Page 33 of The County Line (Whitewood Creek Farm #2)

He picks up his pace, fingers stretching me wider as he slides a third inside. I clench hard, rolling my hips into him, catching my orgasm.

“Please Colt, I need more.” More friction, more of him, more of everything that’s been brewing between us.

His palm presses firmly against my clit, rubbing hard, his movements calculated and devastating. That extra pressure is exactly what I need but it isn’t enough. I want his mouth on me, his cock deep inside of me. I want to know what I’ve wondered for years. How it will feel to have Colt completely.

He withdraws his fingers, dragging my arousal across my sensitive skin, trailing it up to my stomach, only to plunge back into me a moment later with a growl.

“I can’t get enough of touching you. You’re so wet, so warm.” His mouth claims mine again, sealing us together, his kiss as intoxicating as his touch.

It isn’t soft or gentle, but it’s still deliberate—respectful, savoring, Colt .

It’s how he’s always been with me: protective, grounding, yet somehow unrelentingly intense.

His thumb circles my clit again, teasing, driving me to the edge, until suddenly he pulls back.

He shifts his weight until he’s between my thighs, kicking off the tangled blankets in one smooth motion.

I reach for the hem of his shirt, desperate to see him fully. “Let me,” I whisper.

He hesitates, his jaw tightening for a moment, then pulls his shirt off himself slowly.

The pale moonlight spills across his skin, illuminating every inch of him—the carved lines of his abs, his powerful shoulders, and the thick, veined biceps that make my breathing stall.

His body looks sculpted, built for strength, protection and endurance, yet here he is, gentle and completely present with me.

But then my eyes catch on something I don’t remember from those youthful trips to the creek—a jagged, four-inch scar that cuts right across the middle of his chest below one of his tattoos.

My breath stalls, my hand instinctively reaching out.

I trace the raised skin with a finger, committing every ridge and curve to memory.

“What’s this from?” I whisper, my voice unsteady.

“Prison fight,” he replies, his tone even. “I was trying to break it up before two guys killed each other. Ended up taking the worst of it. Got a nice trip to the hospital for a day. We call those field trips.”

A sharp gasp escapes my lips as the image of him there, surrounded by chaos, flashes in my mind. Colt, doing what he’s always done—standing between danger and the people he’s trying to protect. Doing the right fucking thing and paying for it.

“It was close to my heart,” he continues, his voice steady as his eyes study me, “but it didn’t hit anything vital.”

The casual way he says it only tightens the ache in my chest. I blink rapidly, trying to stop the tears from falling because I know he doesn’t want my pity.

He endured that and so much more for almost five years and I may never know the full extent of what he’s been through, but I can tell that sharing that part of his past with me is significant.

“Thank you for telling me,” I whisper.

I want to tell him how much I admire him, how deeply I feel for the man he is today—not just for his sacrifices but for all the ways he’s always looked out for me. The words are there, rising to the surface, but I don’t trust my voice.

Instead, I let my hands speak for me. I run my fingers over his buzzed head, trailing down to massage the hard muscles of his neck, wishing I could ease some of the tension he carries there. My grip tightens on his shoulders, strong and steady beneath my palms, as he dips his head lower.

With a deliberate slowness, he pushes the fabric of my T-shirt up around my hips. Then, his gaze locks with mine for a heartbeat before he dives in, his tongue trailing one long, devastating lick across my opening that has me arching into his face, unable to hold back a satisfied moan.

“Colt…” I sigh.

His tongue moves again in the same pattern, one strong, slow lick across my slit ending with my clit while his fingers massage on either side of my swollen lips.

He presses his thumbs inside my opening while his mouth seals over my clit in a tight hold, flicking and pumping in tandem.

It’s unlike anything I’ve ever experienced before.

He’s ravenous, the sounds he makes—low, guttural, and hungry—mingle with the breathy moans spilling from my lips. Each noise from me only makes him work harder as he grunts and groans between my legs.

My gaze falls to where he’s devouring me, drawn to the way his broad shoulders pin me to the bed. I couldn’t get away if I wanted to and I don’t. My breath catches as I notice the thick bulge straining against the soft fabric of his grey sweatpants.

“I want you so badly, Colt,” I whisper, my voice trembling with need, every word thick with longing.

He pauses, his movements stilling as he lifts his head.

His hazel eyes burn into mine, dark and unrelenting, before he tilts his face between my thighs.

The rough rasp of his beard grazes the sensitive skin on my thighs, sending shivers coursing through me as he drags the sharp hairs up and down my thighs and over my clit.

I gasp, gripping the sheets as the friction ignites a new wave of heat, sharp and all-consuming. He doesn’t stop—his nose brushes against my clit, pressing there with pointed, focused attention. He rubs it gently, the warmth of his rapid breath against my skin making my thighs tremble.

“You’re so perfect,” he murmurs, his voice low and gravelly, the vibrations sparking through every nerve ending. “Your pussy feels like it belongs to me already.”

My heart ricochets in my chest so loud I can hardly hear my thoughts anymore. He wants me just as badly as I want him.

“Fuck me, please,” I groan, begging again as his tongue dives back inside of my opening while his fingers brush my clit.

“No.”

“Why not?” I’m whining now but I want him. I want him so badly it hurts. I want to hold the weight of his cock in my hands. Feel just how heavy it is while full because of me. I want to suck him off. I want him inside of me, devastating me. I want him to fill me in every way.

I don’t care if it’s wrong that I want him in this way anymore or what it means for my ethics. I just want him .

“Because” he starts, his tongue flicks against my clit before he bites softly on the inside of my thigh, marking me. I let out a hiss and his eyes find mine again. “I don’t want to disappoint you.”

Disappoint me?

How is that even possible.

He reaches into his sweatpants and pulls his thick width over the top of the band so that I can see it.

It looks even better up close. The tip of him is like a too ripe peach, one that’s so juicy, just the touch of it releases some of the sweet goodness all over your hands.

And that’s what it’s doing, leaking over the band of his sweatpants, out and onto my stomach.

Then, he does what he did when I’d walked in on him a week ago, he jerks it viciously in his grip over top of me, while his fingers remain inside of my soaked pussy, pumping firmly in the same rhythm.

“Watch me, baby. Watch what you do for me,” he growls.

We watch ourselves like that, his fingers inside of me pumping, his other hand wrapped around the width of his cock, bunching the smooth, dark, velvety skin up around the tip, leaking precum out of it down onto my stomach. It’s the most erotic thing that I’ve ever witnessed, and I can’t look away.

“How could you ever disappoint me, Colt?” I ask, rolling my hips upward, trying to grind myself on his bare cock.

He jerks himself harder, I can see his large balls between his thighs swinging low, the hair on them brushing against my thighs only adding to the wild sensations I’m feeling.

“Play with your clit, Molly,” he commands, avoiding my question.

I try to hide any disappointment I’m feeling over why he won’t have sex with me, and do as instructed, swirling the hardened nub with my fingers while he continues to pump his fingers inside of my opening.

It’s almost too much—his hand working over himself while I touch myself, his intensity mirroring mine.

“Fuck, you look so pretty laying underneath me.”

And then he slides a third finger inside me unexpectedly and it pushes me over the edge.

My body shakes, my toes curl into the sheets as I scream his name.

His lips cover mine, stealing my cries along with the storm.

The orgasm rips through me, sharp and shocking, leaving me gasping and clawing into his chest covered in tattoos as wave after wave crashes over me.

Above me, Colt’s neck goes tight, veins straining as a guttural groan rips from his throat.

His entire body bows forward, muscles locking as he loses control, his cock jerking in his grip.

He leans down, angling just enough to spill hot streaks across my stomach and the hem of my T-shirt.

His hand strokes through it one last time until he stills, chest rising and falling in uneven breaths.

Without a word, he moves—slow and deliberate.

He lifts me gently, guiding me upright, and strips the ruined T-shirt from my body.

Then he uses it to clean my skin with a tenderness that makes my chest ache, like I’m something breakable.

The contrast to the raw, desperate need we’d just shared makes me blink up at him, stunned into silence.

When he’s done, he tosses the shirt aside and pulls me into his arms, completely naked now, tugging me against his chest like he’s done it a thousand times.

I rest my cheek against the solid wall of his body, the rhythm of his heartbeat beneath my ear grounding me in a way nothing else ever has.

But inside, I’m spiraling. My thoughts are messy and loud, crashing over each other, impossible to pin down.

Because no matter what rules he tries to hold onto, no matter how many lines we pretend we haven’t crossed—I already know the truth.

I’ve fallen for him.

And we won’t talk about what just happened.

Colt will bury it, pretend it didn’t mean anything.

But I know better. I know him. And as his hand slips around to the small of my back, holding me tighter to his still stiff cock, like letting go of me would hurt him—I let myself believe, just for a second, that maybe he’s falling too.