Page 101 of Knotting the Cowboys

I kiss him back with equal fervor, trying to communicate without words how much I need this, need him, need whatever they're willing to give me. Three years of suppressed sexuality surge forward, demanding satisfaction, demanding to be seen and met and matched.

When we finally break apart, we're both gasping.

My lips feel swollen, well-used, and his don't look much better. There's a wildness in his eyes that makes my stomach flip, promises of what could happen when medical restrictions lift and he doesn't have to hold back.

"Gorgeous," he mutters, thumb brushing my abused bottom lip. "Look at you. All pink and needy and perfect."

I am needy.

Desperately, embarrassingly needy. And for the first time in my life, I don't feel shame about it.

Not when he's looking at me like I'm precious, like my desire is something to be celebrated rather than suppressed.

"River," I breathe, not sure what I'm asking for but knowing he'll understand.

He does. Of course he does.

His hand slides down from my throat, tracing a deliberate path between my breasts, over the delicate lace barely containing them, down past the garter belt to hover just above where I need him most. The anticipation makes me squirm, pressing back against the wall like I can phase through it and escape the intensity of what's happening.

"Please," I whisper, not even sure what I'm begging for until his fingers slip beneath the barely-there fabric of the panties.

"Fuck." The curse punches out of him as his fingers find me dripping, slick coating my thighs and pooling hot between my legs. "You're soaked, Dandelion. All this for me?"

I should be embarrassed by how wet I am, how easily my body betrays its need. Instead, I spread my legs without hesitation, giving him better access, not caring that I'm in a boutique changing room with only a curtain between us and the rest of the world.

River takes the invitation for what it is, fingers sliding through my folds with devastating gentleness. He's learning me, mapping every sensitive spot while I try to muffle the sounds wanting to escape. When his thumb finds my clit, circling with perfect pressure, I have to bite my lip hard enough to taste copper.

"Shh," he soothes, even as he slides one finger inside me. "Quiet, baby. Can't have the whole store knowing how good you feel on my fingers."

The words make it worse, make me wetter, and I can smell it now—our scents mingling in the small space, his pine and earth mixing with my honey sweetness until the air is thick with sexual musk. Anyone who walks by will know exactly what's happening in here, blockers or no blockers.

River adds a second finger, curling them just right, and my knees actually give out. Only his free arm around my waist keeps me upright as he works me with methodical precision. He's watching my face, cataloging every reaction, figuring out exactly what makes me shake.

"Look at you," he murmurs, voice full of wonder. "Taking my fingers so well. Been empty too long, haven't you?"

"Yes," I gasp, past the point of anything but honesty. "So long, River, please?—"

He knows what I need before I can articulate it. His fingers speed up, thumb pressing harder on my clit while he fucks into me with a rhythm that has me climbing fast toward release.

The intensity in the air is suffocating, every sense tuned to the way River’s body presses mine to the cold, paint-chipped wall, to the way his touch so utterly disregards anything outside this tiny, fabric-wrapped world. But it’s the sounds—God, the sounds—that threaten to undo me: the slick, shameless noises his fingers make as they plunder into me, the wet suck and slide echoing off laminate tile and plastic hangers like a filthy metronome, the urgent slap of skin and the hollow thud of my back when he thrusts just a bit harder, as if staking a flag inside me.

It is not delicate.

It is not the soft soundtrack of a romance movie—no, this is animal, visceral, a chorus of need that sounds like it should be happening in a dark alley, not a daylight-bathed fitting room stocked with handmade linen.

I bite down on every startled whimper and moan, clutching a fistful of River’s shirt, but there’s no way to silence the chorus of our bodies.

The rhythm of it, the symphonic wetness, is so loud I’m sure the clerk must be loitering just outside the curtain, hand pressed over her mouth in either horror or awe.

River, for his part, seems intoxicated by the sound, by the way my body gives up all pretense and spills for him. His eyes never leave mine, pupils blown wide with hunger as he watches me come apart. Every time his fingers sink deeper, I hear the obscene slick and feel the answering jolt deep inside me, an electric tangle of pleasure that sparks with each curled thrust. The air is so thick with scent and heat that I almost hallucinate: the taste of the blood in my mouth from biting my lip, the sharp tang of adrenaline and sweat, the earthy pine of his skin,and—rising, cresting, undeniable—the honeyed musk of my own arousal, thick as sap. It’s everywhere. It’s everything. It floods this little booth, seeps into my lungs, rewires the chemistry of need. The noise is relentless, a vulgar punctuation for every perfect movement, as if my body has become an instrument made for this alone.

I'm close, so close, thighs trembling and breath coming in pants I can barely muffle. Just a little more and?—

He withdraws his fingers entirely.

Before I can protest—before I can do more than whine at the loss—River drops to his knees.

The sight of him there, looking up at me with pure hunger while my slick gleams on his fingers, nearly finishes me on its own.

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