Page 168 of Knotting the Cowboys

"Again," he manages, but he doesn't move back.

This time when I thrust upward, trying to dislodge him, our bodies align in ways that make us both gasp. He's hard—I can feel it through the thin fabric of his shorts, pressing against mystomach. My own arousal spikes in response, wetness gathering between my thighs.

"Mavi," I breathe, not sure if it's protest or plea.

"You need to know this," he grits out, but his hips press down slightly, increasing the friction. "Need to be able to protect yourself."

"Is that what we're doing?" The question comes out breathless, challenging. "Protecting?"

His control visibly frays. The next moment happens in fragments—his hand tangling in my hair, my legs wrapping around his waist, our mouths crashing together in a kiss that's all teeth and desperation. He tastes like coffee and danger, and I moan into his mouth, pulling him closer.

We're not practicing anymore. We're grinding together on the mats like teenagers, hands roaming, boundaries dissolving. He pins my wrists above my head and I arch into him, feeling powerful in my surrender. His mouth finds my throat and I see stars, my body singing with want so sharp it borders on pain.

"Fuck," he gasps against my skin. "We shouldn't—you're learning?—"

"I'm learning I want you," I interrupt, rolling my hips deliberately. "That's still educational."

He groans, catching my mouth again, and this kiss is slower but no less intense. His tongue traces mine, mapping me like territory to be claimed. I nip at his lower lip and his grip on my wrists tightens, sending sparks down my spine.

"Dinner's ready!" Austin's voice carries from outside, closer than expected. "Unless you two would rather skip food for more... training."

We spring apart like we've been electrocuted. I scramble to sitting, trying to smooth my hair, acutely aware of how wrecked I must look. Mavi's no better—chest heaving, lips swollen, arousal still visibly straining against his shorts.

"Be right there," Mavi calls back, voice impressively steady.

Austin's laughter fades as he heads back to the house, leaving us in charged silence. Mavi runs a hand through his hair, looking anywhere but at me.

"That was?—"

"Educational," I supply, climbing to my feet on shaky legs.

A smile tugs at his mouth despite everything. "Very."

We walk back to the house in loaded silence, bodies carefully not touching. But I can still feel everywhere he pressed against me, still taste him on my lips, still want with an intensity that makes me understand why Iron Ridge feared omega desire.

Because this? This could burn down kingdoms.

The porch swing creaks a rhythm that matches my heartbeat—slow, steady, trying so hard to be calm. Night has settled over the ranch like a blanket, bringing with it the distant call of coyotes and the closer chirp of crickets hiding in the garden. Cole sits beside me, close enough that I feel his warmth but far enough that we're not quite touching, both of us staring out at the darkness like it might have answers.

Luna went down an hour ago, milk-drunk and content after fussing through dinner. The house behind us has gone quiet, that particular stillness that comes when everyone's settled into their evening routines. River's probably reading in his room. Austin's definitely passed out already—the man keeps teenage hours. And Mavi... I don't let myself think about Mavi and what happened in the barn this afternoon.

"Can't sleep?" Cole asks, his voice pitched low to match the night.

"Too much in my head," I admit, pulling my legs up under me. I'm wearing one of his flannels over my nightgown, the fabric soft with age and smelling like leather and safety. "You?"

He's quiet for so long I think he won't answer. Then: "Same. Been thinking about... things I don't usually let myself think about."

The swing continues its gentle motion, and I wait. Cole's not one for being pushed. He'll share when he's ready or not at all, and I've learned to be patient with these men and their carefully guarded wounds.

"You asked once why I left firefighting," he says finally, hands clasped between his knees, studying them like they hold secrets. "Told you it was burnout. That was... partially true."

"But not the whole truth?"

He shakes his head, jaw working like he's chewing on words that don't want to come out. "There was a fire. Apartment complex on the north side of Helena. Middle of the night, building fully involved by the time we got there." His voice has gone clinical, reporting facts like that might make them hurt less. "I was on search and rescue. That was my job—go in, find people, get them out."

I shift slightly closer, not touching but offering presence. He doesn't pull away.

"Third floor was bad. Smoke so thick you couldn't see your hand in front of your face. But I heard her—young woman, maybe early twenties, crying for help." His hands clench and unclench. "Found her in a back bedroom. Door had warped from the heat, trapped her inside. She was... she was still conscious when I got to her."

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