Page 69 of Knotting the Cowboys

"Beautiful," fantasy-River murmurs, his hand gentle in my hair. "So perfect when you let yourself feel good."

"Been wanting to hear these sounds," fantasy-Austin adds, pressing kisses to my breasts. "Want to learn every noise you make when you come."

Fantasy-Mavi says nothing, just watches with that intensity that sees everything, but his hand reaches out to stroke my cheek with surprising tenderness.

The combined imagery—being wanted, cherished, pleasured by men who see me as more than a useful Omega—pushes me over the edge.

My orgasm crashes through me like a summer storm, sudden and overwhelming.

I bite the pillow to keep from screaming as waves of pleasure roll through my body, my pussy clenching around my fingers as I work myself through it.

"Cole," I whimper into the fabric, then "River, Austin, Mavi," because in this moment of raw honesty,I want them all. Want to belong to men who kiss like drowning and care for babies and check perimeters and grow things.

Want to be part of their unconventional pack even if it terrifies me.

The aftershocks leave me trembling, sprawled across the bed like a marionette with cut strings. Slowly, awareness returns—the morning light now fully illuminating my room, the distant sound of voices outside, the cooling wetness between my thighs. Embarrassment tries to creep in, but I push it back.

This is my body, my pleasure, my choice.

Blake doesn't get to steal this from me anymore.

I lie there for another moment, catching my breath and marveling at how different I feel. Looser, somehow. Like I've unclenched muscles I didn't know were tight. My body hums with satisfaction instead of the usual frustration, and I realizethis is what I've been missing—not just physical release, but the freedom to want without shame.

The sounds outside grow clearer—definitely the men starting their morning routines.

Cole's deep voice carries on the wind, giving some instruction about fence posts. River's quieter tones respond. They've been up for a while, then, which means I've had privacy for my moment of self-indulgence. The thought brings relief and a tiny bit of disappointment I refuse to examine.

I roll out of bed, legs still slightly shaky, and pad to the bathroom. The shower is quick but thorough, washing away the evidence of my morning activities. The face in the mirror looks different somehow—color in my cheeks, a brightness to my eyes that's been missing for years.

I look alive.

Look like a woman who knows what she wants, even if she's not ready to take it yet.

Back in my room, I dress with purpose.

Dark jeans that can handle ranch work, a tank top that won't show sweat too badly, boots that actually fit properly thanks to yesterday's shopping trip. I pull my auburn hair into a high ponytail, practical and out of the way.

Today I'm going to learn, going to contribute, going to prove I can be more than a damaged Omega taking up space.

Ranch Boss.

The title sits strange but not unwelcome on my shoulders. I may not know cattle from sheep yet, but I can learn. These men—my men, that traitorous part of my brain insists—are willing to teach. And maybe, just maybe, I'm finally ready to be taught more than just ranch work.

I'm ready to learn what it feels like to be part of something good.

Something real.

I check myself one more time in the mirror, squaring my shoulders. Time to face the day, and the men who are making me feel things I thought I'd never feel again.

Time to pretend my body isn't still humming from self-induced orgasm while I learn about fence posts and feeding schedules.

I wear my confidence like armor, cocked to one side, but it's a fragile thing that looks like it's been mauled by a pack of self-doubt and too many mornings spent questioning my worth. Still, I step out of my bedroom with purpose, chin high and shoulders back, ready to face whatever ranch work awaits.

The hallway stretches before me, morning light painting golden stripes across hardwood floors that creak beneath my boots.

"Morning, Boss."

I nearly jump out of my skin, hand flying to my chest as I spin toward the voice.

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