Page 127 of Knotting the Cowboys

Finally, when I’m half-delirious and only distantly aware of my surroundings, he stands and kisses me. I taste myself on his lips, earthy and primal, and I chase the flavor with my tongue, clinging to his shoulders for dear life. We’re both wild-eyed and panting, the quiet between us charged with something electric and dangerous.

He lines himself up again, this time not waiting for preamble or permission. The head of his cock is slick and insistent, and I try to remember how to breathe as he pushes inside. There’s no gentleness at first—just the animal, desperate drive to get as deep as possible, as if he wants to fuse our bodies together on a molecular level. My nails dig into his back, my legs wrap tight around his waist, and we move in a raw, frantic rhythm that leaves the world reduced to our points of contact: the burn where he stretches me, the bruising grip of his hands, the velvet grind of his mouth biting at my shoulder.

This time, it’s different. Not just rough, but fast. An unyielding, pounding tempo that shakes the truck and rattles the windows, that makes me forget there’s ever been anything but this—him, me, the endless night, the creak of the springs, the slap of skin on skin. I’m almost delirious when I hear myself start to cry again, but they’re not tears of pain or fear. They’re the kind of tears you get when you’re finally allowed to want what you want, when it’s given to you and then some. He sees it too, cupping my face with one hand, thumb swiping at the wetness, and that’s what finally slows him down.

He buries his forehead against mine and rocks into me with a gentler, deeper stroke.

She can feel his swollen knot, and how he groans against her flesh. I bet it’s painful for him to not just slide it in, but with their outdoor situation, it woudn’t be wise to knot there. She can get a bit of clarity despite her body’s desperate need to be filled with his knot properly and fucked senseless.

For a moment she’s almost tempted to let it happen. To feel him knot her, have him rut against her until they’re both delirious and senseless beneath the Arizona stars. But she knows the logistics are a nonstarter—the outdoor gravel, the risk of being stuck together for half an hour in public, the imminent threat of cactus needles in unmentionable places—and she’s grateful he’s the one with enough sense to hold back.

That doesn’t mean she can’t help him, though. She wants him to have relief, to feel good, to finish the way he needs to. The need to take care of him is just as strong as everything clawing for release in her own veins. So she shifts her hips back, giving him a little more room, and reaches down between their bodies, feeling for the place where his cock is thickest and hottest and most desperate.

Her fingers close around his shaft and she can feel the literal heartbeat of him, frantic and barely leashed. The knot is swollen so tight it’s almost inhuman, and she squeezes just enough to give him the sensation of being locked in, even if it’s just a mimicry of the real thing. His reaction is instantaneous: he groans into her shoulder, every muscle in his body going rigid. She strokes up to the rim of the knot, milking him, and he thrusts forward so sharply that the truck’s suspension groans in sympathy.

A small, wicked part of her wants to tease him for it. To ask if this is what all the fuss was about, if he’s always this easy to ruin, but the reality is way more intoxicating than any fantasy. He’s letting her handle him, trusting her with the most vulnerable, animal part of himself, and the power rush is second only to the relentless, shuddering pleasure still echoing through her own body. Her fingers slick with a mix of their fluids, she massages the knot, coaxing it, watching as the tension in his shoulders goes from dangerous to electrified.

He’s panting her name now, no shame or control left. Just need. “Willa, please—I can’t, I need?—”

“I know,” she soothes, voice shredded and raw but still hers. She curves her palm around the base of his cock, nails grazing his skin, and it’s enough to undo him. His hips snap forward, and his whole body bows over hers as he comes, the sound ripped from his chest so guttural and vulnerable she knows she’ll be replaying it in her memory for weeks.

They stay that way for a few long moments, her body draped over the cooling hood, his weight anchoring her in place, both of them too wrung out to even speak. Gradually, he softens, and she feels him slump against her, arms circling her waist with something that feels suspiciously like gratitude.

She reaches behind again, catching his shaft and strokes down to his knot, making him groan in relief at her touch as he pressed into her further so she can begin massaging his knot, easing that pang of need that’s probably driving his Alpha instincts insane.

She doesn’t know how long either of them stay like that, but his deep sigh is matched with the release of tension in his shoulders, telling her his knot is satisfied enough.

At least for now.

It makes her stomach coil with anticipation at the idea of her potentially getting to knot each of them.

"You okay?" he asks, turning me around to cup my face, studying me with concern that makes my chest tight.

"More than okay," I assure him, leaning up to kiss him soft and slow. "That was..."

"Yeah," he agrees against my lips, not needing me to finish. "It was."

He helps me straighten my dress, smoothing it down with gentle hands that contrast sharply with how roughly he just took me.

The dichotomy makes me shiver—this man who can dance with childlike joy, fuck with animalistic intensity, and then tend to me with infinite care.

"We should probably figure out how to get home," I say eventually, though I make no move to leave the circle of his arms.

"Probably," he agrees, but he's smiling. "Or we could stay here a little longer. See if any of those wishes you made on the stars come true."

I laugh, feeling lighter than I have in years.

"I think one just did."

The Past Hits The Present

~WILLA~

The feed store smells like home—hay dust and molasses, cracked corn and the earthy sweetness of alfalfa that makes my nose itch.

I breathe it in anyway, letting the familiar scents ground me as I flip through the invoices spread across the scarred wooden counter. My thighs protest when I shift my weight, muscles still tender from last night's activities with Austin, and I have to bite back a smile at the memory.

The soreness is a good reminder of what I can do as an Omega, that my body can still surprise me with what it wants and what it can take.

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