Page 12 of Holding Onto You (Burnt Ashes #2)

Kayla

S omething is wrong. Something is missing. I wake slowly, eyes burning. Heart racing.

My hand drifts out instinctively, searching the bed beside me for him—for the steady, grounding presence that helped me fall asleep last night.

But all I find are cool sheets, rumpled and abandoned.

A small frown pulls between my brows as my eyes crack open, blinking against the soft wash of morning light spilling through the curtains.

Panic tugs at my chest before my gaze shifts and finds him.

Logan.

Leaning against the doorframe like some beautiful, reckless dream.

He’s shirtless, every muscle and line of him carved by golden light. Tattoos curve across his ribs, over his shoulder, the dark ink a stark contrast against the sun-warmed tan of his skin.

His arms stretch lazily overhead, hands gripping the frame, which only makes the ridges of his abdomen tighten and flex in ways that make my throat go dry.

Loose grey sweatpants hang low on his hips, dangerous and tempting, and a black baseball cap sits backward on his head, messy black hair spilling out underneath.

His blue eyes—God, those eyes—are locked on me.

Watching. Waiting.

The corner of his mouth tilts into a slow, lazy smile that could level cities.

My heart stumbles, tripping over itself as my gaze sweeps down him in a helpless, greedy drag. I don’t even try to hide it. I can't.

And he knows it.

My cheeks burn, heat blooming under my skin, but I can’t tear my eyes away.

He’s pure temptation, standing there like he has all the time in the world. Like he’s savoring the way I’m falling apart just from looking at him.

A single, breathless word escapes me before I can catch it.

"Wow."

His smile deepens, the kind of slow, devastating grin that says he heard every unspoken thing buried inside that one tiny word.

"Come here," I whisper, the need curling inside me too much to contain.

Logan doesn’t move.

He just watches me with that maddening, smirking patience.

"Baby," he says, voice low, roughened by sleep and something darker, "you have no idea what you’re doing to me right now."

I sit up, sheets pooling around my waist, leaving me in nothing but the oversized T-shirt I slept in.

The shift of fabric draws his eyes like a magnet, his throat working as he drags his gaze slowly back up to mine.

"Maybe I do," I murmur, emboldened by the way his chest rises a little faster.

Maybe I want to.

A low sound rumbles from deep in his chest—something primal, something barely leashed.

In two strides, he’s at the edge of the bed, towering over me.

He reaches out, brushing his knuckles along my jaw, so light it feels like a ghost's touch.

My breath catches.

"You're dangerous, angel," he whispers, voice like a slow burn against my skin.

"And you're..." I trail off, fingers itching to grab him, to pull him closer, to feel him.

Logan leans down, so close his breath skims my lips, and my heart hammers against my ribs like it’s trying to escape.

"Say it," he murmurs, his forehead resting against mine, the intimacy of it wrecking me completely.

"Mine," I whisper, so quietly I don't even know if he hears it, but judging by the way his hand tangles in the hair at the nape of my neck, how his other arm cages me against the bed, he does.

He hovers there, our mouths a hair’s breadth apart, and the tension coils so tight it hurts.

But he doesn’t kiss me.

Not yet.

Because Logan Dale is a man who knows the value of a slow burn.

A man who wants me to feel it—every second of the wanting.

And I do.

God help me, I do.

His fingers trail from my jaw to the curve of my throat, slow enough to make my whole body tense with need.

He leans down until his mouth brushes the shell of my ear, his breath hot and sinful.

"If I had it my way, angel..."

his voice is a growl now, low and lethal,

"you wouldn’t be walking straight after the things I wanna do to you."

My entire body locks up, heat flooding every inch of me.

I can’t breathe. I can’t think. I can only stare up at him, wide-eyed and burning alive.

Logan chuckles under his breath—a deep, rumbling sound that makes my thighs clench—and presses one last, fleeting kiss to my forehead like he hasn’t just ruined me.

"But you need to eat first," he says, cocky as hell. "Gotta keep your strength up, baby."

He stands, muscles flexing, and saunters out of the room, the loose hang of his sweatpants slipping even lower on his hips.

Without turning around, he tosses over his shoulder,

"Breakfast's in the kitchen. Come find me when you’re hungry—for food or otherwise."

And just like that, he’s gone, leaving me wrecked and wanting, buried in his scent and his wicked promise still hanging heavy in the air.

The room feels emptier the second he’s gone, like he took all the oxygen with him.

I sag back into the pillows, staring at the ceiling, heart hammering so hard I can feel it in my fingertips.

My body’s still trembling, every nerve wound tight, aching for a touch that never fully came.

"Logan,"

I whisper into the empty room.

His name curls in the air, soft and secret and desperate, and I swear for a second I can still feel his breath on my skin.

I squeeze my eyes shut, willing my heart to slow down, willing the ache between my legs to ease.

It doesn’t.

It only gets worse.

Because for the first time since I woke up in that hospital bed, I don’t just want to remember him—

I need to.

I toss the covers back, nerves jangling under my skin.

If he wants to play dirty, I can too.

Slipping out of bed, I pad across the floor, feeling the cool air kiss my bare legs.

All I’m wearing is an old oversized t-shirt—soft and worn and hanging dangerously low—and nothing else.

Nothing.

Every step down the stairs, my heart beats faster, anticipation buzzing through me like electricity.

I spot him in the kitchen, his back to me, head bent over the stove.

He’s flipping pancakes, humming something under his breath, shirtless, that damn backwards cap still perched on his dark hair.

The muscles of his back flex with every little move and my mouth goes dry.

Without a sound, I slip into the living room, sitting down on the coffee table directly in front of the couch, facing him.

I stretch one leg out, the hem of the t-shirt sliding dangerously up my thigh, and lean back on my hands, letting my head tip to the side, watching him.

Waiting.

It doesn’t take long.

He turns, plate in hand, and freezes the second he sees me.

His eyes roam over me like I’m the encore he’s been waiting for—worshipped with every breath, devoured with every thought.

Slowly, he sets the plate down.

"Baby," he rasps, his voice wrecked.

"You're killing me."

I smile, slow and sweet, innocence dripping off me even as my heart pounds like a war drum.

"You said to bring my blush with me," I murmur, tracing one hand lazily up my bare thigh.

"Thought I’d bring a little more."

He groans, low and rough, running a hand over his face like it’s taking every ounce of self-control not to lose it right there.

"You keep lookin' like that," he warns, stalking toward me with deadly intent,

"and breakfast’s not gonna be the first thing I’m tastin’ this morning."

Logan’s steps are slow, deliberate and predatory, each one sending a shiver straight down my spine.

His gaze never leaves mine, all heavy heat and wicked promises.

By the time he stops in front of me, my chest is heaving, the thin cotton of the t-shirt doing nothing to hide the way my body’s reacting to him.

He leans down, palms braced on either side of me on the coffee table, caging me in without touching.

I can feel the raw heat pouring off his skin.

Smell the faint trace of his soap and sweat and the scent that’s just him—all wild and warm and devastating.

"You know what you’re doing, don’t you?"

His voice is low and dark, rough like sandpaper against silk.

I swallow hard, my pulse crashing in my ears.

"Maybe," I whisper, not even trusting my voice to be louder.

Logan’s smile curves, slow and dangerous.

He dips his head until our mouths are a breath apart, his nose brushing mine, teasing.

"You think you can just sit there lookin' like every dirty dream I've ever had," he murmurs, voice thick with hunger,

"and not get kissed breathless for it?"

I suck in a shaky breath, every nerve screaming for him to touch me.

"Then maybe you should," I dare him, lifting my chin, chasing the heat of his mouth.

He chuckles low in his throat—the sound rough and beautiful—but he doesn’t move.

"Ask me, angel," he says, tilting his head just enough to keep me wanting,

"Beg a little... if you want it bad enough."

My whole body tightens.

Pride wars with need, but it’s a battle I lose in the space of a heartbeat.

"Please, Logan," I breathe, my hands fisting the edge of the table,

"kiss me."

That’s all it takes.

With a rough, broken sound, he closes the distance, crashing his mouth onto mine like he’s been starving for me his whole life.

His hands tangle in my hair, pulling me closer, and I swear I can feel him breathing me in, like he needs me just to survive.

The kiss is everything.

Hot and deep and a little bit desperate.

A kiss that promises this is just the beginning—that he’s going to ruin me and love me and put every broken piece of me back together.

And God help me...

I want every second of it.

His mouth is on mine again, a little more frantic this time, a little more hungry.

His tongue teases against mine, sliding like fire, setting everything in me alight.

I can’t help but groan into the kiss, my hands moving to his chest, feeling the rapid beat of his heart, matching my own.

"Mac," he growls against my lips, voice rough and low,

"If you keep looking at me like that, I’m gonna forget all about breakfast and fuck you senseless right here."

The words strike me like a bolt of lightning.

I pull back slightly, breathless, my lips trembling.

"Logan..." I whisper, the heat spreading even further through my body.

He smiles that sinful smile of his, slow and dangerous.

His hands slide down to grip my waist, dragging me closer, until I’m pressed right against him, every inch of me aching for him.

"What? You thought this was just about pancakes?" he mutters, voice dripping with sin.

"I’ve got a hell of a lot more planned for you than breakfast, baby. But if you want me to stop..."

His words are more of a dare than a threat, his lips brushing lightly over mine, teasing me with every single touch.

I moan in response, my body aching for him, but I won’t admit it. Not fully.

I push my chest up against his, my fingertips grazing his abs, feeling the muscles beneath his skin ripple with tension.

"Don’t stop," I whisper against his lips, barely able to get the words out.

He chuckles darkly, his grip on me tightening as he pulls me even closer, if that’s even possible.

I’m practically on his lap now, my body trembling with need.

"You’re a dangerous woman, baby," he growls, his lips skimming my throat, kissing the soft spot just beneath my ear.

My breath hitches, his words sinking straight to the core of me.

I can’t take it. Not anymore.

"Logan..." I moan his name again, unable to hold back.

I need him. More than I’ve ever needed anything.

"Please."

He pulls back just enough to look me in the eyes, the intensity in his gaze knocking the wind out of me.

"Yeah?" he breathes, his voice low, dangerous.

"What exactly do you want, baby?"

I can barely catch my breath, my body pulsing with desire.

"You," I whisper, voice breaking.

"All of you."

He smiles, the wicked glint in his eyes my undoing.

With one last lingering kiss, he pulls away, breathlessly.

"We’ll get to that," he says, voice rough and thick with lust.

"But first... breakfast and meds. I gotta keep my girl healthy."

Logan’s fingers graze my cheek as he pulls away, his breath still ragged, his chest rising and falling like he’s just run a marathon.

He looks down at me, eyes heavy with lust and something deeper. I swear, I can feel the weight of his gaze as if he’s marking me, memorizing every detail of this moment.

He reaches down, brushing the hair from my face, a soft, tender gesture that makes my heart flip in my chest.

"You okay?" he asks, voice rough but gentle, like he’s not sure if I’m going to break from the intensity of everything that just happened.

I nod, my fingers still trembling as I touch the edge of my t-shirt.

I feel the heat of him still burning into me, the weight of everything unspoken hanging in the air.

"I’m more than okay," I say, my voice low, heart still hammering.

He smirks, a little cocky, a little self-assured, but the glint in his eyes tells me he’s savoring every second of this moment, too.

Then, as if realizing we’ve both just crossed some kind of line, he takes a deep breath and pulls me gently to my feet.

"Come on," he says, a playful, tender tone slipping into his voice.

"I swear, if you’re not starving after that kiss, I’m doing something wrong. Breakfast’s ready."

His hand is warm around mine as he leads me toward the kitchen.

His thumb brushes over my knuckles, making my skin tingle, the touch so simple but sending a jolt of warmth through me.

I glance up at him as we walk, my heart still racing, my thoughts a tangled mess.

"I don’t think I’ve ever been this hungry in my life," I joke, the words coming out light, but I can’t shake the feeling of his lips lingering on mine.

Of the heat we just shared.

Logan chuckles, the sound low and satisfied, like he knows exactly what I mean.

"We’ll fix that," he murmurs, pulling me close for a brief, quiet kiss on the top of my head.

His lips linger there for a moment, soft and warm, as if holding me there in this quiet, unspoken promise.