Page 19 of The County Line (Whitewood Creek Farm #2)

His eyes lock onto mine, tracing every movement, every breath I take. We stare at each other as he holds me like that, vulnerable and intimate in a way we’ve never been before. It’s like he’s speaking to me without saying anything at all.

The only problem is, I don’t know what he’s trying to say.

Is he embarrassed by how I acted tonight?

Does he want to leave?

Does he want to stay?

Or is he seeing me, really seeing me, for the first time how I've always seen him? As someone who is worthy to be loved by him.

“Because I want you to be happy,” I whisper, barely able to meet his eyes. “I want your needs to be met.”

He stares at me, his jaw tense, eyes unreadable. For a beat, he says nothing. Then, his voice drops, rougher this time—gravel dragged across pavement.

“I can take care of myself just fine.”

My breath catches. The words slam into me, simple on the surface, but layered in meaning.

My brain scrambles to process it, but my body reacts first—heat blooming beneath my skin as the image hits me like a freight train.

Colt’s big, powerful body in motion, head thrown back in pleasure, those broad shoulders flexing as he strokes himself to orgasm.

Is that what he means? Or is there something else behind the tension in his voice?

It doesn’t matter. Because now, that’s all I can see—him, alone, chasing release with a hand that isn’t mine. And the thought twists something possessive and desperate in my chest because I want it to be me.

“What are you doing, Colt?” I breathe, my voice no more than a whisper. Fragile and low like if I say it any louder, the moment between us will snap.

His gaze pins me, caramel brown and molten, framed by lashes so dark and thick they almost look painted on. It’s unfair—the way he looks at me. Like he sees everything. Like he already knows what I want and is just waiting for me to admit it. But is that what he wants?

The heat in his stare scorches through me, down my spine, settling low and heavy between my legs.

I drag my tongue slowly across my bottom lip, needing something to tether me back to earth, to this moment.

But it backfires. His grip on my throat tightens—not enough to hurt, just enough to make me feel it.

His control. His restraint. His frustration.

The air thickens around us, tension stretching tight like a pulled wire.

The pressure sends a jolt straight through me, my thighs instinctively pressing together as liquid heat coils deep in my core.

His other hand moves to my right hip, sliding behind me to the small of my back, pulling me flush against him.

The cold, firm wall at my back still anchors me, but his body cages me in completely, blocking out everything else.

If anyone walked by, they wouldn’t see me—not the way his broad shoulders shield me, not the way his presence takes up all the space around me.

And then I feel it— him .

The hard ridge of his length presses against me through his jeans and I feel every inch of him.

The realization sends a jolt through me.

One of his hands still rests lightly at my throat, the other steadying me at my back, holding me far too close for two people who are supposed to be just friends and not interested in anything more.

His eyes flick downward, tracking the path of my tongue as it sweeps across my lips again, then lift back to meet mine. The intensity in his gaze is smoldering, his pupils dark and dilated, and I can feel his restraint slipping to meet mine.

“What are you doing?” I repeat.

“Holding you.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Why not? It doesn’t seem like you can stand upright on your own right now, can you? It seems like you might need to be held.”

“I’m your parole officer and you’re… you’re my friend.” I hiccup on the word friend which only makes his glare darken.

“You’re off duty now, aren’t you?” he presses.

“Yes…”

“Well can’t friends hold each other upright if one of them needs the help?”

Not like this. Not when one of those friends is picturing the other friend with his head between her legs.

I stare back into his eyes, desperate to read his thoughts. What’s going through his mind? I know exactly what’s racing through mine. His hand remains firm at my throat, his gaze locked on mine, intense and unrelenting. It feels like he’s searching to find something in them.

I hope he finds it.

Then his thumb brushes over my lips again, lingering this time. When I part them slightly, he slides the thick pad of one digit into my mouth. Without thinking, I close my lips around it and suck gently, hollowing my cheeks and flicking the tip with my tongue the same way I imagine I’d take him.

He watches me like that for a long moment, blinking slowly as if trying to snap himself out of whatever spell we’re under.

Then a low, guttural growl rumbles from deep in his chest, raw and primal.

Abruptly, he pulls his thumb free, letting it slide out of my mouth with a sloppy trail of spit following.

His hand drops from my throat, his grip on my hip vanishes, and he takes a massive step back.

The loss of his touch sends me reeling. I can feel myself slipping, my knees buckling against the wall. I’m moments away from collapsing into an embarrassing heap when his hands shoot out, catching me easily for the second time tonight.

Without a word, he scoops me up and tosses me over his shoulder like I weigh nothing, striding purposefully toward the bar’s side exit. The cool night air hits my skin, but I barely register it as he carries me to his truck.

I vaguely remember him setting me into the passenger seat and buckling me in.

His voice is calm but firm as he murmurs, “ Relax. I’ve got you, Molly.

” But what I don’t miss is the mortifying moment minutes later when the alcohol catches up to me, and I throw up all over his pristine leather seat while he drives me home in silence.

And when I wake up the next morning, tucked in my bed back at my duplex with no sign of Colt. I sprint out to the living room with a pounding headache only to find Regan fast asleep on the couch.

He must have called her to come stay with me since he knew I was drunk.

I look down at what I’m wearing, not what I had on last night. A pair of camo cargo shorts I know Regan would never dress me in for sleep and my white tank top. Colt must have not been able to find pajamas last night.

My heart races as I think back on the night, and the heat behind his eyes when he held me.

What just happened?