Page 149 of Knotting the Cowboys

"Jesus fucking Christ." His hands hover near my head, not quite touching, like he's afraid to influence my choices. "You don't have to?—"

"I want to." The belt comes free, and I work his jeans open with fingers that only shake a little. "Been thinking about it. How you'd feel, how you'd taste, what sounds you'd make."

His cock springs free when I pull his boxers down, already hard and leaking. He's bigger than I expected, thick enough to make my mouth water with anticipation and just a hint of nerves. But the way he's looking at me—like I'm something precious and dangerous all at once—gives me courage.

I lean forward, maintaining eye contact as I run my tongue along the underside from base to tip. His whole body shudders, a broken sound escaping his throat.

Encouraged, I do it again, slower this time, learning the shape of him, the way his breath catches when I flick my tongue over the sensitive head.

"Those fucking eyes," he groans, one hand finally coming to rest gently in my hair. "You have any idea what you look like right now?"

I hum in question, then take him into my mouth, just the tip at first, swirling my tongue around the crown.

His hips jerk forward involuntarily before he catches himself, muttering an apology.

"Don't apologize," I pull back to say, voice already rough. "Want you to feel good. Want you to show me how you like it."

His control cracks a little more. The hand in my hair tightens, not forcing but guiding, and I follow his lead eagerly. I take him deeper, hollowing my cheeks, using my hand to work what doesn't fit. Every groan, every curse, every time his thighs tense under my free hand sends heat pooling between my legs.

I look up at him again, those same puppy eyes that apparently destroy his resistance, and deliberately take him as deep as I can. The stretch makes my eyes water, but the sound he makes—desperate and wrecked—is worth it.

"Fuck, fuck, Willa—" His hips start moving in tiny thrusts, careful not to choke me but unable to stay still. "So good, so fucking perfect, those goddamn eyes?—"

I hum around him, the vibration making him curse creatively.

My jaw aches but I don't care, too lost in the power of reducing him to this—trembling and swearing and looking at me like I'm simultaneously salvation and damnation.

His movements get more erratic, breathing harsh.

"Gonna—fuck, need to?—"

I pull back just enough to speak, lips still brushing his cock.

"Want it. Want to taste you."

That's all it takes. He comes with a shout that's probably too loud for a hotel, hips stuttering as I swallow around him, taking everything he gives. His hand in my hair gentles, petting me through the aftershocks, whispering praise that makes me preen.

"Come here," he demands once his breathing steadies, pulling me to my feet. "Need to?—"

Whatever he needs gets lost as he kisses me again, deep and filthy, tasting himself on my tongue. His hands are everywhere—pushing the shirt up, gripping my thighs, spreading me open. When his fingers find how wet I am, we both groan.

"This what I do to you?" He backs me toward the bed, fingers sliding through my folds with devastating skill. "Get you this desperate just from sucking my cock?"

"Yes," I gasp, beyond shame or pretense. "Please, Mavi, need?—"

He doesn't hesitate—not when he crawls onto the bed, not when he gathers me up like I'm both heavier and lighter than air, not when he wrenches my thighs apart in his hands with a kind of brute gentleness that makes my heart trip over itself.

"I know what you need," he growls, but the words are honeyed, promise and threat braided together. His hands brand my hips, and when he looks down at me, his pupils are blown so wide the green is just a ring of wildfire. "Gonna give you everything, sweetheart. Gonna make you forget every Alpha who didn't worship you properly."

I want to make some smartass quip about how he's laying it on thick, but I can't, because then he's all the way on top of me—body caging mine, one strong hand at the back of my neck, the other dragging slow up my thigh to hook my knee high around his waist.

He grinds against me, bare and hot, heavy cock dragging through my slick folds until I'm arching into him, shameless. He lines himself up, the head nudging right where I need it, and pauses.

"Tell me you want this," he says, voice raw and unsteady, forehead pressed to mine. "Tell me to stop and I will."

I stare at him, struck dumb for a second by the contradiction—the absolute dominance in the way he's holding me down, the total deference in his eyes. I lick my lips, taste the salt and the honesty, and tell him, "Don't stop. Not unless you want to find out how loud I can get."

That does it. He laughs, shaky, and then the laugh dies in his throat when he pushes inside me in one smooth, relentless stroke.

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