Page 73 of Saddle and Scent (Saddlebrush Ridge #1)

Callum just squeezes my hand tighter, and Beckett nuzzles my neck, his beard scratchy and sweet.

I don’t know what the future holds. Maybe the world will try to tear us apart again. Maybe there’ll be more fights, more storms, more assholes with too much money and not enough sense. But right now, in this bed, with these three, I know exactly where I belong.

I belong here. I always have.

And I’m never letting go.

If you’ve never done back-to-back heats with three Alphas and a miniature pie, I recommend trying it at least once.

There’s a certain point where everything stops making sense and you just exist—nothing but sensation, taste, and the lingering throb of someone else’s pulse buried inside you.

That’s where I am when Wes finally lets go. There’s a pop, wet and obscene, as his knot deflates and slips out.

I sag forward, collapsing in a heap of tangled limbs and sticky sweat, my thighs still trembling from the last round. The bed’s a disaster and so am I, but Beckett is already there, scooping me up like I’m a kitten he’s rescued from the rain.

“I’ll go next, then,” Beckett rumbles, voice soft as a fresh-baked roll.

“Perfect,” Wes slurs, rolling over onto his back with a groan of pure satisfaction. “Callum can watch.”

Callum snorts.

“I’m not sure she’s got anything left for you, Ford. Might have to settle for seconds.”

I ignore all of them. I’m floating somewhere above the bed, on a cloud of post-coital euphoria and pie crust. My only coherent thought is that I want Beckett.

I want the slow, careful way he touches me.

I want the heat in his eyes when he forgets to be polite.

I want his goddamn mouth.

“Sit down,” I order, my voice wrecked. “Now.”

He grins, so smug and so patient. “Yes, ma’am.”

He takes his seat on the edge of the bed, cowboy hat still perched on his head like he’s about to star in an adult movie. I crawl into his lap, ignoring the way my muscles scream in protest, and grab the pie tin from the nightstand.

“Open,” I say.

He does, and I feed him a bite so big it leaves berry juice on his chin. He doesn’t complain. He just chews, watching me with that steady, hungry gaze that’s only for me.

I feed him again, slower this time, licking my own fingers as I do. Every bite makes his eyes darker, every slow pass of my tongue turns up the heat between us. By the fourth bite, I’m so wet I could cry, my entire body tuned to the way Beckett’s hands hold my hips and the promise in his smile.

He finishes the last crumb and licks his lips, never breaking eye contact.

“Your turn,” he says, voice gone gravelly.

He’s on me before I can protest, lowering me onto the mattress like I’m breakable, then pushing my thighs apart with hands that are both gentle and unyielding.

He kneels between my legs, kisses my knee, then my thigh, then the soft, sensitive flesh just inside.

He takes his time, as if he’s got nowhere else to be.

As if his only purpose in life is to taste every inch of me.

And god, he’s so good at it.

He starts slow, tongue flicking over my clit in light, teasing strokes, then dips lower, circling my entrance, lapping up the mess that Wes left behind. I’m a little embarrassed by how messy I am, but Beckett doesn’t care. If anything, he seems to like it—his growl vibrates through my whole body.

“Sweetest thing I ever tasted,” he murmurs, then goes right back to work, his tongue relentless and sure.

I arch off the bed, clutching at the sheets, gasping for air.

My brain is so overloaded I can’t even process individual sensations—just an endless wave of pleasure that builds and builds until I’m right there, teetering on the edge.

“Fuck, Beckett—” I choke out. “I’m—oh god, I’m?—”

He doesn’t stop, just doubles down, and I break apart with a scream, coming so hard I see black behind my eyelids.

My whole body shakes, toes curling, fingers twisting the sheets like I’m trying to rip them in half.

He holds me through it, never letting go, mouth working me through every aftershock until I’m limp and whimpering.

Only then does he finally pull away, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, grinning like the world’s happiest idiot.

“You okay, Junebug?” he teases, voice smug.

“Dead,” I gasp. “You killed me.”

“Good,” he says, and then he’s flipping me over, strong hands turning me onto my knees and elbows before I have time to protest.

“I’m gonna be a bit dominant now,” he says, voice gone deep and dangerous. “Is my Omega gonna be submissive for me?”

I pout, but the truth is, I want it.

I want to be his, even if only for the next five minutes.

“Yes,” I say, voice small. “Please.”

He rewards me with a slow, careful slide—his cock pressing into me with steady pressure, filling me up inch by inch until I’m gasping again, every nerve ending raw and ready.

He sets a rhythm, slow and deep, every thrust perfectly measured to drive me wild without ever losing control.

His hands grip my hips, fingers digging in just enough to ground me, and I can feel his body shaking with restraint.

“You’re perfect,” he says, over and over, like a prayer. “So fucking perfect, Bell. Always wanted you. Always.”

I can’t answer.

I’m too far gone, too full, too overwhelmed by the way he owns me, the way he makes me feel safe even as he’s tearing me apart.

It doesn’t take long before I’m close again, the pressure building faster than I thought possible. Beckett must feel it, because he picks up the pace, driving into me with a force that makes the whole bed shake.

“Come for me,” he demands, voice rough. “Come on, sweetheart, let me feel you.”

I do. I break again, shuddering and gasping, my whole body going rigid as I clench down around him.

He comes with a groan, knot swelling inside me, locking us together as he spills himself deep. The sensation is overwhelming, so intense I almost sob.

We collapse together, Beckett’s weight heavy and warm on my back, his arms wrapping around my waist as he peppers kisses over my shoulders.

“Jesus, Bell,” he says, breathless. “You’re gonna be the death of me.”

I laugh, dazed.

“You started it.”

We stay like that, tangled and sticky, for a long time. His knot keeps us locked together, and I’m not in any hurry to get free. It’s comfortable. Safe. Like maybe this is what I was always supposed to have.

Eventually, the knot goes down and Beckett slips out, leaving me aching but satisfied. He pulls me close, spooning me from behind, and I let myself rest in his arms.

Wes is already snoring softly, one leg thrown over the pile of bodies.

Callum is sitting at the head of the bed, watching us with a look that’s equal parts hunger and amusement.

“Your turn?” I ask him, voice slurred with sleep.

He just smiles, all teeth and promise. “Only if you want me, Bell.”

I reach for him, not caring that I’m a mess, not caring that I’m already spent.

“Always,” I say, and mean it.

You know that saying about how you should always save the best for last?

That’s a lie.

I want it all, and I want it right now.

Beckett’s knot finally slips free, leaving me feeling empty and wrecked and so hungry for more I’m actually shaking.

But Callum’s already there, silent and watchful, his eyes burning with the same banked heat I’ve seen in him a thousand times. Only now, it’s all for me, and I’m too tired to be shy about wanting it.

I crawl across the bed, barely making it two feet before he hauls me up with both hands, settling me right into his lap.

His cock is hard and thick, already leaking, and I line him up and slide down without a second’s hesitation.

He’s huge.

He’s always been huge, but tonight it feels even more so, my body stretched and desperate to take every inch.

The first thrust makes my whole body light up—too much, too good, perfect.

“Jesus, Bell,” Callum groans, his hands gripping my hips hard enough to leave marks. “You sure you’re ready?”

“I want you,” I say, and it’s the easiest thing I’ve ever said. “I want you so bad it hurts.”

He shudders, eyes squeezed tight. I don’t give him time to recover.

I start riding him, hard and fast, using every muscle I have left.

I want to feel him lose control.

I want to see the cracks in his armor.

It works.

In less than a minute, Callum is cursing under his breath, every word pure filth.

His hands are everywhere— on my hips, my ass, my breasts, my throat —like he can’t decide what he wants to hold most.

I dig my nails into his shoulders, biting his neck just to see if he’ll break.

Turns out, if you want to make an Alpha short-circuit, you just have to bait him in the right spot.

I raked my nails into the sharp line of Callum’s traps, scoring bright streaks into his tanned skin, then bent forward and bit down—hard—on his neck, right under the hinge of his jaw.

He made a sound I’d only ever heard from dying animals or maybe championship wrestlers, a wild, uncontrolled noise that was half-pain, half-desperate hunger.

His whole body shuddered, his cock pulsing so hard inside me I could feel his knot swell before he even started to move.

He snapped, just like I hoped.

His hands fisted in my hair, pulling me back from his throat, and he kissed me—brutal and sloppy, tongue fucking into my mouth until I couldn’t breathe.

I took it, clawing at his chest, wanting to see him pushed past his limits for once.

I wanted the mess, the violence of it, the proof that I could ruin him the way he ruined me.

“Bell,” he snarled, voice gone so deep it vibrated my bones, “you’re gonna—fuck?—”

I bit him again, just to prove I could.

He slammed into me, every thrust a brand new earthquake, shaking me so hard my vision blurred. The bedframe smacked the wall with every move, and I felt my whole body go slack against him, boneless and burning and utterly at his mercy.

He does.