Page 27 of The County Line (Whitewood Creek Farm #2)

I’m halfway across town when I realize I left my jacket back at Colt’s. I could just text him, ask him to bring it to our parole meeting that we have scheduled on Friday—it’s only two days away—but I decide against it. Since I’m already out, I might as well swing back and grab it now.?

Flipping a U-turn at the next green light, I head back to the Marshall farmstead, navigating the quiet country roads while lost in thought.

The drive back is quiet, the kind of stillness that makes you feel the weight of every breath.

The air outside has cooled, dipping just enough to fog the edges of the windshield where the defroster can’t quite reach.

It’s full dark now, the clock creeping toward nine.

Out here, miles from town, the night stretches wide and endless, the sky velvet black and studded with stars.

By this time, the farm is usually asleep.

Most of the day workers are long gone, and only the Marshalls—the ones who live here year-round—remain.

As I make the final turn onto the long gravel driveway, the crunch beneath my tires feels loud like I might wake someone up.

The headlights sweep across familiar landmarks: the old mailbox rusted at the edges, the wooden split-rail fence Cash patched last summer, the barn bathed in moonlight.

The farmhouse comes into view, warm porch light glowing like a welcome…

but not for me. Neither Regan’s nor Cash’s cars are in the driveway.

They’re still out. With friends, probably.

Maybe just grabbing drinks. Maybe more. Maybe Regan's on a date.

The thought lands harder than it should.

We used to tell each other everything. Every detail, every dumb crush, every late-night secret that felt too big to carry alone.

But ever since I came back, there’s been a shift.

Not a fight, not anything spoken—just this quiet stretch of space between us, like we both know there are parts of our lives we’re no longer ready to share.

Especially when it comes to men.

I can’t blame her. I’ve been keeping secrets too—especially the time I’ve been spending with Colt. Not that anything had happened. Not until tonight. And now… everything feels different.

I pull the car into my usual spot, kill the engine, and just sit there for a second, the silence pressing in.

My fingers drift to my mouth without thinking, brushing against lips that still feel swollen, tender, from his kiss.

A shiver runs through me—not from the cold, but from the memory.

The way he looked at me like I was oxygen.

The way his hands gripped like he didn’t trust himself to let go.

The hard length of him in his jeans pressed against my thigh.

My stomach flutters at the thought, warmth unfurling low and sweet, curling around my ribs like smoke.

But the high doesn’t last. Reality pulls me back down like gravity.

Colt had been upset —no, furious with my father.

That kiss could’ve been about a hundred things.

Rage. Helplessness. The aching, raw aftermath of desire to confront someone he’s been angry with his whole life.

It might not have had anything to do with me.

Maybe it was just a release. A way to ground himself, to redirect his anger before he did something he’d regret.

I’ve seen it before in crisis management: sometimes, physical connection can act as a reset button when you’re spiraling out of control and the simple touch of another human brings you back to reality.

Maybe that’s all it was for Colt.

But that’s not all it was for me.

The thought tamps down the fire in my chest, though it doesn’t extinguish it completely. The memory of his lips, the weight of his hands twisting in my hair and tugging still lingers, replaying like a broken record as I drive the last few miles to his home tucked in the woods.

When I cut off my lights, the property is quiet.

The fire we sat around earlier is now just a pile of glowing embers, and the mess we’d left behind has been cleaned up.

My headlights cut out as I park, and I make my way to the seating area, scanning for my jacket.

It’s not there. He must’ve taken it inside when he cleaned up.

Of course he did.

Dammit.

My gaze shifts toward the RV, where a faint light glows near the back of the vehicle. Hopefully, he’s still awake.

Approaching cautiously, I tap my knuckles lightly on the front door, trying not to startle him. When there’s no response, I hesitate for a moment before cracking it open and peeking inside. The space is silent, save for the faint hum of the mini refrigerator and the crickets outside.

He couldn’t have gone far...

I step in, my eyes scanning the compact space. To my right, there’s a small couch pressed against the side of the wall, a fold-out table, and a kitchenette with a tiny stove. Directly ahead, the bathroom door is ajar, revealing it’s empty too.

That leaves only one place he could be: the bedroom.

My heart picks up speed as I move toward the back. The air feels heavier here, quieter. Pressing my ear to the closed door, I catch the low rumble of a sound— a grunt.

Oh my god… Is he—

My mind races, and before I can stop myself, curiosity wins. I nudge the door open just enough to peek through a three-inch crack and what I see stops me in my tracks.

Colt is sprawled across the large bed that takes up most of the room.

The light from the bedside lamp casts a golden glow over his body, highlighting the dusting of light brown hair across his chest, trailing through the inked designs on his pecs and down the ridges of his carved abs.

My gaze follows the path lower, to his strong thighs, spread wide, making room for—

Oh.

Shit.

My breath catches at the sight of him: fully erect, his hand wrapped around the thick length of his cock, stroking with slow, deliberate movements.

A bottle of lube lies discarded beside him on the sheets.

His other hand cups his balls as his head rests back against the pillow, eyes closed, lips parted.

Noise-canceling headphones cover his ears, muting the world outside as deep groans escape from his throat, raw and unrestrained.

I should leave. I know I should leave. But my feet don’t move.

His cock is large and thick, just like the rest of his body, and exactly how I’d imagined it. In relation to his thighs, it looks like it could be a third leg. A pulsing vein runs on the side of it and the swollen, purple head of him that's he's currently pumping is slick from all the lube.

Or is that... cum?

I can’t tell but he’s glistening, and I can’t look away from the absolute mess that he’s making on his sheets as he fucks his hand.

I stifle another gasp, watching him, knowing I shouldn’t be invading his privacy like this but too turned on by our kiss minutes ago to look away.

Then his eyes flutter open, snagging mine in a way that says he was almost expecting me.

He doesn’t stop stroking, just stares directly at me, as his other hand moves up to his headphones to casually remove them.

We’re both panting, the air between us charged and electric.

His grunts grow louder as his fist works up and down his length, the motions picking up intensity as I see his cock grow even larger.

I watch, entranced, as his body flexes, veins straining in his neck and forearms. His entire frame tightens like a coiled spring before his head snaps back, and a guttural groan escapes his lips.

“Molly,” he groans loudly.

The sound of my name on his lips as he comes sends a jolt through me, and I can’t look away.

His semen paints his chest, thick beads sinking into the dusting of hair there before dripping lazily onto his stomach and thighs.

He strokes himself through the last shuddering pulses, the movements slowing, softer, almost reverent.

I can feel my thighs pressing tightly together, my body thrumming with heat as I watch the aftermath unfold.

My gaze trails over him—his powerful build, the softening curve of his body, and the seed glistening across his skin.

A thought strikes me from somewhere in my deepest fantasies: I want to taste it.

I want to feel him. I consider for a moment climbing on to the bed with him and licking a line through that light brown hair coated in himself, but he stops me before I can move.

Colt swings his legs over the edge of the bed and stands, the intensity in his eyes locking onto me. His sheer presence fills the small space, and instinctively, I take a step backward, retreating into the narrow front of the RV to get away but he doesn’t stop.

Naked, unashamed, and entirely commanding my body, he closes the distance between us, his frame towering over mine.

His chest still glistens, dripping with his cum, muscles taut, his cock softening now but still way too heavy hanging between his legs.

My breath catches as I wet my lips, my body screaming with need.

It’s been years since I’ve felt anything like this.

Longer still since I allowed anyone to touch me after the betrayal that shattered my trust from my ex.

But now, every ounce of me wants him—his rough edges, his fractured pieces.

I want to gather them up, rearrange them, and make him whole in my hands.

I want to feel the power of him beneath me, on top of me, inside me, consuming every piece of him until there’s nothing left of his anger, his rage, or his pain. Just us.

The parts of our past that we share and the parts of our past that we were apart.

For a fleeting second, I think he’s about to kiss me again.

His gaze drops to my lips, and I feel the air shift between us.

My heart races, my chest tightens. But instead, his hand moves downward, brushing against my side, and I realize he’s reaching for something next to me—my jacket, draped over the couch in the kitchenette.

I must have missed it when I first came in.

The moment stretches into silence, the tension between us crackling like the air before a storm.

“Here’s your jacket.”

“Colt I-,” I start. He holds up a hand in silent warning.

“Leave before I do something you’re not ready for.”

I swallow the words before they escape, forcing them down into that deep, unspoken place inside me where all my unresolved thoughts fester, waiting for the right moment to resurface.

But I know these won’t stay buried for long.

Maybe Colt’s right—our emotions are running too high tonight, and giving in now might lead to something we can’t take back.

I clutch my jacket to my chest as he lets go, my gaze locking onto the damp skin of his chest, slick with his cum, the darker hair there tangled and speckled with droplets. Inked promises stretch across his skin, reminders of the things he swore to himself in the years he was locked away.

My fingers move on their own, trailing over the hair, feeling the warmth of him beneath my touch. Then, without thinking, I bring one to my lips, sucking the taste of him from my skin.

His eyes darken, watching me like a man on the verge of losing control. Then, with a rough shake of his head, he exhales sharply.

“Go, Molly. Now.”

I spin on my heel, racing out to my car until I’m safely inside, down the driveway and back to the main road. It isn’t until I’m in my duplex, with the door safely locked and shut that I let myself feel the wetness that’s pooled between my thighs.

It’s been so long since I’ve felt anything like this.

Since I’ve been turned on by a man. Jordan had made me believe that part of me was broken, that he’d stripped me of the ability to feel desire—hot, pulsing, all-consuming.

I’d once loved that sensation, reveled in it, given myself over to it without hesitation or fear.

But he took that from me, along with so much else—my virginity, my heart, my first engagement, my first marriage, my first love.

He left me standing in the rubble of what I thought my life would be.

And at the time, it felt like he’d ruined me for anyone else.

And yet, here I am, back in Whitewood Creek, piecing myself together one shard at a time.

It’s like I’ve been scavenging through the wreckage of my old self, finding bits of who I was scattered all over this town and all point back to Colt.

Maybe, just maybe, in all this rebuilding, I’ve been quietly reborn.

And maybe it’s not just me who’s been reborn. Maybe Colt is finding himself again, too. Maybe that’s why, in this strange and chaotic time of healing for both of us, we’ve somehow collided in a way that feels inevitable, like gravity pulling two wandering stars together.

I slip under the sheets, not bothering to strip off my jeans or my shirt. The faint scent of Colt clings to my jacket, a mix of him and his RV—warm, woodsy, and familiar. It smells like the creek we grew up by and the wild nights we used to share there together.

I bury my face in it, letting the memories swirl around me, unsolicited but comforting.

This is the man I’ve crushed on since I was a little girl. And somehow, despite everything, that feeling is still alive, burning quietly in the background. For now, I decide to let it be enough. But I know whatever’s been reignited, isn’t over yet.