Page 34 of Where the Blacktop Ends (Whitewood Creek Farm #1)

Warm water pours into Troy's massive, claw-foot tub, swirling with steam that rises, thick and heady, filling the room with its warmth. I watch absently, my fingers trailing the cool porcelain edge, taking in a room I’ve wondered about for months, but never dared to enter.

Troy’s master bathroom.

I’ve tidied up around the house plenty—wiping down counters, straightening the edges of things while he’s been out of town or still stuck in the city late—but I never let myself cross the line into his space.

Never peeked behind his bedroom or bathroom door.

Now, seeing it for myself, I realize he’s been holding out on me.

The room is stunning. Gold finishes gleam under the soft lighting, catching against sleek marble countertops. The whole space is a perfect blend of New York luxury and Hamptons beach ease—refined, expensive but not in a way that feels cold. Just... Troy.

And it’s spotless.

Painfully spotless.

Not a single stray drop of water on the sink, no clutter, no signs of life.

It’s the complete opposite of the slightly chaotic bathroom attached to my bedroom, where half-folded towels and empty product bottles sit abandoned because I haven’t had the time—or, let’s be honest, the energy—to clean them up when Liam finally crashes for the night.

Troy moves with a quiet confidence, pulling open a cabinet, retrieving a bath sponge like he’s planned this all along. A second later, he sets a sleek bottle of coconut-scented body wash on the edge of the tub—fancy, expensive-looking, the kind of thing that feels out of place in a man’s bathroom.

He turns back to me, that warm, steady smile still tugging at his lips.

It’s been there since he walked in earlier today, and if I didn’t know any better, I’d think it belonged on his face.

But it doesn’t—the Troy I know is sharp edges, quiet intensity, and the occasional smirk when he thinks he’s getting away with something. But damn, it looks good on him

Of course, my brain immediately short-circuits, jumping straight to why he even owns such a girly-scented body wash. But the way he’s looking at me right now, all calm certainty and quiet attention, tells me he’s not thinking about anything else. Just me.

“Undress,” he says, his voice calm but firm.

“Okay…” I respond, my nerves tingling with excitement.

I know he’s seen me naked before, but standing in the brightly lit bathroom, undressing for him now, feels more vulnerable than what we did last night on the shore.

There’s no concealing the extra pounds I’ve put on me this summer, or the stretch marks that paint my thighs like stories in this lighting.

He leans a hip against the counter casually, folding his arms across his chest as he watches me.

He ditched his suit jacket when we first came in, his cuffs rolled up to his elbows.

The combo of black tattoos on his forearms, his dark hair, and those perfectly tailored suit pants with the polished wingtips—it’s a strange contrast, but insanely attractive.

And, honestly, everything about it makes sense now that I know him a little bit better.

I pull my sweater up and over my head, revealing the red sports bra I put on this morning underneath. The movement tugs at my sore shoulder and wrists, the ones I fell on when I was protecting Liam, and I wince in pain.

Troy lets out a low, dangerous growl, pushing off the counter like he’s barely holding himself back.

He stalks toward me, slow and deliberate, his muscles tight, his jaw locked.

My breath catches, my pulse kicks up—I’ve seen this look before.

That simmering intensity, the way his eyes burn right through me.

I always thought it was anger, frustration, maybe even outright annoyance.

But now?

Now, I see it for what it really is.

Concern.

For me.

“Let me,” he says, his voice rough but gentle.

I nod, letting my arms drop to my sides as he helps me out of the sweater, carefully easing it up and over my head. His hands are sure and steady as he moves to the sports bra next, lifting it up and off, freeing me.

My breasts ache as they bounce slightly from the drop and my nipples tighten in the moist air, betraying just how turned on I am.

Troy’s gaze lowers, appreciation, desire, and the heat behind his eyes sends warmth flooding through my body and across my cheeks.

It’s the same look he had on his face before he buried himself between my thighs last night.

“Beautiful,” he murmurs. “You’re so fucking beautiful, Georgia.”

He drops to his knees in front of me, fingers working the button of my jeans like he’s done it a hundred times before.

There’s no hesitation, no fumbling—just practiced ease and quiet confidence.

In one smooth motion, he tugs them down, taking my underwear with them, leaving me naked in the center of the room.

His face lingers there, eye level with my pussy, and my pulse kicks up, thrumming in my ears. Then, slowly, he leans in, his hands firm on my hips, and presses a kiss—soft, reverent—right to my pubic bone. A shiver rolls through me as the tenderness of his touch.

I’ve always been comfortable in my body.

Never felt the need to shrink myself or smooth out the soft edges or extra weight I carry.

But that doesn’t mean I don’t compare—especially now, for a split second, my mind flickers to the women I’ve seen on Troy’s arm in paparazzi shots and society pages.

Tall. Toned. Airbrushed perfection. Someone like Minnie.

But the way he looks at me—like he’s mapping every inch of my skin, drinking me in like he’s starved—makes those comparisons feel ridiculous.

His gaze doesn’t skim over the stretch marks on my hips, breasts, or thighs.

No, he lingers there, like he sees them as something to be worshipped, something that makes me more, not less.

And judging by the thick bulge straining against his suit pants, he’s not just accepting every inch of me—he’s desperate for it.

He stands, slow and deliberate, the heat of him pressing into me for half a second before he pulls away.

Then he extends a hand, offering it like a promise.

I take it, letting him guide me into the bath water that’s now full.

The warm, sudsy water wraps around me, melting away the tension in my muscles, and I exhale, sinking deeper. Letting go.

Troy reaches for the cloth that’s perched on the edge of the tub, soaking it with the luxurious body wash. He starts washing me, beginning with my shoulders, then down my chest, his touch lingering as he glides over my hard nipples, intentionally teasing them into sharper points.

His hands move lower, across my stomach, between my legs, along my thighs, down to my feet.

He works with care, leaning over the tub, his dress shirt getting wet, but he doesn’t seem to notice—or mind.

I watch him in awe, every detail of his handsome, serious face and focused expression burned into my memory.

He treats me like I’m his only concern right now. And maybe... I am.

“How’s your shoulder?” His voice is rough, like he’s holding something back.

“A little sore, but I’ll live. Landed on it when I dropped to the curb.”

He hums, not looking at me, his focus entirely on washing me like that’s the only thing he feels he can control right now.

“And your ankle?”

“Probably re-sprained.”

A low growl slips through his chest as he lifts it out of the water, fingers brushing over the swollen, purple mess. Definitely worse than when I twisted it at the Hamptons party.

“We’ll ice it when you get out.”

I nod, wanting to let myself melt into the water, let the heat and his touch work out all the tension, all the adrenaline that’s still buzzing through me.

But I’ve never been good at just shutting up.

There’s something that’s been gnawing at me ever since earlier today, and if I don’t ask now, I won’t be able to fully relax and let him take care of me right now.

“Something the paparazzi shouted at me,” I start, my voice trembling despite my best efforts, “was that you were seen with Minnie at lunch this morning.”

The words come out almost like a choke. I hate how vulnerable I sound; how desperate I am for an explanation on why he was with her just a few hours after he was with me.

I shouldn’t care. He’s my employer, a man on the brink of becoming one of the most powerful people in North Carolina politics, if not already one of the most influential in New York, who pulls the strings behind the scenes.

Yet here I am, feeling like I have a stake in him after one hot make out session and an orgasm that I can’t stop thinking about.

Troy freezes his movements. Slowly, his hazel eyes lock onto mine, burning through me with a kind of intensity that makes everything else fade. “It was a political meeting. I’ve always supported the non-profit she runs in the city. We were mostly there to discuss that.”

I bite my lip and nod, watching as he goes back to washing my legs.

Each one he lifts carefully out of the water, his touch deliberate as he tends to the scratches and bruises that I earned from the gravel earlier.

But I can’t stop myself. I can’t let it go.

I’m just too damn curious for my own good.

“Mostly?”

He lets out a soft sigh. “Yes.”

I need more from him. I need him to tell me more about why they were together.

“They asked me if Liam was your love child with her.”

He stops again. This time he sets the sponge on the edge of the tub before resting his elbows there, his posture stiff.

“Georgia. Why are you telling me this. Do you believe that?”

“God, no.”

He raises a brow. “Then...?”

I wet my lips, hoping he doesn’t make me spit this out.