Page 196 of Knotting the Cowboys

"Did you—" I gasp as he shifts angles. "Did you touch yourself while watching?"

"Every fucking time." His hand leaves my hair to slide around my throat—not squeezing, just present, possessive. "Came watching you fall apart, imagining it was my hand making you scream."

The image makes me clench around him, drawing a growl from deep in his chest. He pulls out suddenly, leaving me emptyand whining, but before I can protest, he's flipping me onto my back. His eyes rake over me with undisguised hunger—my marked skin, swollen lips, the mess between my thighs.

"Look at you," he breathes, spreading my legs wider to see where his cock has left me open, dripping. "Thoroughly fucked and still begging for more. What am I going to do with you?"

"Whatever you want," I answer honestly, reaching for him again. This time he lets me touch, lets me pull him down for a kiss that's all teeth and desperation. "Just don't stop."

He enters me again with a groan, this position letting him go even deeper. I wrap my legs around his waist, using the leverage to meet his thrusts, and his control fractures further. His hands are everywhere—gripping my thighs, palming my breasts, tangling in my hair. He can't seem to decide what he wants to touch most, so he tries for everything at once.

"The camera in here is off," he says suddenly, catching my chin to make me look at him. "Has been since you arrived. I'm not—I wouldn't—not without permission."

The consideration in the middle of such primal claiming undoes me. I pull him down for another kiss, softer this time, trying to convey what words can't capture. When we break apart, his expression has shifted to something vulnerable beneath the dominance.

"I know," I whisper. "I trust you. Even when you're watching. Especially then."

He makes a sound like I've hit him, then redoubles his efforts. One hand finds my clit with the exact pressure he learned from his surveillance, the other grips the headboard for leverage as he drives into me with single-minded focus. The dual stimulation combined with the emotional intensity pushes me rapidly toward climax.

"That's it," he encourages, watching my face with the same intensity he must have brought to those security feeds. "Show me. Show me what I've been missing."

The orgasm builds differently this time—deeper, starting in my core and radiating outward like ripples in a pond. When it crests, I arch off the bed completely, only his weight keeping me grounded as pleasure whites out everything else. I'm dimly aware of screaming his name, of my nails raking down his back, of the way he follows me over with a roar that probably wakes the whole house.

We collapse together, a tangle of sweaty limbs and harsh breathing. He's careful even in exhaustion, rolling to avoid crushing my belly, but keeps me tight against his side. I can feel the marks he left throbbing in time with my heartbeat—shoulders, neck, probably hips from his grip. Instead of shame, I feel claimed. Protected. Owned in the way that means belonging, not possession.

"Jesus," he mutters into my hair. "I didn't mean to—the watching thing?—"

"Was hot," I finish, turning to press a kiss to his jaw. "Knowing you wanted me that much. That you studied me like one of your security puzzles."

He huffs a laugh, but I can feel his relief in the way his arms tighten around me. "You're going to be the death of me."

"Just three more to go," I remind him, already feeling the heat build again beneath the satisfaction. "Think you'll survive?"

"Cole's going to knot you," he says instead of answering. "We can all smell it on him—the need to claim you completely. You ready for that?"

I think about Cole's careful control, the way he's held himself back even while the others gave in to their needs. Think about how it will feel to have that control finally snap, to be locked together in the most primal way possible.

"Yes," I whisper, and mean it completely. "I'm ready for all of it."

Mavi presses a kiss to my temple, and we lie quietly as my body prepares for the final round. Outside, I can hear footsteps—measured, patient, inevitable.

Cole's coming.

And with him, the completion of something that started the night he pulled me from a burning house.

Cole doesn't knock.

He simply opens the door and stands there, filling the frame with his presence in a way that makes my breath catch. Unlike the others who arrived in various states of undress or urgency, he's fully clothed, movements deliberate as he steps inside and closes the door with quiet finality.

His eyes—those storm-gray depths that first made me feel safe—take in the scene with careful assessment.

Me, marked and thoroughly claimed, sheets tangled and stained with the evidence of my heat.

Mavi, protective even in satiation, arm still curved around my waist.

"It's time," Cole says simply, already unbuttoning his shirt with steady hands. No rushing, no frenzy, just methodical revelation of the body I've craved since this heat began. Each button reveals more—the broad chest with its dusting of dark hair, the defined abs that speak of physical labor rather than gym vanity, the V of muscle that disappears beneath his jeans.

Mavi presses a kiss to my shoulder, right over one of the marks he left. "Remember what I said," he murmurs, then extracts himself from our tangle with obvious reluctance. As he passes Cole, they share a look—some silent communication between alphas that ends with Mavi gripping Cole's shoulder briefly.

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