Page 170 of Knotting the Cowboys

"Definitely." Cole's hands slide up my back, pulling me flush against him. "Question is, do we take the gift he's giving us?"

I answer by kissing him again, slower this time but no less intense. When we finally break apart, both of us are trembling.

"Inside?" he asks, voice rough with want.

"Inside," I agree, climbing off his lap on unsteady legs.

He stands, takes my hand, and leads me toward the door. Toward privacy. Toward whatever comes next in this second chance we're both so desperate to get right.

The swing continues its gentle rhythm behind us, marking time in the darkness, holding the secret of confessions and first kisses and the promise of more.

Cole's hand in mine feels like a lifeline as he leads me through the darkened house, our footsteps quick but quiet on the old wooden floors.

The air between us crackles with intention, with promises made by kisses on the porch swing. My nightgown whispers against my thighs with each step, and I'm hyperaware of every sensation—the warmth of his palm, the way his thumb strokes across my knuckles, the controlled tension in his shoulders.

We barely make it to my bedroom door before he's pressing me against the wall beside it, his mouth finding mine with renewed hunger. This kiss is different from the desperate one outside—deeper, more certain, like he's made a decision and plans to follow through. His hands frame my face, holding me like something precious while his body cages mine against the wall.

"Been wanting this," he murmurs against my lips, trailing kisses along my jaw. "Watching you build a life here, seeing you with Luna, the way you take care of us?—"

"You take care of me too," I interrupt, my hands sliding under his shirt to find warm skin and hard muscle. "All of you do."

He makes a rough sound, catching my wrists and pinning them above my head with one large hand. The dominance of it should frighten me after Blake, but this is Cole—Cole who saved me, who built me a nest, who just bared his deepest wound on the porch. I trust him with my body the same way I trusted him with my life.

"Let me," he says, using his free hand to trace the collar of my nightgown. "Let me take care of you properly."

I nod, words beyond me as he releases my wrists to lift me, carrying me the last few steps into my room. The fairy lights are still on, casting everything in that warm golden glow. He sets me down beside the bed, stepping back just enough to look at me, and the reverence in his expression makes my throat tight.

"You're so beautiful," he says, hands moving to the hem of my nightgown. "May I?"

"Please," I breathe, lifting my arms so he can pull the fabric over my head.

I'm bare underneath except for simple cotton panties, nothing special, but the way he looks at me makes me feel like a goddess. His hands ghost over my skin, barely touching, mapping the geography of scars and softness. When he brushes the faint marks on my wrists from the handcuffs, his jaw tightens.

"Never again," he promises, pressing kisses to each mark. "No one hurts you again."

"Cole," I whisper, overwhelmed by the tenderness.

He strips his own shirt off, revealing the firefighter's build I've admired from afar—broad shoulders, defined chest, a tattoo over his heart I've never seen before. It's a phoenix rising from flames, detailed and beautiful, and I trace it with trembling fingers.

"Got it after I left the department," he explains, voice rough. "Reminder that sometimes things have to burn down to be reborn."

I lean forward, pressing my lips to the inked skin, feeling his sharp intake of breath. His hands tangle in my hair, not forcing, just holding, as I map his chest with kisses. Each scar tells a story—this one from a ceiling collapse, that one from flying glass,all of them evidence of a man who runs toward danger to save others.

"Bed," he manages when I nip at his collarbone. "Need you on the bed."

We tumble onto the nest together, the pillows and blankets they arranged with such care cradling our bodies. Cole hovers over me, weight on his elbows, and the look in his eyes makes me understand why people write poetry.

"Tell me if anything—if you need me to stop?—"

"I need you not to stop," I interrupt, pulling him down for another kiss. "I need you. Just you."

He groans into my mouth, his control fraying at the edges. But even as passion takes over, he's careful with me, each touch a question I answer with arches and sighs. When his mouth finds my breast, I see stars. When his hand slides between my thighs, I forget my own name.

"So wet," he murmurs against my skin, fingers exploring with devastating skill. "So perfect. All for me?"

"All for you," I gasp, hips rocking against his hand. "Cole, please?—"

He takes his time anyway, learning what makes me gasp, what makes me beg. By the time he finally removes the last barriers between us, I'm trembling with need so acute it borders on pain. He pauses at my entrance, forehead pressed to mine, and we breathe together in the fairy light glow.

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