Page 96 of Knotting the Cowboys

She shifts again, hips rocking slow and unsure, and the friction is a punch to my gut. I can't help the way my own breath hitches, or the way I have to fight not to thrust up into her like a teenager. Everything is too much and not enough, a paradox of wanting to devour her and cradle her all at once.

Her hands go slack on my shoulders and she sags forward, forehead nearly touching mine. Our breaths mingle, hot and damp, and we're close enough I can see the flecks of amberdusting her irises. Her lips tremble, parted in anticipation—of the kiss, the claim, the whatever is about to happen next.

I want to kiss her more than I want air. I want to make her gasp, make her feel as beautiful and vital as I see her every damn day. But I don't move, don't push, just let her come to me if she wants it.

She does.

She closes the gap with a slow, uncertain brush of her lips against mine. It's nothing, a ghost, but it sets every nerve ending in my body ablaze. She pulls back, eyes wide in terror and awe, and I realize she's waiting for me to reject her, to laugh in her face, to say she's misread the moment and ruined everything.

Instead, I chase her mouth with my own, capturing her bottom lip between my teeth, biting down gentle just enough to make her gasp.

"Is that clear enough for you?" I whisper, voice ragged.

She nods, but the movement is jerky, desperate.

"River," she breathes, and my name sounds like a prayer and curse combined.

"River," she breathes, and my name sounds like a prayer and curse combined.

"Look at me." I wait until she does, those orange-gold eyes wide and dark with want she's trying so hard to fight.

"You know what that is, yes?"

The question hangs between us, heavy with more than just physical acknowledgment. This is about honesty, about stripping away the polite fictions that let us pretend this thing between us is manageable. Her lips part, but no words come out, and I make a decision that might damn us both.

I lean in slowly, giving her time to pull away, to say no, to remind me about medical restrictions and professional boundaries. But she stays still, breathing shallow, watching melike she's waiting for lightning to strike. My hand slides from her hip to cup the back of her neck, fingers tangling in silk-soft hair.

"Let me taste," I murmur, and then I'm catching her bottom lip between my teeth.

The bite is gentle but firm, calibrated with the same precision I use to suture skin or slip a needle through silk-thin veins. She gasps, the sound a velvet stutter that pulses hot straight to my core. It's such a small thing—the pad of my teeth on her lower lip, a measured pull and release—but her body melts, spine unfurling, as if the whole architecture of her being was waiting for this exact pressure to make sense of itself. For a split second, the world narrows down to nothing but the taste of her, the intoxicating sweetness that scents the air every time she exhales, the adrenaline snap of risk and trust.

I don't let myself linger. Not yet. I let up almost instantly, teeth grazing her skin as I pull back, giving the tiniest nudge with my tongue as if to apologize for the audacity. The restraint costs more than I'd calculated. Every cell in me riots to close the distance, to devour her mouth with a hunger I didn't know I was capable of feeling. I want to taste her all the way down, to etch her flavor into memory so permanent it will never wash out no matter how many times I scrub my hands raw.

But this is about her, and I'm not going to fuck it up by moving too fast or letting my own need drown out the careful, delicate permission in her eyes. I hold myself still, holding her in that liminal moment, letting the air between us crackle and reroute. Her lips quiver, parted from the pressure, and there's a flash of white where she nipped her tongue between teeth, tasting herself. The effect is so carnal and innocent all at once, it makes my vision smear at the edges.

She doesn't pull away. She doesn't bolt for the door or fold in on herself like I've seen her do a thousand times in the face of disappointment. Instead, she just... stays. Sitting solid and warmon my lap, her hands slack around my neck, her pupils blown wide. If I weren't looking directly at her, I wouldn't believe it: the way the aftershock of that tiny bite seems to erase every line of defense she spent a lifetime perfecting. It feels like a privilege so profound I almost can't bear it.

And then another miracle—she laughs, a soft, stunned sound, and buries her face against my shoulder for a second as if to hide from the force of her own reaction. I can feel her smile against my shirt. It makes me want to tear the whole world apart and rebuild it just for her, so she never has to second-guess this kind of happiness.

She stays curled there for a breathless eternity, then lifts her head, eyes searching mine for any sign that it was a mistake, a joke, another test she's destined to fail. There's nothing in me but raw, adoring want, and I let it show. She watches my face like she's deciphering a new language.

"Willa," I manage, and my voice is a wreck, hoarse and unguarded. I want to say something smart, something charming, but all I can do is run my thumbs along the strong line of her jaw, desperate to prove I'm not about to vanish or push her away. "You can... you can do whatever you want."

The confession seems to embolden her, like I've given her permission to breathe at sea level for the first time. She sways forward again, hesitating a millimeter from my mouth, waiting for the world to end or to begin. The wild, impulsive part of me wants to drag her down and never let go, but the larger part—the part that's been watching her for months, cataloguing every nuance of her smile, the way she stares down a difficult horse, the way she advocates for Luna with ferocity that would make a wolf proud—knows that if I do, it will break something vital.

So I hold perfectly still. If she wants this, if she wants me, it has to be hers to take.

And, fuck, she does.

Her hands frame my face. She leans in, eyes wide open, and presses her mouth to mine. It's not a proper kiss—more a brush, a childlike test of the substance of desire—but it lands with the impact of a meteor. My hands reflexively tighten on her hips, steadying her, and I meet her just enough that she feels the answer in my bones. That yes, I want this too, more than I've ever wanted anything.

She pulls back, face flushed, breathing ragged, and lets out a shaky little laugh. "Okay," she whispers, and it's both a question and a benediction.

Her eyes open slowly, dazed and dark, and the look on her face nearly undoes me. She sways forward like she's magnetized, and I hold perfectly still, letting her choose what comes next. When she leans in, brushing her lips against mine in the softest possible kiss, my hands tighten reflexively.

"I know what it is," she whispers against my mouth, the words barely audible, painted with embarrassment and want in equal measure.

"Good girl."

---