Page 97 of Knotting the Cowboys

The praise slips out without thought, rough and possessive, and I watch her pupils blow wide in response. My hand trails from her neck down her spine, finding bare skin where the romper dips low. She arches slightly, pressing closer, and I spread my fingers wide to touch as much as I'm allowed.

Her skin is fever-hot, silk-smooth, perfect. I trace patterns on her back, feeling the delicate bumps of her spine, the way her breathing changes with each touch.

She's trembling now, caught between want and shouldn't, and I know I need to stop before we both do something the doctor would definitely not approve of.

"Go change for me, Dandelion," I murmur, the endearment tasting right on my tongue. A name just for her, just from me. "Show me what else you picked."

She nods, looking dazed and thoroughly kissed despite our restraint. When she slides off my lap, I have to bite back a groan at the loss. She stands on unsteady legs, smoothing the romper with shaking hands, and I drink in the sight of her—flushed and wanting and mine in all the ways that matter.

"I'll just—" She gestures vaguely toward the changing room. "Be right back."

"I'll be here," I promise, and watch her disappear behind the door with what's left of my sanity.

The moment she's gone, I drop my head into my hands and breathe deep.

What the fuck am I doing?

Twenty-four hours left on her medical restrictions and I'm playing with fire, pushing boundaries that exist for her safety. But the way she responded, the trust in her eyes when she let me bite her lip, the soft confession against my mouth—it tells me everything I need to know.

This could work.

Despite our complicated dynamics, despite her trauma and our past mistakes, despite everything stacked against us—this could actually work.

She's not Sarah, not playing games or manipulation. She's just Willa, brave and broken and perfect, trying to find her way to us as surely as we're finding our way to her.

I think about Cole this morning, hands white-knuckled on the coffee mug as her scent filled the kitchen. About Maverick prowling the perimeter like a caged wolf, needing to protect but forced to keep distance. About Austin's too-bright smiles that don't quite hide the longing in his eyes. We're all walking this careful line, wanting her with every fiber of our beings but knowing she needs time, space, medical care.

But after those forty-eight hours are up? After her body adjusts and she's cleared for... everything?

The thought makes my cock throb with renewed interest, and I adjust myself with a grimace.

I'm thirty years old, not some untried boy, but she makes me feel wild and young and reckless. Makes me want to claim and provide and protect in ways I thought I'd learned to control.

The changing room door opens, and I look up to find her in something new—a sundress this time, pale blue like morning sky. She looks uncertain, younger, and I realize with a start that she's probably never had anyone buy her clothes just because. Never had someone want to spoil her for the sheer joy of watching her smile.

"Beautiful," I tell her, meaning it with every cell in my body. "We'll take it all."

Her smile is worth every penny, worth the ache in my body, worth the careful control I'll need to maintain for twenty-four more hours. Because after that? After that, we'll show her exactly what it means to be cherished by a pack that knows how to love an Omega right.

The storm is coming—I can feel it building between all of us, electric and inevitable.

But for now, I watch her spin in that sundress, cowboy boots clicking on the boutique floor, and let myself imagine all the ways we'll weather it together.

Temptations On The Sunset Horizon

~WILLA~

Into the changing room on unsteady legs, my skin still humming from River's touch, from his promise in calling me Dandelion like I'm something delicate and wild all at once.

The sundress whispers against my thighs as I carefully hang it on the provided hook, trying not to think about how his eyes tracked every movement when I spun for him. How his voice went rough on "beautiful," like the word cost him something to say.

Twenty-three hours and—I check my phone—seventeen minutes left. The numbers mock me, counting down to something that feels bigger than just medical clearance. My fingers shake as I reach for the last item in the pile River selected, barely glancing at the white fabric. My mind's elsewhere, caught on the memory of his teeth on my lip, the careful pressure that made my whole body light up like struck flint.

The material is softer than expected, some kind of silk blend that slides through my fingers like water. I'm already stepping out of my jeans, mind replaying the way River's cock pressed hard and insistent against me through his denim. The way he didn't apologize or make excuses, just let me feel exactly what I do to him. My pussy clenches at the memory, and I have to bite back a whimper as I pull my tank top over my head.

I'm so lost in sense memory—his hands on my back, the rumble of "good girl" in his chest—that I don't really look at what I'm putting on. The fabric is minimal, requiring some adjustments, but my brain interprets this as just another style choice. Straps here, elastic there. The boutique carries all kinds of modern cuts, after all. It's only when I'm reaching behind to figure out some kind of complicated back closure that I catch my reflection in the full-length mirror.

And freeze.

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