Page 33 of The County Line
I nod again, though I’m not sure if I can move. My legs feel like they’re no longer mine, tingling from the drinks, and every part of me wants to drown him. His scent—warm, musky, and utterly intoxicating—wraps around me as he moves closer, making it even harder to focus. His lips are so full, so inviting, I want to touch them, to know if they’re as soft as they look. All of the years that we’ve spent together as friends, the times I slept on the floor of his bedroom, everything had always been platonic. Now, years between us and thousands of mistakes made, it doesn't feel so unrealistic to give into those urges I've always had.
Then his hand reaches out, brushing over my shoulder, down across my chest, before moving upwards and resting gently at my neck. His thick fingers wrap around the column of my throat, not tight, but enough to hold me in place and keep my gaze focused on his. It’s possessive and way too hot. I’ve never hadanyone hold me like this before. I instantly decide I like it but only because it’s him.
“Molly,” he murmurs darkly. His thumb grazes my bottom lip, light as a feather, and it sends a shiver down my spine. “Why are you so worried about me asking Lydia out?”
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,reallyseeingme,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, theother 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 wordfriendwhich 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.
