Page 72 of Knotting the Cowboys

At both his minuscular touch and how it feels as if he’s setting me up to be free from the prison I’ve lived in all this while.

I follow him out, mortification and intrigue warring in my chest.

This is my life now—learning ranch work from men who've heard me at my most vulnerable, who tease instead of shame, who make me want things I'm not sure I'm ready for.

God help me, but despite the embarrassment, I'm already curious about what else the day will bring.

Protecting Against The Past

~MAVERICK~

The attic at Cactus Rose Ranch is my domain—a cramped space filled with outdated equipment that I've jury-rigged into something resembling a modern security system.

Dust motes float through the single shaft of morning light as I check the monitors, each screen showing a different angle of the property. It's routine, this morning patrol through digital eyes: perimeter fence intact, barn doors secured, main house quiet. My fingers move across keyboards with practiced efficiency, logging timestamps and noting anything unusual.

Which, at 6:47 AM on a Thursday, is absolutely nothing.

Until the speaker crackles to life with a sound that freezes my hands mid-keystroke.

A moan. Soft, muffled, but unmistakably feminine. Unmistakably Willa.

My body goes rigid, every muscle locking as my brain processes what I'm hearing. The audio feeds from the bedrooms are supposed to be for emergencies—smoke alarms, break-ins, or someone calling for help.Not for... this. Breathy gasps now fillthe cramped attic space, each one hitting my nervous system like a cattle prod.

I should turn it off.

My hand hovers over the kill switch, trembling slightly. This is a violation of privacy, of trust, of every professional boundary I've maintained in my five years at this ranch. But another moan filters through—longer, needier—and my hand moves to the volume knob instead, turning it up just enough to hear clearly.

"Fuck," I mutter, the word barely a breath. My cock is already responding, blood rushing south with embarrassing eagerness.This is wrong. This is so fucking wrong.But I'm already reaching for my phone, thumb moving to the security app with a mixture of self-loathing and desperate curiosity.

The camera angle is high and wide—designed to show the whole room in case of intrusion, not to provide intimate details.

But God, it's enough. More than enough.

Willa lies sprawled across her bed, and my breath catches hard in my throat. She's wearing some kind of white crop top, sheer enough that I can see the dark outline of her nipples through the fabric. The morning light paints her skin gold, highlighting the flush spreading across her chest. Her auburn hair fans across the pillow like spilled copper, and her legs—Christ, her legs are spread wide, knees bent, giving me a perfect view of her fingers disappearing into her pussy.

My cock throbs so hard it’s painful, the denim biting into sensitive skin as my erection strains against its prison.

I shift in the plastic chair, the creak deafening in the otherwise dead-quiet attic, terrified my body might betray me by making enough noise to draw someone up here. Each heartbeat seems to pump molten need straight through my veins, until my hands shake with the effort of not palming myself right here at the workstation.

I know I should look away.

The right thing to do—in any universe, under any code of ethics—would be to close the app on my phone and go for a freezing shower. But there’s something about her, sprawled out and so utterly unguarded, that makes reason irrelevant. It’s not even about getting off; it’s about wanting to know her, every last secret, every quirk and shiver and gasp she’ll make when she thinks no one’s watching.

Fuck, I want her.

Everything about her is raw and honest, not performative for the camera, which just makes it ten times hotter. The flush on her face, the way her hips roll up to meet her own touch, the desperate urgency in her rhythm—it’s pure need, animal and unfiltered. There’s no acting, no pretense, just this desperate, beautiful hunger.

God, if she knew I was watching her right now…that thought alone nearly undoes me.

I picture her catching me in the act, turning those wild orange-gold eyes on me, shame and defiance battling across her face. Would she hate me? Would she blush and look away, or would she hold my gaze and make me watch, make me own the violation I’ve just committed?

The possibilities slingshot me straight into dangerous territory, and my hand drifts south, thumb flicking my zipper open just enough to relieve the growing pressure.

I can see how wet she is even through the camera feed, her fingers glistening as they pump in and out with increasing urgency. She's got a pillow pressed over her face, probably trying to muffle the sounds, but the microphones catch everything—every gasp, every whimper, every broken moan that escapes despite her efforts.

I can see how wet she is even through the camera feed, her fingers glistening as they pump in and out with increasing urgency. She's got a pillow pressed over her face, probably tryingto muffle the sounds, but the microphones catch everything—every gasp, every whimper, every broken moan that escapes despite her efforts.

This is for her protection, I tell myself, even as my hand moves to my belt. The cameras, the audio—it's all to keep her safe. To make sure no one can hurt her again like that bastard Blake did. If something happened and I wasn't monitoring... The justification rings hollow even in my own mind, but I'm already unzipping my jeans, already reaching inside to grip my aching cock.

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