Page 59 of Knotting the Cowboys

But they come out breathless, undermined by the way her chest rises and falls too quickly, the way her fingers grip the edge of the seat like she needs an anchor.

She's trying to be the voice of reason while her body broadcasts the same need that's eating me alive.

"Yeah," I agree, the word rough as gravel in my throat. "We should."

Neither of us moves.

The dome light casts everything in soft focus, turning the truck's interior into something intimate and separate from the world beyond the windows.

That's when I notice it—a strand of her auburn hair has escaped whatever she'd done to tame it this morning, falling across her face in a way that makes my fingers itch. Such a small thing, but it breaks something in me.

The careful control I've maintained all day, the professional distance I swore I'd keep—it all crumbles at the sight of that single piece of hair catching the light.

"Hold still," I murmur, reaching across the center console before I can talk myself out of it.

She freezes, but not with fear.

This is anticipation, the same electric awareness that's been building between us since I put my hand on her thigh this morning.

My fingers find that errant strand, tucking it slowly behind her ear, letting my fingertips trail along the shell. Her skin is silk-soft and fever-warm, and I feel more than hear the tiny catch in her breathing.

"Cole." My name on her lips sounds like a prayer and a curse combined.

The lamplight from the ranch filters through the windshield, casting shadows that turn her eyes into pools of amber fire.

Those extraordinary eyes that see too much, that challenge and submit in equal measure.

Her pupils are blown wide, lips parted, and I can see her pulse fluttering in the hollow of her throat like a trapped bird. Everything about her in this moment—the vulnerability, thewant, the trust she's placing in me by not pulling away—it destroys the last of my good intentions.

I've tried to deny this.

Tried to tell myself she needs time, space, careful handling.

That the attraction crackling between us is just proximity and shared trauma, that it'll fade once she settles in.

But my body knows better…my cock surely knows what it wants to be deep inside with.

Every cell in me recognizes her as mine to protect, to pleasure, to claim in all the ways that matter.

The Alpha in me has been patient long enough.

"Fuck it," I breathe, the decision made between one heartbeat and the next.

I lean across the console, moving slow enough that she could stop me if she wanted.

My hand slides from her ear to cup her jaw, thumb brushing the corner of her mouth.

She makes a sound—half whimper, half purr—that shoots straight to my cock. Her scent spikes despite those damn blocking panties, vanilla and maple and pure, sweet arousal that makes my mouth water.

"Tell me to stop," I whisper, close enough now that my breath ghosts across her lips. "Tell me to back off, and I will. No questions, no hurt feelings. Just say the word, Willa."

She needs to know she’s the one in the driver’s seat with this.

That she’s in control and I’ll abid to whatever she wishes from me.

I may be a starving Alpha desperate to taste her, but her permission or denial would be respected, no matter how horny I am to enjoy every bit of her.

Her eyes search mine, and I see the war there—want battling caution, need fighting fear.But underneath it all, that defiantflame that made me hard in the hardware store, that makes her challenge societal expectations and face down her demons.

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