Page 133 of Knotting the Cowboys

A moan escapes—soft, needy, absolutely mortifying—and my hands come up to clutch at his shoulders for balance. He tastes like coffee and cinnamon, that dangerous edge alwayslurking beneath his careful control now unleashed for public consumption. His teeth catch my bottom lip, tugging gently, and another sound breaks free that I'll be embarrassed about for the next decade.

When he finally pulls back, I'm breathing like I've run a marathon.

My lips feel swollen, probably look it too, and I can taste him on my tongue.

The world spins lazily, all my blood apparently having relocated south, and I have to blink several times before his face comes into focus.

He's grinning, the bastard.

Green eyes bright with satisfaction as his thumb traces my bottom lip, spreading the moisture he left there.

"Good morning to me," he says, voice pitched to carry. "How'd the budget review go? You save us millions yet?"

My brain is completely static. Blake is standing ten feet away, looking like someone hit him with a cattle prod, Cole's trying not to laugh, half the town is staring, and Mavi's asking about budgets like he didn't just stake a claim more effectively than any formal announcement could.

"I—what?" I manage, still clinging to his shoulders.

"The hay purchase." His hand slides lower on my back, fingertips tracing patterns that make me shiver. "Cole texted that you found us a better supplier."

"Oh. Yes. Johnson's Feed Mill." The words come out breathy, disconnected. I'm still processing the kiss, the audience, the way my body won't stop humming. "We could save... um... money."

"Brilliant." He shifts his attention over my shoulder, and his entire demeanor changes.

Still relaxed, still touching me, but there's something predatory in the set of his shoulders now.

"Who's this?"

I follow his gaze to Blake, who's recovered enough to sneer.

"Her ex-husband. You must be another one of her replacement Alphas."

"Replacement implies someone needed replacing." Mavi's voice stays light, conversational, but his hand on my back presses harder, keeping me close. "From what I hear, you were more like a placeholder. Training wheels she outgrew."

"Why you?—"

"No one important," I interrupt, desperate to end this before it escalates further.

I turn in Mavi's arms, looking up at him through my lashes in a move I learned watching other Omegas but never had the courage to try.

"Can we go? I'm hungry."

The puppy eyes are apparently effective.

Mavi's ears turn pink—actually pink—and he swallows hard.

"Yeah. Yes. Food. We can do food."

I feel like he’s not thinking about food at all.

"Mavi," I say his name soft and sweet, playing up the omega-in-distress angle. It feels manipulative but also strangely powerful, using these tools I've always been denied.

That does it.

His protective instincts flare hot enough to scorch, and before I can process what's happening, he bends and scoops me up into his arms.

I squeal—actually squeal like some romance novel heroine—as he lifts me effortlessly, one arm under my knees and the other supporting my back.

"Mavi! Put me down!"

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