Page 17 of Holding Onto You (Burnt Ashes #2)

Kayla

L ogan kisses me like he’s remembering every version of me he’s ever loved—like he’s stitching them all together into this one perfect, present moment.

My heart races as my fingers curl into his shirt, and I melt into him, chasing more, breathing him in.

It’s dizzying, intoxicating, and so damn overdue.

And then Logan’s cell starts going crazy.

Bzzzt. Bzzzt.

Ping. Ping. PING.

The vibrations come in waves, buzzing against the console between us like a swarm of angry bees. Logan groans, forehead thumping against mine as he curses under his breath.

“You have got to be kidding me.”

I giggle, still breathless from the kiss, trying to calm the wild fluttering inside my chest. “Maybe it’s important?”

He sighs dramatically, dragging a hand down his face. “It’s never important. It’s always chaos.”

“Still…” I nudge him with a raised brow. “What if it is?”

Reluctantly, he reaches for his phone, the screen lighting up with message after message. His jaw ticks. “This had better be good.”

He taps the screen and puts it on loudspeaker.

Immediately, a cacophony of shouting bursts from the phone.

“…OH MY GOD, LOGAN…”

That’s Trey’s voice, breathless and wheezy and on the verge of hysterics.

“YOU HAVE TO HELP.”

There’s a scuffle, followed by what sounds like something crashing and possibly breaking.

“SHIT, DIDN’T MEAN TO-I didn’t mean to do that… probably shouldn’t be shouting right?”

More yelling. Uncontrolled laughter bubbles through the speaker.

“Trey, if this isn’t life and death, then we’re busy.”

“He…uh…he got in a fight!”

Another crash.

“Who, Trey?”

“Sammy!”

“So… socials been dead today… Phil thought we should post a video or blah, blah, blah, threatening things, blah, blah.” Logan seems to be suffering with a headache from the look of him, but even his serious face I find enticing. I… I think I want to bite his lip.

“So, I saw this thing on Tik Tok and thought—yes, one hundred percent, this has to happen.” Trey says, voice buzzing through Logan’s speaker.

“It’s that trend where you throw something at someone and look around all innocent.

So, I tap Sam, and as he looks—” he snorts, “—I launch a water balloon. It was warm…actually, now I think about it, the other guy might’ve thought it was piss? Logan!”

My hand flies to my mouth, trying to stifle the laugh already clawing its way out. It bursts free anyway—sharp, breathless, completely unexpected.

“So, the guy’s all “the fuck, bro” and Sam’s like, ‘same’.

Then I hit ‘em with the ‘I can’t believe you done this’ meme—classic, right?

But it didn’t land. And wet bro? He charges Sam.

Tackles him. Last I saw, Sam was holding him in a headlock while I ran for the mall bathrooms.” He finally stops long enough to suck in a breath.

“I’m currently hiding in a toilet stall. ”

“Trey…” Logan groans. “He’s going to fucking kill you, man.”

“It’s Phils fault. Check online, see if we’re trending.”

“I have no idea how to do that, Trey.”

“Oh, of course not. Caveman Logan. Terrified of technology.”

“You know what’s coming now, don’t you?” Logan says, his voice tight with barely restrained irritation.

“I lay low for a few days until Sam forgives me? No? Okay. Fine. We’re going full Taken. I’m gonna yell out identifying features when he finds me. You call the Mounties if it gets bad.” He lowers his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Oh, shit. Someone just walked in.”

There’s a rustle.

“Occupied!” Trey calls out in the worst falsetto I’ve ever heard.

A beat later, a very familiar voice cuts through the speaker, dangerously calm. “Found your ass.”

“BALD HEAD! TREE TRUNK ARMS! FUTURE SAGGY BOOBS—" Trey’s voice cuts off in a mix of shrieks and chaos. Something about piercings being yanked and Phil being a traitor.

“Sam?” Logan asks, brow furrowed. There’s a grunt of affirmation. “He alive?”

“For now,” Sam replies with a low, satisfied cluck.

“Alright man. Good job.” Logan ends the call and palms his phone, sighing.

I burst out laughing, hard. The kind that makes my ribs ache and my eyes water.

“I swear,” he mutters, rubbing his temple. “I turn my back for five minutes…”

“You might want to call and check Sam didn’t actually kill him,” I manage between giggles.

He exhales hard. “Honestly? He probably deserves it. You know Trey once dumped a whole pot of white pepper into Sam’s protein powder?”

I snort. “You boys are feral.”

Logan’s eyes soften as they land on me, a smile playing on his lips. “I can be as feral as you want, angel.”

He leans in, brushing his nose against mine. “Now, where were we?”

We’re still laughing as Logan turns the wheel and pulls the Charger into the drive, the engine rumbling low like it’s just as done with the day as we are.

The sky’s shifting now—dusk bleeding into twilight, casting soft gold and lavender hues across the porch of my childhood home. The meadow behind it sways dreamily in the breeze.

Logan kills the engine but doesn’t move right away. He sits there, eyes on the house, thumb brushing over the steering wheel, quiet in a way that makes me feel like he’s taking a snapshot of this moment—like he’s filing it away, like it matters.

“I used to dream of bringing you home,” he murmurs. “Not just back to the house. Home. This.”

My breath catches.

He turns to me, eyes soft, reverent. “You—blonde again…You look like her. My Mac. My wild girl from the meadow. The one who used to spin in circles with daisies tucked into her braids, barefoot, beautiful, untouchable.”

Tears sting the back of my throat.

I rest my hand over his. “She never really left. You just had to remind her who she was.”

He leans in like he might kiss me again, but a voice—mine—softly interrupts.

“Come inside with me?”

His smile is immediate. And a little dangerous.

“Baby, you say things like that and expect me to behave?”

I grin, already pushing open the door. “I expect you to follow me, rockstar.”

He does.

The air shifts around us as we step inside. The floorboards creak in welcome.

I flick the lamp on. Warm yellow light spills across the old couch, the coffee table still littered with old mail.

“Want something to drink?” I ask, even though I don’t really want to be apart from him long enough to pour a glass of anything.

“Only if it’s your lips,” he says under his breath, making me turn with a laugh and a warning look that’s not really a warning.

But before I can say anything clever, he’s right there, stepping into my space again, brushing my hair back behind my ear like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“I’ve waited a long time for this,” he says softly. “And I’m not rushing it. Not tonight.”

God, and he says I’m dangerous.

The air between us hums—alive, heavy with something old and aching.

It crackles like lightning caught in a jar, a pull so fierce it drags the breath from my lungs.

Logan stares at me like I’m a wish he never dared to say out loud.

His fingers twitch at his sides, like he’s holding himself back, fighting a storm inside his chest.

But I don’t want restraint. Not with him. Not now.

“I missed you,” I whisper, even though the words feel too small.

His voice is low, rough. “I never stopped.”

I don’t even hear him move.

One second, I’m catching my breath in the charged silence between us, and the next—Logan’s hand is on my waist, lifting me like I weigh nothing.

He sets me down on the kitchen counter, the cool surface kissing the back of my thighs.

My heart thunders, loud and uneven, and my pulse skitters as he steps between my legs, caging me in with his arms on either side.

His eyes, dark and liquid fire, drag across my face like he’s memorizing every flicker of need, every shift in my breathing.

Then that voice—low and velvet-wrapped sin—slips through his lips and straight into my bloodstream.

“I don’t think you’re ready for me, baby…”

The words steal every ounce of oxygen from my lungs.

He leans in, nose brushing the curve of my jaw, his breath warm against my skin. “I don’t think I can touch you until I have you begging me.”

My thighs squeeze against his hips without permission. That smile—that wicked, cocky, filthy smile—spreads slow across his mouth like he knows exactly what he’s doing to me. Like he’s savoring it.

“Maybe…” His voice drops to a growl, lips hovering just shy of my ear, “maybe you don’t want to hear what I sound like when I cum deep inside you.”

I let out a sharp breath—more a gasp than anything—but he’s not finished. Not even close.

“Fuck, baby…” he groans, and this time he doesn’t hold back.

His breath turns ragged, chest heaving slightly, and he moans—low and drawn-out, mimicking the sound of pleasure like it’s a memory, like it’s already happened in his head a thousand times.

His hips twitch against the counter, and I feel the full force of his desire between my thighs.

My body arches toward him on instinct, like it knows something my brain hasn’t caught up to yet.

He pulls back just enough to look at me—and the look on my face must give me away. My lips are parted. My pupils blown wide. My skin flushed. And his hand, God, his hand comes up, fingers curling lightly around my throat.

He can feel it. My heartbeat. Wild and frantic against his palm.

“Say it,” he rasps.

“I do,” I breathe out, dazed and drunk on him. “Oh my god, Logan. I do. I want to know.”

A dark chuckle rumbles from his chest, pure, male satisfaction.

“Oh, I don’t know, baby…” he says, voice like a challenge wrapped in silk.

He shifts to the other side, mouth brushing my opposite ear now, and lets out another guttural groan—this one slower, dirtier. He drags his breath out like he’s inside me already, and my body shudders in response.

“I think you can beg me better than that.”

My breath catches. The sound of him groaning in my ear—for me—echoes inside my skull like a memory I never had but suddenly need.