit my neck, not hard enough to break skin, just enough to leave a mark.

Beckett was last, as always—the patient one, the anchor.

He cradled me in his arms, fingers gentle, voice soft.

He kissed every inch of me, then slid inside, slow and deep and unhurried.

He didn’t chase his own pleasure—he waited, building me up with every stroke, until I came so hard I blacked out for a second.

After, he lay with me, holding my hand, breathing with me until my pulse slowed.

I was spent, fucked-out, but so happy I wanted to bottle the feeling for the rest of my life.

The scents of our bodies mingled in the air: sweat, cum, wildflowers, and the clean, sharp smell of the lake. It was animal, but not in a gross way —in the way that made you feel safe, claimed, wanted.

We curled up together on the blanket, limbs tangled, skin on skin. Wes draped himself over me from the opposite side in front of me, breath soft and even. Callum spooned me from behind, his hand splayed protectively over my belly. Beckett wrapped around my legs, chin resting on my thigh.

For a long time, no one said a word. We just existed, together, in the little world we’d made. My heart felt too big for my chest, my body too full for words.

Finally, Wes broke the silence, voice muffled against my neck. “So, Junebug. You ever regret coming home?”

I thought about it. About all the things I’d run from, all the ways I’d tried to be something I wasn’t. About the years of convincing myself I didn’t need this—didn’t need anyone.

“No,” I said, certain. “Never.”

Callum pressed a kiss to my shoulder. Beckett squeezed my hand. Wes nuzzled my neck, warm and content.

I drifted off to sleep with all of them there, holding me, the fairy lights above our heads and the lake lapping at the shore.

For the first time ever, I didn’t dream of running away.

I dreamed of roots, and hands, and the three men who’d made me believe I could have both.

The world looked different at dawn, especially when you hadn’t bothered to close your eyes all night.

I woke to the weirdly familiar smell of wet earth, moss, and man sweat, a blend of Alpha pheromones so thick it should have been illegal, plus the faintest trace of wildflowers and last night’s whiskey.

My tongue was dry, my hair plastered to my cheek, and I couldn’t feel my left leg—but I was happy. That’s the only word for it, even if my brain hadn’t caught up.

We’d ended up under the swing chair, the four of us, a nest made of two blankets and about twenty pounds of human bodies.

I was on my side, Callum pressed tight behind me, his arm a concrete band across my stomach.

His hand was open, as if he needed to anchor me in place in case I got slippery and tried to escape before breakfast. Wes had wedged himself in front of me, his head pillowed on my bicep, hair tickling my chin and his arm thrown across my chest like he’d called shotgun in his sleep.

Beckett’s legs tangled with mine, his hand wrapped around my ankle with a hold that was gentle but immovable.

I didn’t move, not for a long time. Just lay there, breathing it in, the air thick with lake fog and whatever hormones we’d cooked up the night before.

The fairy lights above our heads were still on, washed out by sunrise, but I could see them reflected in the eyes of a curious rabbit watching from the tall grass.

When I shifted, Callum’s hand tensed instinctively, but his voice was a sleep-rough murmur in my ear: “You good?”

I smiled. “Never better.”

Wes snuffled awake next, blinking in confusion before remembering where he was, who he was with, and exactly how naked we all were. “Morning, Junebug,” he yawned, then flopped his head back on my arm like it was a perfectly reasonable pillow. “Anyone else starving?”

Beckett groaned, then propped himself up on one elbow.

“I could eat,” he said, voice low and content.

His hand traced lazy patterns on my calf, his thumb catching the seam of the scar I’d gotten in seventh grade from falling off a bike I didn’t know how to ride.

He looked at me with the kind of warmth I’d only ever seen in cookbooks with happy families on the cover.

The lake was glassy, light flickering off it in shards, the surface broken by the occasional fish or dragonfly. I thought about how little it took to make this perfect: some rocks, some lights, some hands to hold and not let go.

Callum finally let go of my waist, rolling onto his back with a satisfied groan.

“Didn’t think I’d sleep,” he said, “but I guess you wore me out.”

“Ditto,” Wes said. “I’m a shell of a man.”

I snorted.

“You’re both ridiculous.”

Beckett squeezed my ankle, then rolled over and sprawled out on his back.

“You did good, Junebug,” he said. “This whole setup, I mean. Never thought I’d see Hayes or Carter voluntarily sleep outdoors again.”

“It’s not outdoors if you have blankets,” I said, “and a snack stash.”

Wes grinned, all teeth.

“We should make this a thing. A ritual, or whatever. Wake up by the lake, see how many times we can outdo ourselves.”

I closed my eyes, letting the conversation wash over me.

I felt held, in every sense of the word. Like my life was a snowglobe that had finally settled, the glitter drifting down onto something soft and warm and lasting. The quiet was broken only by the lapping of the lake and the occasional snore from Beckett.

I turned my head, looked up at the swing chair, and thought about all the things we’d built together in the past few months. A barn, a business, a future.

And now this—a place we could all come back to, even when things got rough.

“Thank you,” I said, voice barely above a whisper. “For… everything.”

Wes leaned over, kissed my forehead.

“Anytime, Junebug.”

Callum shifted, propping himself up just enough to see me.

“You’re not getting rid of us now,” he said, and for once, there was no bravado in it. Just certainty.

Beckett hummed in agreement, reached over and laced his fingers through mine. His hand was big, warm, a little sticky with dried sweat. I squeezed back, holding on.

The sun broke above the trees, and the whole lake exploded in light—so bright I had to squint, but I didn’t care.

I wanted to remember every second of this morning, the way the world looked when you let yourself belong somewhere. The way you could feel at home, even with your ass half-numb from sleeping on rocks.

I felt all their hands on me— Beckett’s at my ankle, Callum’s at my hip, Wes’s at my shoulder —and knew, deep down, that I was finally where I was supposed to be. Not running, not hiding, just being.

The sanctuary was real, and I had the proof in every scar, every bruise, every aching muscle.

It was the four of us, together.

For the first time in my life, I wasn’t afraid to stay.