Page 72 of Saddle and Scent (Saddlebrush Ridge #1)

~JUNIPER~

I f you want a snapshot of what it feels like to be the last Omega in town, post-pack declaration, try this on for size:

I’m face down, ass up, three-quarters feral, shivering with heat and held together by Wes Carter’s hands like he’s the only force of nature between me and total collapse.

The air smells like sex, baking bread, and the kind of Alpha pheromones that should be illegal in at least seventeen states.

I’m sweating everywhere, my heart’s pounding like it’s being chased, and I’m pretty sure if Wes doesn’t stop narrating exactly what he’s doing to me in that slow, farmboy drawl, I’m going to black out from the sheer idiocy of how happy it makes me.

The sheets are already a war crime.

Splotched with sweat, streaked with enough slick to fill a bathtub, and probably going to be renamed “Omega’s Last Stand” in the Saddlebrush local legend files.

My arms are shaking, but Wes is kneeling behind me, perfectly content to hold me up with one hand fisted in my hair and the other palming my hip like a grapefruit.

His knot is locked so deep I can’t even remember what it feels like not to be full.

The pressure is both incredible and just this side of too much, and all I can do is moan and shake as he rocks into me, slow and measured, like he’s got all the time in the world and wants to make sure I feel every possible second.

“—can you feel it, Junebug?” Wes croons in my ear, his voice gone wrecked and gritty, all that sunshine-boy affability burned down to the raw, animal core. “That’s my girl, squeezing down on me. You’re gonna milk me dry, sweetheart, swear to god.”

He punctuates this with a roll of his hips that makes me whimper, my breath hissing out between my teeth.

I can’t talk. I can’t even form a real thought, just vague, desperate animal noises and the word “more,” which keeps bubbling up whenever my brain gets enough oxygen to fire off something basic.

His thumb finds my clit, and I swear I see stars.

My thighs jerk, my back arches, and I let out a sound that is both mortifying and deeply, deeply satisfying.

“Atta girl,” he growls, and then he’s bending over my back, licking a stripe up my spine before biting down on the tendon of my neck. Not hard enough to break skin, just a warning shot. “You gonna come for me again, or do I need to keep fucking you stupid, baby?”

I want to tell him that he’s already succeeded, that my IQ is currently lower than the town’s average pollen count, but all I can do is whine.

He seems pleased with that answer.

He starts up a rhythm, gentle but relentless, every thrust grinding his knot right against my insides.

I’d say it hurts, but it doesn’t. It’s just intense, like every nerve ending I own is tuned to the exact frequency of his cock and nothing else in the world matters.

He keeps up the dirty talk, alternating between praise and filth like he’s conducting a masterclass in Omega Ruination.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, pressing his chest flush to my back, “so greedy for it. Wasn’t enough the first two times, huh? Gotta make sure you’re really full before you’ll relax. Knew you’d be a handful, but damn, Junebug, you might actually kill me.”

I want to answer, to sass back like usual, but my brain is pure static.

All I can do is gasp, eyes squeezed shut, hands clutching the edge of the mattress like I’ll fall into orbit if I let go.

And for a second I almost do—white heat builds low in my belly, rising in a wave so fast I barely have time to brace.

When I come, I scream, not words, just pure release, and Wes holds me through it, shuddering with his own orgasm as his knot pulses and floods me again.

I go limp, utterly boneless, my face smashed into the pillow and my whole body tingling. It takes forever for the world to come back into focus, and when it does, Wes is still holding me, one arm slung around my waist, the other massaging my scalp in slow, lazy circles.

“Holy shit,” I manage, voice muffled by the pillow. “That’s not fair.”

He laughs, nuzzling my ear.

“You want me to stop being unfair? I could pull out and let Beckett have a turn, but I’d rather keep you all to myself for a little longer.”

I let out a whimper.

“No, don’t—don’t move. I’ll die if you move.”

He pets me some more, the bastard.

“Didn’t peg you as a cockdrunk Omega, Bell, but I’m not mad about it.”

I try to roll my eyes, but they barely open. I’m wrecked, used up, and floating on a cloud of post-orgasmic delirium.

But even through the haze, another scent is worming its way into my brain—something sweet, flaky, unmistakably Beckett.

I open one eye and see him standing at the foot of the bed, naked as the day he was born except for a cowboy hat perched at a jaunty angle, holding a miniature pie on a spatula with the kind of solemnity usually reserved for torch relays or ceremonial first pitches.

The pie, of course, is warm and glistening, the crust perfect and the filling bubbling over the edge like it just couldn’t contain itself.

Beckett grins, unbothered by his total lack of shame, and announces:

“Our Omega’s snack is ready.”

If I had the energy, I’d laugh. Instead, it comes out as a hiccupping giggle, which sets off a little aftershock in my lower half, which makes Wes groan and tighten his grip around my waist.

“Fuck, she’s clenching again,” he mutters, then raises his head to leer at Beckett. “Don’t suppose you brought a slice for me, too, huh?”

Beckett tips his hat, cowboy to the core.

“For you, anything. But the Omega gets first bite.”

Wes cackles.

“See, this is why you’re the favorite, Becks. Always thinking ahead.”

Callum’s voice comes from the shadows, where he’s been lurking with the stoicism of a professional sniper.

“If you’re gonna start cosplaying, at least pick something original.”

Wes grins at him, pure menace.

“I vote you show up as a fireman next time. Chicks dig firemen. Isn’t that right, Junebug?”

I try to answer, but I’m still shaking, still full, still not quite capable of real speech. It comes out as “buh,” which Wes seems to find extremely funny.

“See? She agrees with me.” He moves my hair off my forehead, sweat-soaked but tender, and kisses my temple. “You okay, Bell?”

I nod, then reach a trembling hand toward the pie, unable to even pretend I’m not starving.

Beckett comes closer, balancing the pie on one hand and using the other to brush a crumb off my cheek. He feeds me a forkful, warm berry and buttery crust melting in my mouth, and I could actually weep at how good it tastes.

“That’s the stuff,” I murmur, licking my lips. “You guys are never allowed to leave. Ever.”

Beckett grins wider, dimples on full display.

“That was the plan all along, Junebug.”

They’re all looking at me like I’m made of spun sugar and gunpowder, like they can’t decide whether to devour me or wrap me in bubble wrap for safekeeping. I can’t believe I ever doubted this, doubted myself, doubted that any of them would want me at my worst. But here I am: ruined, marked, loved.

Wes gets bored of the pie after two bites, pawing at my hip again. “You wanna go again, or you need a break?”

“Break,” I gasp, head spinning. “Can’t… can’t even feel my legs.”

“Perfect,” Beckett says, setting the pie aside and climbing onto the bed next to me, cowboy hat still on. “Time for hydration, then.”

I watch him pour a glass of water, but instead of handing it to me, he takes a sip, then leans in and kisses me, mouth-to-mouth, the water slipping between our lips in a way that is so hot and so stupidly tender that I almost die on the spot. I swallow, gasping, and Beckett laughs, low and pleased.

“Coulda just handed me the glass,” I protest, but he ignores me, stroking my hair and kissing me again, this time just because he wants to.

Wes’s knot is finally starting to soften, and I can feel him flexing behind me, trying to decide if he wants to pull out now or wait until he’s fully deflated.

“You’re not gonna let him one-up you, are you, Beckett?” Wes says, shifting his hips.

Beckett gives me another kiss, then turns to Wes with a lazy grin. “Just letting you tire her out so she’s extra sweet for me.”

Wes snorts.

“She’s always sweet. Just don’t let her fool you—she bites.”

“Only if asked nicely,” Beckett says, and then he’s feeding me another bite of pie, his hand gentle on my jaw, his eyes soft and a little bit wild.

Callum finally steps out of the shadows, the only one still fully clothed, arms crossed and jaw set in that classic “I am above this nonsense” pose.

But there’s a hint of a smile on his lips, and when he meets my gaze, it’s pure heat.

“Ready to tag in, big guy?” Wes taunts, but Callum just shrugs.

“Only if she asks for me,” he says, voice low and a little rough. “I’m not here to steal anyone’s thunder.”

I laugh, delirious and exhausted, and reach out a hand for him. He takes it, squeezing my fingers with surprising gentleness, and then sits on the edge of the bed, one hand brushing over my bare shoulder like he’s checking for injuries.

“You okay, Bell?” he asks, and I nod, too happy to care about the tears leaking out of my eyes.

“Yeah,” I whisper. “I’m more than okay.”

Wes finally slips free, leaving me empty and aching in the best possible way. He kisses my cheek, then collapses next to me on the bed, all lazy limbs and sated pride.

Beckett pulls me into his lap, cradling me like I’m made of glass, and I let myself melt into him, pie and all. The den smells like sex and sugar, and for the first time in my life, I don’t feel out of place. I feel perfect.

The three of them settle around me—Wes sprawled on my left, Callum steady at my right, Beckett pressed to my back, solid and warm. For a while, we just breathe together, letting the world outside fade to nothing.

Eventually, I manage to string together a sentence. “If you guys ever leave, I’m burning the town down.”

Wes snorts, voice sleepy.

“That’s my girl.”