Page 151 of Knotting the Cowboys

He never stops moving, never lets up, building the heat in my belly back to unbearable, feeding his own need with every desperate sound I make. It’s ruthless, and it’s mercy, and it’s the first time I’ve ever felt truly, beautifully wrecked.

"One more," he demands, never slowing his pace. "Give me one more, sweetheart."

I don't think I can, but his thumb is relentless and his cock hits that spot with every thrust and suddenly I'm coming again, harder this time, vision whiting out as my body convulses around him.

He follows me over the edge with a shudder so seismic it threatens to buckle the world beneath us, his whole body arching and then caving as he spills into me, each hot pulse its own aftershock. He presses in as deep as he can go, like there might be some secret place left in me to claim, and when the wave finally crests for him, it's with my name torn from his throat like a confession.

We’re fused together, every inch of me trembling, every cell greedy for the vanishing electricity. For a second, neither of us breathes. It’s just the relentless hammer of my pulse in my ears and the echo of his release, both of us straining for oxygen like we’ve run for miles, like we’re on the far side of something neither of us will ever be able to fully explain.

My legs feel welded around his hips, my arms numb and useless from clutching at his back, but I don’t want to let go. He doesn’t seem in a hurry, either—refuses to even ease out, choosing instead to cradle my head in his palm and run shivery, grounding passes over my scalp. His nose nuzzles my temple, his breath loud and uneven, every exhale damp and honest against my hairline.

“Fuck,” he whispers, but almost reverently, like he’s afraid the word might break the spell. He keeps his forehead pressed to mine, eyes shut tight, as if he’s trying to absorb the last of whatever just detonated between us. I listen to the scattered rhythm of his heartbeat, feel it slow from panic to surrender, feel his cock softening but still impossibly thick, keeping us joined.

I want to say something, make a joke about being hunted or marked or whatever power games we’re playing, but I can only make this raw, shaky sound that’s half laugh and half sob. The feeling is too tidal, too much. I never believed in anything like a mate bond—never wanted to—but now I’m drowning in this sense of being completely, irrevocably known. The world narrows to the points of contact: his fingers at my nape, ourchests mashed together, the slick mess between my thighs, the way he murmurs my name again and again like he’s worried I’ll vanish if he stops.

We stay locked in that way for what could be seconds or centuries, body heat pooling under the sheets, all the little aches and bruises from before subsumed by this vast, ringing quiet. Every breath I draw tastes like home. Every time I blink I see his face, all the edges gone soft, mouth parted, eyes so vulnerable it almost hurts to look.

He holds me like I’m something precious, not a mess of broken pieces, not a problem to be solved. Just a girl in a stranger’s bed, pinned to the mattress by the weight of everything that just happened and unable—unwilling—to move.

At last, he lets his forehead fall to my shoulder, and for a moment his whole body sags, exhausted. He makes a little sound, not quite a laugh, not quite a moan, and then he lets out a breath that’s so purely relieved I want to bottle it and drink it every day for the rest of my life.

Slowly, almost apologetically, he slips out, careful not to jar me. The loss is so immediate, so total, I shudder and chase him instinctively, hips arching up in wordless protest. He hushes me with kisses, soft and slow, then rolls us onto our sides and tangles our legs together until there’s no telling where I end and he begins.

I’m still shaking, still floating, when he starts peppering my face with tiny, ridiculous kisses—my jaw, my cheekbone, the tip of my nose. Every press is gentle, reverent, and so at odds with the brutal way he just fucked me that it makes me start to cry all over again.

He notices, of course—he always notices. “Hey,” he says, thumb smoothing the tears away before they have a chance to fall. “You okay? Did I hurt you?” The question is so raw, so honest, I almost start laughing. Instead, I turn my face into hishand and just breathe him in, pine and leather and the ghost of sweat, and nod.

“No, you idiot,” I choke out, voice ruined from screaming. “You didn’t hurt me. You—fuck. You fixed me.”

His whole face transforms, a smile starting in his eyes before it reaches his lips. He kisses my forehead, then my eyelids, and I’m so full, so complete, I think I might burst from the pressure.

We lie there, cocooned in warmth and the smell of sex and a contentment so fierce it nearly scares me. I can’t remember the last time I felt safe. I can’t remember if I ever did, but in that moment, flat on my back with this impossible man wrapped around me, I know that I am.

My hands, still trembling from aftershocks, reach without thinking, guided not by intellect but the animal certainty of what he needs. He's still locked inside me, cock swollen at the base, so thick it feels like my body is built around it. The knot—it’s not just a word, it’s a living thing, pulsing at the threshold where we join, making every twitch and pulse a reminder that he is still claiming me, even as the rest of our bodies collapse. I wrap my palm around that bulge, fingers slick with the evidence of what we’ve made together, and squeeze gently, the way a memory once taught me, the way I dreamed someone might, someday, have the guts to want me this openly.

He lurches on top of me, the pressure dragging a desperate curse from his lips, but even more a sigh of gratitude too deep for words. I can feel the tension run through him, from shoulders to spine in a single tremor, and then his hand—still so steady, always so fucking steady—covers mine, guiding my rhythm, teaching me how to help him bear what his body demands. Every movement is a negotiation: his hips jerking into my grip, my thumb catching the slick ridge of the knot and drawing it out with slow, relentless circles. He buries his face in my neck, teeth just grazing but not breaking the skin, and I sense the fight inhim, that paradox of Alpha restraint and wild hunger, his pulse as frantic as mine.

For a wild minute I wonder if it hurts, if this need of his is too much to even be bearable, but then he groans into my ear, a sound so raw and unguarded that it flays me open in turn. “Don’t stop,” he rasps, the words stretched thin with pleasure, “Just—fuck, just like that. Good girl.”

The phrase should insult but instead it floods me with pride so sharp I could bleed from it. I want to be good for him, want to help him through this, and the more he lets go, the more I feel the strange kinship of our ruin. There is something sacred about the shared collapse, how we’re both lost to it, how the act of caring for his need is somehow the way I claim my own. I grip harder, twist my wrist just slightly, a little mean, and he shudders so hard that his whole body bows over me, pinning me down with the weight of his surrender.

When the knot finally begins to ease, his body starts to shake in earnest—not with pain, but with a fierce, shaking afterglow that leaves him gasping. I stroke him gently, soft reassurance for both of us, until at last he loosens his grip and lets his forehead fall to mine. Our noses bump, eyes wet and blurry, and he lets out a broken laugh that tells me he’s still here, that I didn’t destroy him, not really.

I realize then how badly I wanted to be good at this, how much I needed to prove—to him, to myself—that I could meet and match this need and not be afraid of it. I lift my hand to his cheek, smearing sweat and tears in the process, and he just closes his eyes and leans into it. His knot is already shrinking, the connection in my grasp going soft and slippery, but the echoes of it keep me lit up wondering about the near future and when I’ll be able to take each of their knots and enjoy it all.

Finally he collapses beside me, pulling me against his chest.

I'm boneless, satisfied in a way I didn't know was possible, every nerve ending singing with completion.

His arms wrap around me, holding me close like I might disappear, and I burrow into his warmth gratefully.

"Still think you can handle alcohol?" he asks eventually, voice rough with satisfaction.

I laugh, the sound muffled against his chest.

"I think I handled everything just fine."

"More than fine," he agrees, pressing a kiss to my hair. "Fucking perfect."

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