Page 57 of Knotting the Cowboys

"They'll wait," I hear myself say, even though I know we should go in. Should join our makeshift family for dinner and pretend my body isn't screaming to claim the woman sitting two feet away.

She turns to look at me,and fuck me,but that white sweater is going to be my undoing.

It's nothing special—soft cotton that's seen better days, probably something she grabbed without thinking. But it's slipped off one shoulder, baring the elegant line of her neck, the delicate hollow of her collarbone.

The truck's dome light casts shadows that beg to be traced with lips and tongue, and I have to clench my fists to keep from reaching for her.

My eyes trail lower without permission, taking in how those jeans hug her curves like they were painted on.

She's not trying to be sexy—that's what makes it worse. She's just existing in her body, unaware of how every breath makes that sweater shift, how the setting sun backlights her hair into a copper halo, how her very presence is rewiring my brain into something feral and wanting.

The blocking underwear can't hide everything.

Maybe it's imagination or wishful thinking, but I swear I catch hints of her true scent—vanilla and maple with that underlying sweetness that's pure aroused Omega. It weaves through the truck's recycled air, mixing with leather and pine until I can't tell where I end and she begins.

My mouth waters with the sudden, visceral need to taste her properly. To push her back against the seat and bury my face between her thighs until she's sobbing my name, until her slick coats my tongue and her scent is branded into my memory forever.

The fantasy hits with enough force to make me grunt, cock jerking hard against my jeans.

If I let it, the urge would tear through me, wild and unrestrained, until there was nothing left but instinct and muscle memory and the taste of her on my lips. I want to break her open and meld her to this place, to me, until all of Sweetwater knows exactly who she belongs to. I'd start at that shoulder—God, that shoulder, tempting and soft and exposed in a way that says touch me, claim me, be the first one to make me shiver.

I'd run my thumb along the curve of her clavicle, slow and deliberate, not just as a tease but as a promise. My teeth would follow, leaving faint indents, a warning and a vow. She'd gasp, maybe try to play tough, but I know she'd melt; beneath all her bravado, she wants this as much as I do.

I can see it already: the trail of love bites, some dark and angry, some pale and ghosting, dotting her skin like constellations only I know how to read.

I'd paint them on her—a secret code of devotion and appetite, meant to linger for days so she'd think of me every time her shirt brushes over a sore spot. It wouldn't stop there.

I'd map every inch of her, learning the secret languages only my tongue and hands could translate. The hollow at the base of her throat where her pulse hammers desperate and wild, the sweet curve of her waist that fits exactly into my palm, the soft inner flesh at the top of her thigh where her scent pools thick and heavy.

If she let me, I'd spend a whole afternoon with her laid out on the bed, sunlight filtering through those thin ranch curtains, her hair a copper halo on my pillow.

I wouldn't just mark her; I'd worship her, wear her down slow until every stubborn wall she built was rubble under my hands.

She'd be defiant at first, lip curled and brow furrowed, daring me to back down. But I'd take my time—I'm nothing if notpatient, and I've waited so many goddamn years to feel this alive again. To dare let my body feel what she’s igniting so effortlessly when I’ve been a rock of coal in the emotions department.

I'd coax her open with fingers and mouth, drawing out those little noises she tries to smother. I want the desperate ones best—the gasps, the whimpers, the guttural demands that echo down to the bones. The way she'd clutch at my hair, my shoulders, digging in like she's drowning and I'm the only thing keeping her afloat.

I'd make her come on my tongue, once, twice, until she's trembling. Boneless and spent, legs thrown over my shoulders, her hands fisted in the sheets or in my hair, I wouldn't let up until she begged.

And even then, I'd keep going, dragging her through bliss until she remembered what it felt like to surrender and be adored. Her taste would be everywhere—my mouth, my beard, even my skin—and I'd take it as evidence for anyone who cared to look that she's not just a guest here. She's pack. Mine. Us.

In my head, the whole damn house would know.

River would arch a brow at the new bruises on her neck, Mavi would try not to smirk, and Austin would just blush and offer her coffee like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Luna, perceptive as ever, would probably giggle, sensing her Omega's happiness radiating off her like heat.

There'd be no hiding it, and I wouldn't want her to. I'd want her marked, claimed, so she never doubted for a second that she belonged here—not as a guest, not as a burden, but as the center of our world.

The fantasy is so vivid I can almost taste her already.

My jaw aches with the effort it takes to hold myself back, to not reach across and drag her into my lap right now, consequences be damned. I shift in my seat, desperate for relief,and catch her watching me—those maple-gold eyes darkened in the half-light, lips parted like she's halfway to a confession.

I'd give her everything.

I want her enough to burn for her, to lose myself in the act of worship and not care who sees the ashes after. Fuck, I'd get down on my knees and beg if that's what it took to have her, to make her feel safe and home and wanted.

I'd learn every inch of her body and all the ways she needs to be loved, then I'd give it to her until she never doubted again.

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