Page 150 of Knotting the Cowboys

It feels like being filled for the first time, like every time before this was just a practice run, like my body was only ever waiting for this exact moment to be truly, completely used.

He's thick, stretching me open, and it's that sweet ache between pain and pleasure that I forgot was possible. My hands scrabble at his shoulders, nails digging in, desperate for an anchor. He curses, the sound guttural and low, and rocksforward, sinking the last inch until our hips are flush and I swear I can feel him everywhere.

He doesn't move right away. Just watches me—really watches, like he's cataloguing every twist of my face, every shuddering breath, every little noise. His hand at my nape rubs slow circles, grounding me, and I realize I'm trembling.

"Still breathing, Omega?" There's a smile tugging at his mouth, but it's soft, worried. "Didn't mean to blow your circuits this fast."

I bite my lip, clench around him just to see what he'll do, and he hisses through his teeth, grip tightening on my thigh. "You cocky bastard," I manage, and it comes out as a moan. "Move. Please."

Permission granted, he pulls back and thrusts in again, this time harder, deeper, like he's trying to erase the gap between us. My body bows off the mattress, chasing him, wanting more. Every thrust is a slow-motion collision, relentless and perfect, grinding right against the places that make me see sparks. The rhythm is ruthless, but his hand never leaves my neck, fingers massaging gently, a strange counterpoint to the rough snap of his hips.

He buries his face in my hair, breathing in the scent and exhaling it back against my ear. "Fuck, Willa, you take me so good," he murmurs, voice half-dazed. "So fucking good for me."

The praise turns everything sharp and bright, and I whimper, rolling my hips up to meet him, greedy for every inch. He gives it, matches me thrust for thrust, each one getting harder, faster, until the bed frame slams against the wall in time with my pulse.

I'm loud. I know it and can't help it, each moan and gasp uncensored, unashamed, echoing off the cheap wood paneling. I want the whole damn town to hear, want every ghost of every Alpha who ever doubted me to listen, because this is what it feels like to be worshipped.

He’s getting close—I can feel it in the way his rhythm stutters, the way his hand knots tight in my hair, the ragged edge to his breathing. He slips a hand between us, finding my clit with ruthless efficiency, circling it in time with his thrusts. The sensation is white-hot, searing through me, and I tumble over the edge so fast it rips the sound from my throat.

I come hard, full-body, clawing at his shoulders as everything clenches and convulses around him. He follows with a shudder, holding my gaze as he buries himself one final, brutal time and comes with a noise that’s half growl, half gasp, all surrender.

He collapses over me, careful not to crush, but refusing to let me go. For a minute all I can hear is our breathing, tangled together, until he lifts his head and brushes a sweaty strand of hair from my face.

"You good?" he asks, a little sheepish now, like he's uncertain.

I laugh, because it's ridiculous—because I feel better, more alive, more present in my body than I have in years. "I'm amazing," I tell him, and mean it. "You?"

He grins, sharp canines and all, and gives my thigh a proprietary squeeze. "I’m gonna be sore in the morning, but worth it."

"Alpha," I tease, voice lazy with afterglow, "you going soft on me?"

His eyes flicker, heat kindling again despite everything. "Never," he promises, shifting to kiss me slow and sweet, like he’s got all the time in the world.

The stretch burns perfect, just the right side of too much, and when he starts moving I can only hold on and let him take me apart.

The rhythm he sets is deep and demanding, each thrust driving me higher. His mouth finds my neck, sucking marks that will definitely show tomorrow, but I don't care. I want them,want evidence of this on my skin, want to look in the mirror and remember how it felt to be wanted this desperately.

"So tight," he groans against my throat. "So perfect. Take my cock so well, like you were made for it."

The praise makes me clench around him, drawing another curse from his lips. He shifts the angle, hitting something inside that makes me see stars, and I can't control the sounds spilling from my mouth—his name and please and incomprehensible syllables of pleasure.

My orgasm builds fast, that familiar tension coiling tighter with each thrust.

He must feel it because his hand slides between us, thumb finding my clit with unerring accuracy.

"That's it," he encourages, circling in tight, perfect movements. "Let go for me. Want to feel you come on my cock, want to watch you fall apart."

The combination of his words, his touch, the feeling of being filled so completely—it's too much.I shatter with a cry that he swallows with another kiss, my body clenching around him as waves of pleasure crash through me.

He doesn’t let up, not even a fraction, not for the trembling in my limbs or the strangled way I gasp his name through the aftershocks. He fucks me straight through it, through the wild twitch of every muscle and the disbelieving, animal noise that claws up my throat. Oversensitivity hits like floodlights—every thrust ricochets inside me, sharp as lightning, sweet as agony, melting my bones and shattering any last sense of control. My hands fly to his chest, not to push him away but to hold on, like if I could dig deep enough I might anchor to the center of the earth itself.

Each time he slides in, the fullness feels impossible, and the relief when he pulls out is a knife-edge—sharp, short-lived, and replaced instantly by the desperate want to have him backinside. My thighs quake with the effort to stay open for him, but his body never lets me close up; his weight, his hands, the solid press of him everywhere holds me wide and helpless.

He watches the wreckage he’s made of me with this greedy, nerveless smile, the kind you’d see on an addict at the moment of overdose. The rhythm he pounds out is unforgiving, a deep relentless piston from hips that know exactly what they’re doing, and he mutters my name like a curse, like a prayer, like a thing that will keep him tethered to this world if he only says it enough.

“Fuck, baby, look at you,” he rasps, voice frayed with awe, with hunger, with something close to reverence. “Didn’t know you could get tighter, Christ?—”

Each time my body clenches, he groans, then rears back and slams in harder, like he’s chasing some secret within me. My vision goes white at the edges, tears leaking from the corners of my eyes—not from pain, not really, but from the exquisite violence of being taken apart and put back together over and over. I’m crying and laughing and begging wordlessly, and maybe he wants that, maybe that’s the whole point, because when I start to sob in earnest, he cups my jaw and kisses the wetness away, whispering, “That’s it, Willa, that’s my girl, give it all to me.”

---