Page 194 of Knotting the Cowboys

I don’t know what the hell he means, but I’m too strung-out to argue. My thighs shiver as I prop myself higher on my elbows, unable to look away from the image in the glass. River’s hand comes up at last, stroking the hair back from my face with infinite patience, like he’s teaching a mustang to accept a bridle. His touch is cool and soothing on my fevered skin.

"Heat turns everything inside out," he murmurs, eyes flicking from the mirror to my face and back again. "Makes you forget you’re more than a mess of hormones." He leans in, voice dropping to a private whisper. "But you are. You’re so much more. You’re beautiful, even when you’re drowning in it."

I’d roll my eyes if I could, but the words land somewhere vulnerable and unexpected. Because no one’s ever said that to me—not in the middle of this, not when I’m all sweat and scent and wild want. My breath hitches, something shivery running through me that isn’t just physical.

His hand trails down, tracing the collarbone, sliding over the swell of my breast. He doesn’t maul, doesn’t grope. Just explores, cataloging every response, every intake of breath. In the mirror, my skin flushes even darker around his touch, beads of sweat gleaming on my sternum. I watch his fingers skim the side of my belly, avoiding the most sensitive places, but the anticipation sets off a thousand tiny aftershocks just beneath the surface.

"You keep thinking you’re just a body, Willa," he says, and his gaze catches mine in the glass. "You forget you’re a story. Everymark on you—these scars, these freckles, the way you move when you’re about to come apart—that’s all part of it. And people crave the story, not just the sex. That’s what makes it real."

I want to protest, to tell him I’ve been reduced to a body for so long that maybe that’s all I am. But his hands won’t let me. He shifts behind me, bracing my shoulders with strong, gentle arms, and for a second I’m weightless, like he could hold me up forever if he wanted.

Then he helps me up onto my knees, very slowly, very carefully, as if I’m something fragile. My belly, heavy and awkward, threatens my balance, but River is already moving pillows into place, stacking them until the pressure against my abdomen eases and I’m supported in all the ways I didn’t know I needed. My hands dig into the comforter, but his palms stay warm and steady at my hips, guiding me into position without ever once making me feel forced.

In the mirror, I see the transformation: I’m no longer just writhing in selfish need. I’m an animal—powerful, desperate, alive—back arched, thighs trembling, hair cascading in wild tangles down my shoulders. And River, behind me, a steadying presence, eyes locked on mine. He looks at me not like a thing to be used up and discarded, but like a work of art he’s lucky enough to handle for a while.

"You see it?" he asks, quiet but insistent. "You see how gorgeous you are like this?"

My lips form a yes, half-word and half-moan, and for the first time, I believe it.

Different sounds like torture when every cell in my body screams for immediate satisfaction, but River's hands are gentle as he helps me onto my hands and knees. The position feels vulnerable with my pregnant belly hanging heavy beneath me, but he supports me with pillows, making sure I'm comfortable before he even thinks about pleasure.

"Good girl," he murmurs when I settle into position, and those two words send heat straight to my core. "Now, I want you to watch. See what I see when I look at you."

I lift my head to meet my own gaze in the mirror, startled by what I find. My hair is wild, my skin flushed and glowing with perspiration. My eyes are dark with need, lips swollen from Austin's kisses. I look thoroughly debauched, claimed, wanted. Beautiful in a raw, primal way I've never seen in myself before.

"That's it," River says, his hands finally making contact with my overheated skin. He starts at my shoulders, long strokes down my spine that make me arch like a cat. "See how responsive you are? How every touch makes you light up?"

His hands work lower, massaging the tension from muscles I didn't realize were clenched. When he reaches my hips, he grips them firmly, thumbs pressing into the dimples at the base of my spine. The pressure is just right, grounding me even as need spirals higher.

"River, please," I beg, watching our reflection as he positions himself behind me. He's shed his clothes at some point, his lean muscle and sun-bronzed skin a beautiful contrast to my paler softness. "I can't wait anymore."

"You can," he counters, running one hand down my spine while the other guides himself to my entrance. He slides just the tip inside, barely breaching me, and the tease makes me sob. "Breathe for me, Willa. Deep breaths."

I try to push back, to take more of him, but his grip on my hips prevents it. In the mirror, I can see his face—the concentration, the careful control, the banked heat in his eyes that says this restraint costs him too.

"Why are you—" The question dies as he slides in another inch, still maddeningly slow.

"Because you deserve to be worshipped," he says simply, pulling back until just the tip remains before sliding forwardagain, barely deeper than before. "Because pleasure should be savored, not rushed. Because I want you to remember this."

Each word is punctuated by those shallow thrusts that give me just enough to keep me on edge but never enough to push me over. In the mirror, I watch myself fall apart—the way my mouth opens on silent pleas, how my back arches seeking more, the flush that spreads down my chest as he plays my body like an instrument he's spent years learning.

"Dandelion," he whispers, and the pet name breaks something in me. My eyes fly to his in the mirror, finding them locked on mine with an intensity that steals my breath. "Let me see you let go."

He slides deep then, finally giving me what I've been begging for, and the relief makes me cry out. But he doesn't pound into me like my body demands. Instead, he sets a rhythm that's slow and deep and devastating, each thrust measured to drag against every sensitive spot inside me.

"Watch," he commands when my eyes start to close. "See how perfectly we fit? How your body welcomes me?"

I force my eyes open, taking in our joined reflection. There's something deeply erotic about watching him disappear inside me, seeing the way my body stretches to accommodate him. His hands span my hips, guiding the rhythm, and when one slides around to circle my clit, I nearly collapse.

"Not yet," he says, stilling the motion. "You can take more. I know you can."

The denial makes me whimper, but he's relentless in his patience. He builds me up again and again, bringing me to the edge with those deep, measured thrusts and clever fingers, only to ease back just before I tumble over. Sweat drips down my spine, tears stream down my face, and still he continues his exquisite torture.

"River, please," I sob, meeting his eyes in the mirror. "I can't—I need?—"

"What do you need?" His voice remains maddeningly calm even as his thrusts pick up pace slightly. "Tell me."

"I need to come," I gasp out, shameless in my desperation. "Please let me come. I'll do anything?—"

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