Page 87 of Knotting the Cowboys

And the thing is, we’ve never even gotten close to actual fucking. Not even a near-miss. If you don’t count the humid, weirdly sacred moment in the barn when Cole gripped my wrist and guided me so gently from the hayloft, or the dozen times Maverick has trapped me against a wall with pure, predatory intent before peeling away and muttering “nope, not today,” or the slow, inexorable crush of River’s arms when he helps me dismount from a horse, or the time Austin bandaged my calfand looked up at me, eyes burning with unsaid apology and unspeakable hunger, like he wanted to fix a thousand wounds at once with his hands and his tongue—if you don’t count any of those, then yeah, totally, zero progress on the fucking front.

Except I do count them, every single one, so that’s a lie. I haven’t known what it is to be wanted without being owned until recently, and now that it’s happening I don’t know what the hell to do with myself except make things weird for everyone, which is apparently my superpower.

I try to shrink into my chair, away from the collective force of their attention, but the kitchen is too small and so am I. Maverick won’t meet my eyes, which is new and disorienting; he always looks head-on, like he’s daring you to call him a bastard. Now he’s staring at the ceiling fan, lip curled in an expression halfway between annoyance and longing.

River’s hands are shaking, barely, as he ladles sauce into a bowl, then wipes his knuckles on a dish towel with deliberate, mechanical focus. He won’t look at me either, but I feel him tracking me by scent or echolocation, every muscle taut as if bracing against an earthquake.

Austin tries, bless him, to fill the silence with gentle optimism, but there’s a tremor in his voice that wasn’t there yesterday. The way he looks at me—concern layered over something softer and so much more dangerous—it makes my head go hot. I am, at this point, likely emitting pheromones that could floor a moose at fifty yards.

And Cole, who’s supposed to be the anchor, the level-headed captain of this ship, can’t take his eyes off me. He watches like he’s memorizing a route through dangerous country: cataloging every flicker, every tremor, every red-blossom patch on my face. The silence stretches tight, one of those moments with a gravity so thick it bends memory around it.

I want to say something to defuse it, some joke about how the last time someone forbade me from sex it was an abstinence assembly in tenth grade, but the words stick in my throat. My hands turn restless, fingers drumming the table until they trip over each other. No one laughs, not even me.

The urge to confess is overwhelming. My body’s a disaster zone, a demolition site trying to grow new life in the rubble, and I want them to know—not just the embarrassing hormonal part but the actual, core-of-me part. That they make me feel like someone who could be loved, not just repaired.

Instead of saying any of this, I lock eyes with Cole, and the kitchen tilts slightly on its axis. It’s like we’re the only two people in the universe for a moment, the others reduced to background radiation.

He opens his mouth, then closes it. He’s waiting to see if I’ll say anything, and I’m waiting to see if I’ll survive the next minute without combusting.

And then, because reality is always stranger and hornier than fiction, Luna chooses this moment to crawl into the kitchen—an adorable eight-month-old in pink overalls, blue ribbons in her hair, and the kind of smile that could melt glaciers. She shimmies determinedly across the tile, ignores the gathering of grownups, and settles right at my knees, grabbing my ankle with both chubby fists.

The spell breaks.

“Oh my god, she’s crawling?” I’m half out of my chair before I realize it.

“Started last week,” Austin says, voice soft and impossibly proud. “She likes coming into the kitchen to check on us. Or maybe she just likes the smells.”

“She’s a future chef,” adds River, his own voice returning to its usual mellow cadence. “Or a professional food thief.”

Maverick finally glances down, meets my gaze for just long enough to flash a crooked half-smile, and then looks away. “She’s got good instincts. Knows where the action is.”

I lean down and scoop Luna onto my lap, letting her tug on my fingers with surprising strength. It helps, grounding me in the present and making the charged air just a little easier to breathe.

“She’s perfect,” I murmur, and I’m not just talking about the baby.

Wendolyn swoops in, snapping a photo on her phone. “Look at you, already nesting!” she crows. “Told you it would come naturally.”

I want to roll my eyes at her, but I can’t. Not when she looks so genuinely happy for me, for all of us. There’s a lightness in the room now, the kind that only happens after something very heavy is admitted out loud.

I look up at the men—my men, if I’m honest with myself for once—and see that the tension has shifted. It’s not gone, but it’s changed flavor.

It’s hope, threaded with longing and a little fear. It’s the recognition of something rare and new.

I could get used to this.

The silence that follows is profound. Austin makes a sound like he's been punched. River turns back to the stove with movements too precise to be natural. Mavi stares at the ceiling like it holds the secrets of the universe.

And Cole... Cole's hands grip the back of my chair hard enough that the wood creaks.

"We can do that," Cole says finally, voice steady despite the white knuckles. "Whatever you need to be safe."

"It's not about what we want," River adds quietly, stirring with excessive focus. "Your health comes first."

"Even if what we want is..." Austin trails off, then physically shakes himself. "No. Medical restrictions are absolute. We've done harder things than keep our hands to ourselves for two days or as long as we need to."

"Have we though?" Mavi mutters, earning a dish towel to the face from River.

"The doctor was very clear," I manage, trying to ignore how my body responds to their struggle.How some primitive part of me preens at affecting them so strongly."No scent marking, no prolonged contact, no..." I gesture vaguely, unable to say the words.

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