Page 32 of The County Line (Whitewood Creek Farm #2)

Somewhere between the haze of dreams and deep sleep, I hear a sound—and then feel warm arms wrapping around me.

“Move over a little,” Colt’s voice breaks through the fog in my brain, low, close and real.

For a second, I don’t know if I’m still dreaming about him—because I was—or if this is something more. But then his arms shift me gently, tucking me beneath the blankets of his bed like I’m something precious.

My eyes flutter open, blinking against the dim light until I see him leaning over me, concern etched into every line of his face.

“You were about to fall off the bed,” he says, his voice rough and quiet. “Didn’t want you to get hurt.”

“Oh,” I rasp, barely able to breathe the word because this view—him, in this light—feels cinematic. His brow’s pinched in worry, and his hazel eyes are all golden swirls and stormy shadows. “You’re here?” I ask.

“Storm got rough. RV was rocking like crazy, figured it was safer to crash at the house.” He runs a hand over his head, then glances toward the bed. “Didn’t realize you were in here until I was about to lie down. Don’t worry—I’ll sleep on the floor.”

“Oh,” I repeat, my voice thick with sleep and my thoughts nowhere near caught up. The low light from the moon outside of the window spills across his frame, outlining the shape of him—and I mean all of him.

He’s standing there in nothing but a pair of light gray sweats.

Not exactly storm-weather gear, but that’s not what grabs my attention.

No, it’s the way the soft fabric clings to him.

The obvious bulge pressing forward, impossible to ignore.

My breath stutters, heat curling low and sharp in my belly, and I force myself to blink, to look anywhere else.

He shifts his weight and lowers into a crouch beside the bed. The floor creaks as he stretches out—no pillow, no blanket, just Colt. Long limbs, broad chest, and bare vulnerability wrapped in storm light, like sleeping on the floor beside me is the most normal thing in the world.

“Here, take a blanket.” I try to push one off me to share, but he just shakes his head.

“I’ve slept on worse.”

“But you shouldn’t have to. This is your room.” I scoot over as far as I can until my body’s pressed against the wall that the bed bumps up against. “Come up here. There’s no reason we can’t share the bed.” We’ve done it before.

A memory surfaces, one I haven’t thought about in years.

I must have been seventeen years old, and Colt the same, when Maverick disappeared one particularly dangerous night.

He was a year older than us, had graduated the May prior, and had been pulled into my father’s world of lies and illegal dealings.

That night was terrifying. Men I didn’t recognize came to the house, drugs were passed around, and my father’s obnoxious, drunken voice boomed through the thin walls of our trailer, louder and angrier than usual.

Maverick—normally my protector, my safe place when things got out of control—was nowhere to be found.

It had been a while since I’d last had to sneak out to Colt’s.

Back then, Maverick shielded me once we became teenagers, stepping in when things got bad, finding a way to get us dinner.

But that night, I knew I couldn’t rely on anyone else to be there for me but myself.

The lock on my bedroom door was loose and rattling, and I wasn’t about to wait and see what might happen if someone tried to force it open.

I slipped out my bedroom window and ran the miles-long stretch from the trailer park to Whitewood Creek Farmstead barefoot.

The gravel and dirt tore at my feet, leaving them raw and bleeding by the time I reached the massive oak tree outside Colt’s window.

I climbed up and knocked softly praying that he was home.

When he opened it, his eyes burned with anger.

For a moment, I thought he might jump out of the window and storm straight over to the trailer.

He looked ready to fight the whole world for me.

But we were just kids back then—seventeen, scared, and powerless in a lot of ways.

Even with his broad shoulders and budding strength, he wasn’t fully grown yet, and we both knew it would be a mistake for him to act.

One that Maverick and I would end up paying for later.

Still, that night reminded me of one thing: Colt was my refuge when everything else was chaos as he’s always been. That night he’d taken me into his bed, tucked me in along with propping up several pillows between our bodies to show me that he was a safe place.

And that night, I got the best sleep of my young teenage life.

Now, his large frame moves up from the floor as he pulls back the sheet and slips into the bed beside me. It’s a much tighter fit than it was when we were seventeen. If he tried to build a barrier of pillows between us, it wouldn’t be possible—there’s just too much of him for this space.

He’s quiet, lying flat on his back, probably trying to give me as much room as possible.

But I’m wide awake now, my heart racing out of control.

If his scent had surrounded me before, now it’s overwhelming—a warm, intoxicating presence that feels like his hand reaching out to grip me, possessively, protectively, wrapping around my neck and commanding my attention.

“Will your new home be okay?” I whisper, my voice barely audible even though there’s no chance anyone else in the house could hear us over the cacophony of wind and rain that’s raging outside.

“I think so. Got the frame set up and cemented before the storm hit. I’m more worried about the RV,” he replies, his voice low and steady, brushing against the silence like a comfort.

I nod, even though he’s not looking at me. My mind scrambles for something else to say, some way to fill the charged quiet. “Sorry for taking over your room. Regan and your dad said you don’t sleep in here anymore.”

That gets his attention. His whole body shifts as he turns onto his side, propping himself up slightly to face me. His hazel eyes catch the dim light filtering in from outside, scanning every inch of my face, studying me.

I wonder what he sees when he looks at me.

When I look at him, I see the young boy who grew into the incredible man who’s lying next to me now—the one who has always been my safe place.

The one who’s protected me, looked out for me, and stayed constant through everything.

And maybe... the one that I’ve always loved.

The thought hits me like a storm surge, terrifying in its power. Giving my heart to another handsome man feels like playing with fire, and I’m not sure I’ll survive being burned again but I want to believe - so desperately - that Colt wouldn’t do that to me. That he’s different.

His hand reaches up, brushing a lock of my dark, damp hair away from my cheek and tucking it behind my ear carefully. It’s still a little wet from my shower, but the heat of his touch sends a searing shiver through my body that I know he must feel too.

“You ain’t ever have to apologize for coming into my bed, Molly. You know you’re always welcome here.”

My mouth drops open on a quiet gasp as we gaze at each other.

For someone else, the amount of eye contact that we’re making right now might seem unnerving, but with Colt, it feels like we’re saying all the things we’ve always wanted to say to each other.

As if we’re both realizing that what’s between us has grown into something more.

Does he even know why I’m here tonight?

He hasn’t asked and yet... he doesn’t mind. That’s just who Colt is. Finds a woman seeking shelter in his bed, and welcomes her without question like it makes sense.

Heat pools between my thighs as I shift to face him. The space between us disappears in an instant as his hand finds my hip, body presses closer until we’re chest to chest, his rock-hard length pressing insistently against my thigh.

A gasp slips from my lips as his arm wraps around my waist, strong and sure, pulling me flush against him and locking me in place. Instinct takes over—my hips roll into his, hungry for more—and then his mouth crashes into mine, urgent and unrelenting, drowning me in the heat of it.

He tastes like the soda he was sipping earlier—sweet and a little spicy—but it’s him underneath that flavor, familiar and addictive. The memory of him lingers on my tongue, tangled with the now, and when his hands frame my jaw, coaxing me to open for him, I do without hesitation.

Lips parted, his tongue claims my mouth—deep, consuming, full of promise.

Then he pulls back, just slightly, tongue dragging along the seam of my lips before sweeping inside again with slow, deliberate hunger.

It’s enough to make me tremble, a soft moan escaping as I melt into the kiss, lost in the fire he builds with nothing more than his touch.

My fingers move to his soft, buzzed head, rubbing against the tiny strands there, then trailing down to his jawline.

His beard is just starting to grow in, its roughness scratches against my fingertips sending sparks through me.

I shiver at the thought of that delicious scrape dragging over every inch of my skin.

His hand slides downward from my hips, his fingertips grazing my bare skin as he lifts the hem of my T-shirt, exposing the naked curve of my stomach to the cool air.

A shiver courses through me, but it has nothing to do with the temperature and everything to do with the way he touches me.

The rough pads of his fingers trail along my side, igniting a path of heat that makes my pulse race.

He leans back just enough to look me in the eyes, and the intensity in his gaze is like a physical weight pressing against me. It’s all-consuming—raw, unfiltered desire mixed with something that’s always been deeper between us. My breath catches, but I can’t look away. I don’t want to.

The corner of his mouth curves into a faint smirk before his hand shifts lower, finding me wearing nothing underneath.

“You sleeping naked in my bed, Molly?” he grumbles against my lips . His fingers tease the edge of my pussy, swiping gently once, testing the waters. He’s being too gentle, and the softness has me aching while I squirm, trying to get more friction.

“Patience, Molly,” he murmurs as his lips capture mine again.

Then, without warning, his middle finger plunges deep inside of me, the sudden intrusion tearing a gasp from my lips.

My head falls back against the pillow as my body arches into him, desperate and needing.

His other hand grips my hip, pinning me in place, while his thumb circles that sensitive bundle of nerves—each pass sending sparks through my veins like wildfire.

“Were you thinking about me while you were lying here?” he murmurs, voice rough and low, thick with heat. The sound of it—dark velvet, laced with desire—wraps around me and pulls me under.

I can barely think, let alone answer. His finger works in a slow, torturous rhythm, dragging me closer to the edge before he slips a second finger inside me. I choke on a breath, a broken sound catching in my throat as he leans in, lips brushing my ear.

“Tell me,” he urges, deeper now, darker, his breath hot against my skin. “Were you thinking about me? About my hands on you? My fingers playing with your pussy? Because I haven’t been able to stop thinking about this. Not since the second you came back into my life.”

I nod—shaking, trembling—my voice useless, lost somewhere behind the moans I can’t hold back.

My body gives the answer for me, hips rocking into his hand with silent desperation.

He groans low in his chest, the sound vibrating through my skin as his pace picks up, faster now, rougher, driven by the same ache I’ve been drowning in since the moment we first touched.

“Fuck,” he breathes, the word wrecked and reverent as his mouth hovers just above mine. “I can’t get enough of touching this pussy.”

His voice breaks me wide open.

Then his mouth is on mine again, devouring.

His kiss is hard, messy, a little desperate—like he’s trying to consume me, brand me, make sure I don’t forget the way he’s taking me apart in his hands.

And I let him. I give him everything. Let myself drown in him, lose myself in the ache and the heat and the way he makes me feel like I’m the only thing that matters.