Page 125 of Knotting the Cowboys

"Mine. Ours. The pack's." He pushes the panties aside, fingers sliding through my wetness with devastating skill. "All those fuckers watching you, wishing they could be where I am right now, and all I could think about was getting you alone so I could give you exactly what you asked for."

Two fingers press into me with a force and certainty that obliterate every last shaky doubt in my system. There’s no teasing here, no timid escalation or gentle asking permission—he just claims, invades, fills. The sharp jolt of it rockets me up the truck door, metal biting into my spine, but I barely register the pain because it’s instantly eclipsed by the electric pleasure.

I buckle at the knees and nearly slide down the truck, but Austin’s body is there, braced against me, crowding out the air and any other possibility but this one. His palm, already hot from grabbing and gripping, presses flat over my mound, keeping me pinned at the apex of every thrust, while his thumb—dear god, his thumb—draws a fast, filthy circle on my clit with the kind of unrelenting focus that should absolutely be illegal.

I forget how to speak. I forget how to breathe. The only thing I can do is make sound—a broken, keening noise that doesn’t even sound like my own voice. My head flings back against the truck with a hollow clang, and my world telescopes down to the pyrotechnic pressure growing inside me.

Austin’s mouth is at my ear, his breath ragged and teeth flashing in the darkness. “You feel that?” He fucks those fingers into me harder, dragging them along every trembling nerve ending. “Feel how ready you are? God, Willa, you say you wantto be kissed senseless but all your body wants is to be split open and devoured.”

His free hand slides up, deliberate and slow as if daring me to stop him, and wraps around my throat. He doesn’t squeeze, not really, not with more than a ghost of pressure, but the implication of it—the way it says you’re not going anywhere, you’re right here, you’re mine—sends a molten shudder through my whole body. There’s nowhere to run anyway; I’m sandwiched between the cold, dented steel of the truck and a man whose self-control is hanging by the thinnest, sexiest thread.

I should be embarrassed by how quickly I’m unraveling. By the slap of wet, the obscene little noises my body makes around his fingers, and the way my hips are already chasing every thrust like a dog desperate for a treat. But I’m not embarrassed. I’m starving. I want more.

“Go ahead,” he murmurs, jaw tight, eyes flicking down to watch the obscene dip of his hand under my dress. “Let it out. Tonight you’re not anyone’s fuckin’ secret. You want to be destroyed, I’ll make sure you never forget how.”

It’s possible I black out for a second, because there’s an instant where all I see is flashing white behind my eyelids and then I’m crashing back down in a body that feels like it’s been rewired for maximum sensitivity. My thighs start to shake, knees buckling in earnest, and he hauls me up higher on the truck so I’m riding his hand, legs dangling off the ground. The leverage means he can work me exactly how he wants—deep, punishing thrusts paired with unrelenting pressure on my clit, all of it calculated to bring me to the edge faster than I want to admit.

He bites along the curve of my jaw, not quite breaking skin but leaving heat and the threat of a mark, then growls against my ear: “Look at me.”

It takes effort, but I force my head forward, blinking into the night. He’s so close, I could count every gold fleck in his eyesif I were capable of counting. His gaze is molten with want and something like awe, as if he’s seeing me come apart is the most beautiful thing he’s ever witnessed.

“That’s it. That’s the look I wanted.” His thumb circles faster, fingers crooking up into the spot that makes my vision swim. “Give it to me, Willa. Every last drop.”

Something in the way he says my name, low and reverent like a prayer, unspools the last knot of restraint I have. My back arches, head slamming against the steel, and I cry out—loud, uncontrolled, the kind of scream I’d never allow myself even alone in the shower. It’s so sharp and sudden it echoes off the trees, bounces back like a challenge to the universe.

I start to come, hard and fast, pulses of pleasure wracking my entire body, but Austin doesn’t slow down. If anything, he doubles down, working me through the crest and into another, more brutal aftershock, holding me steady when my legs are jelly and my hands flail for something to anchor to. I clutch his biceps, nails digging crescent moons through the thin cotton of his shirt, but he just grins against my neck and encourages me to leave marks, to take, to be greedy.

“You got another for me?” he whispers, voice wrecked and hoarse and so fucking turned on it feels like a match to gasoline. “Or do I need to work you a little harder?”

I’ve never met a man so utterly devoted to the art of getting a woman off, and I’m so overwhelmed by it that my brain short-circuits. For a long, suspended moment, the only thing I can do is pant and ride out the aftershocks as his fingers keep up the relentless rhythm, coaxing every last trembling shudder from my spent muscles.

But then I feel it—the greedy flutter of want returning, ignited by the friction of him not letting up and the way he’s looking at me like a man who found water in the desert.

I want to say something cool, a witty line to mark the moment, but all I manage is a strangled, desperate whine that could resemble his name if you squint.

He laughs, legitimately delighted, and that little ripple of mirth sends a new bolt of arousal straight through me. Then he does something obscene—he curls a third finger in with the first two, stretching me wide until I gasp and nearly sob from how intense it is.

“That’s my girl,” he rasps, and I want to die from how good that feels, how completely I want to belong to him in this moment. His palm is slick from me, his wrist flexing as he drives deeper, and the wet, slippery sounds are so loud in the quiet night it feels like the whole world is listening in.

The control, the precision, the pure confidence of his touch—every second I’m held here, bound by the grip at my throat and the invasion between my legs, I feel myself transforming into something new. Not a victim anymore, not a survivor clinging to pride, but a live wire of hunger and hope, ready to burn the whole world down if it means getting what I want.

He never lets up on the eye contact, not once. Even as my head tips back and my eyes threaten to roll, he growls, “Look at me. I want you to see who’s doing this to you. I want you to remember every second.”

And I do. I see every line of his face, the wild heat in his gaze, the way his jaw clenches when I contract around him like a vice. I see the pride, the protectiveness, the pure feral want.

God help me, I want this man to fuck me senseless. I want him to take me apart and put me back together so completely I’ll never again hear the word “Omega” without thinking of his hands, his mouth, his voice.

I open my mouth to tell him, but all that comes out is a choked, “Austin?—”

He leans in, lips brushing over mine, and his voice is scorched earth: “Tell me what you need.”

I don’t even have to think about it. The craving is so big it crawls up my backbone and sets my teeth on edge.

“Please,” I gasp, clinging to his shoulders as he adds that third finger, stretching me in the most delicious, obscene way. “Please, I need?—”

"I know what you need." He withdraws his fingers, ignoring my whine of protest, and spins me around to face the truck. The position leaves me bent slightly, hands braced against the still-warm hood, and I hear his belt buckle clinking. "Gonna give you exactly what you asked for. Hard and deep until you see stars."

His hands push my dress up around my waist, fully exposing my ass to the cool night air. But then his palms are there, kneading the flesh with possessive strength, spreading me open. "Look at you," he breathes, reverent and filthy all at once. "So fucking perfect. So ready for me."

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