Page 95 of Knotting the Cowboys

"Anything you pick today is mine to give you," I murmur, letting my thumb drift to her bottom lip. The plump softness makes my mouth water, and I trace the curve slowly, watching her eyes flutter. "This whole store, if you want it. Every dress, every shoe, every piece of lace and silk."

Her tongue darts out, barely grazing my thumb, and I see stars.

"That's... that's too much," she manages, but her protest lacks conviction.

"Nothing is too much." I lean closer, our faces inches apart now. "You've been taught to shrink yourself, to apologize for having needs. But baby, spoiling you isn't a burden—it's what we're built for. What I'm built for."

My hand slides from her face to her neck, fingers resting against her pulse point. Her heartbeat hammers against my palm, rabbit-quick and perfect. The romper leaves so much skin bare, and everywhere I touch feels like striking matches.

"The ranch money is pack money," I explain, trying to keep some thread of coherent thought while she sits here warming my lap, smelling like heaven and looking like sin. "And pack money is for pack needs. You needing clothes, feeling beautiful, being comfortable—those are pack needs."

"I don't understand," she whispers, and there's something broken in her voice that makes my chest ache. "Why would you—all of you—want to..."

"Because you're ours." The words slip out before I can stop them, and her sharp intake of breath makes my cock pulse. "Toprotect, to provide for, to cherish. Even if you haven't accepted it yet, even if we're all dancing around it—you're ours, Willa."

Her scent spikes, arousal breaking through the medication's barrier, and I know I need to pull back before we cross lines we can't uncross. But she's warm and perfect in my lap, looking at me like I'm offering her the world, and maybe I am. Maybe I'd give her everything if she'd just let me.

"Let me take care of you," I whisper against her ear, letting my lips barely brush the shell. "In all the ways they never did. Starting with buying you pretty things that make you smile."

She shifts again, the change minute yet seismic—her weight subtly shifting, as if she’s hoping one small adjustment will be enough to break the magnetic field between us, to conjure back the polite, safe distance of before. Her hands tense on my shoulders, knuckles near-white, but she doesn’t push away; there’s a flickering hope in her that maybe if she sits higher on my thigh, or angles her hips just so, she can reframe this as accidental, harmless, not the deliberate surrender it so obviously is. The air between us is wet-concrete thick. I can hear the catch and flutter of her breath, feel the heat of her skin radiating through fabric into my chest, smell the spike of nervous energy and budding desire that neither of us is equipped to handle in public.

She clears her throat, like she’s gathering courage, but her mouth is dry. "Sorry," she says, attempting a laugh, and she means to lighten the mood, to make a joke of it, but her voice comes out paper-thin, uncertain. She moves to lift herself off, but her attempt only serves to slide her further against me, and the full-body shudder that wracks through her is echoed, doubled, in me.

This time, she tries to find a neutral space, a compromise: scooting back, a little to the side, balancing on the very precipice of my knee. If she can just hover here, maybe she’ll prove toherself she’s still in control, that this proximity is a matter of convenience and not need. It doesn’t work. All it does is shift the angle of her hips against my lap, so the friction is sharper and the pressure, if anything, more acute.

Her ears go pink. She fumbles, nearly overturns the bench in haste, and manages to whisper, "Maybe I should change back." The words are lost, barely audible above my pulse. Every molecule of her is trying not to flee, not to run, and I start to wonder how many times she’s had to steel herself to endure intimacy, how often she’s played along with the script someone else wrote for her. The thought douses any lingering mirth.

She finally goes rigid in my lap, muscles locked, frozen in indecision. I realize, with a sick panicked clarity, that if I let her go now, she’ll think I’m repulsed, that her neediness is a problem, a liability to be managed and hidden. I can’t bear that for her, not for a second.

But there's nowhere to go, no way to escape the hard length of my cock pressed against her, and when she squirms one more time, I have to grip her hips to still her before I lose what's left of my control.

"I should—" She ducks her head, hair falling forward to hide her burning cheeks. "I should get up. I'm sitting on something in your pocket."

The innocence of it—the way she tries to give me an out, to pretend she doesn't know exactly what she's feeling—makes something predatory wake in my chest. My lips curve into a smirk she can't see, and I shift my hips deliberately, rolling them just enough that there's no mistaking what's between us.

"Is that what you think it is?" My voice comes out husky, lower than I intended, a rumble edged with laughter and hunger, somewhere between a purr and a challenge. I see her go absolutely still as the meaning registers, and there's a split second where her eyes flit up to mine, feigning innocence, lipsparted in a perfect little 'o.' But for all her careful composure, every ounce of her is reacting—heartbeat thundering through her, hands clutching tighter at the first hint of risk.

She freezes, caught between the roles she's always been forced to play: the good Omega, the unassuming guest, the girl who never lets herself hope for too much or take up too much space. But her body betrays her ambition—her need. The way she balances on my lap reads like the world's slowest, most deliberate grind, and if she isn't consciously doing it, her instincts have already taken over.

Maybe that's what kills me about her: she's so goddamn intuitive and self-aware, she could micromanage her own arousal into nonexistence, yet there's always a fracture line, a fault that gives way under the slightest pressure and reveals the magnitude of what's bottled up inside.

"Something in my pocket," I echo, rolling her words between us as if they're a joke two steps from turning dangerous. My hand tightens on her hip, thumb dragging small circles against the exposed skin just above the band of the romper.

"You're sure about that?"

She wets her lips, breathing in shallow, hitching little gasps. I can tell she's doing quadratic equations in her head—measuring the statistical odds of this being a real offer versus some elaborate emotional trap. Old wounds flare, every scar of rejection and exploitation, and I can feel her bracing for impact even as she leans incrementally closer.

But here's the secret: the longer she hesitates, the more my own anticipation spikes. I want her to want this. To want me. Not because she feels obligated, or because she thinks it's expected, but because she can finally choose to chase what she wants without fear of backlash. I want her to trust that if she falls, the only thing waiting for her is arms wide open.

So I coax her forward, just a fraction, using my grip to ease her down the length of my thigh until we're flush—no room for confusion about the hardness between us now, no plausible deniability or retreat. I stifle a groan as the pressure sharpens, and I can feel myself pulse beneath the denim, heat traveling up my spine.

"Feels a little big for a key fob, doesn't it?" I murmur, my mouth so close to her ear I can see the shiver race across her skin. Her laugh is a nervous, high-pitched thing, but she doesn't pull away. If anything, she breathes out slow, presses her thighs together, and sets her weight more firmly on my lap.

"I'm not—" She bites the inside of her cheek, fighting to keep her composure. "I'm not sure what you mean," she lies, but her eyes are molten and her whole body hums with recognition.

That's when I risk it—moving my other hand up, cupping the nape of her neck, thumb finding the delicate tendons there. She seems to melt under the contact, swaying, every ounce of resistance evaporating into need.

The silence in the little room feels alive. The only sounds are the soft rasp of her breathing and the faint pop of air conditioning from the vent above us, but it feels like standing at the lip of a dam seconds before it breaks. I want to say something clever, cut the tension with a joke, but instead I find myself just watching her unravel in my hands, trusting me not to break her.

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