Page 22 of Holding Onto You (Burnt Ashes #2)

Logan

T he next few weeks pass in a blur of rehearsals, doctor appointments, and long drives between borrowed moments of normal.

I still see all the follow-up’s scribbled on Mac’s calendar—neurologist check-ins, therapy, the odd blood test. She says she’s fine—mostly, I believe her.

.. But I still catch the flicker in her eyes when someone brings up a memory she hasn’t gotten back.

A shared joke she doesn’t remember. A familiar tune she doesn’t recognize.

And every damn time, it chips away at me.

But she keeps showing up.

To every session. Every practice. Every quiet, early morning coffee run.

She’s piecing her life back together with this quiet, relentless strength that makes me fall even harder for her than I thought possible.

Somewhere in the middle of all that healing, she found one of her Gram’s old baking recipe books—handwritten, splattered with flour and history—and she’s been in the kitchen ever since.

At first, it was just something to do. A way to keep her hands busy. But then she started adding her own touches—a splash of vanilla here, a hint of orange zest there. Before long, it wasn’t just baking.

It was Mac.

She found this part of herself back in Portland, working for Patty. Back when she was just happy to be. But here? Now? This is different. This is her happiness, served warm.

Seeing her like that—alive, messy-haired, dusted in flour, smiling like the world might actually be okay again—it’s a sight to behold.

One I’ll never stop wanting.

She even started making healthy treats for Sam, per his request. He was floored after his first batch of protein bites.

He’s been hovering around the kitchen more since, pottering around like he’s helping.

But I’m not fully convinced he’s not just checking she isn’t sneaking in something “unhealthy” to make it taste better.

For some reason, you can throw just about anything into a blender—as long as there’s a base of apple juice or orange juice, you’re good to go.

Mac’s something else these days. Full of this wild grace and soft fire.

If Patty’s not careful, Mac might just give her a run for her money.

And honestly? I think Patty would be proud of her for it.

The house is quiet, except for the hum of the old fridge and the soft crackle of the radio playing something smooth and smoky—like honey poured over a knife’s edge. It wraps around me as I lean in the kitchen doorway, arms folded, watching her.

My angel.

She doesn’t see me yet. She’s barefoot, dancing in the soft morning light, wearing nothing but one of my old tees and a pair of shorts so small they could be illegal in most states.

The shirt hangs off one shoulder, giving me a perfect view of that olive skin I want to trace with my tongue.

There’s flour on her thigh, a smudge on her cheek, and her hair’s in one of those messy top knots that drives me out of my mind.

She hums under her breath, swaying her hips while stirring something in a bowl, and it’s not fair.

She has no idea what she does to me. No clue how hard it is to just stand here and not touch her.

Some girls set your heart on fire. Mac? She burns the whole damn world down, smiling like she doesn’t even notice the ashes.

I shift my weight, boots scuffing against the floor.

She whirls, eyes wide. “Jesus, Logan—warn a girl.”

I smirk, stepping into the kitchen. “Didn’t want to interrupt the show.”

Her eyes narrow, but her lips twitch. “It wasn’t a show.”

“Could’ve fooled me.” I drag my gaze down her body slowly, deliberately. “You always bake like that?”

She glances down at herself, the curve of her smile turning wicked. “Why? Distracted?”

“More like tortured,” I murmur, stepping in close. “You’ve got no idea what it does to me… seeing you like this. Happy. Barefoot. Covered in flour and wearing my shirt.”

Her breath catches. I’m close now. Not touching her—yet—but close enough that the air between us crackles.

I dip my head and brush my lips against her flour-dusted cheek, then trail them lower—just barely grazing her jaw.

“Logan,” she whispers, voice catching.

“You smell good enough to eat...”

She stares up at me, her fingers curling into the front of my shirt, dragging me closer until we’re chest to chest. The bowl hits the counter with a soft thud.

“Yes. Right now,” she says, soft but demanding.

I grin, wicked. “Bossy.”

“Desperate.”

And God, that does something to me.

I wrap my arms around her waist and lift her onto the counter like she weighs nothing.

Her legs spread instinctively, pulling me between them as I press my body into hers.

Her lips find mine, urgent and hot, tasting like vanilla and citrus.

My hands slide beneath the hem of my shirt she’s wearing, fingertips skimming the bare skin of her thighs as she gasps into my mouth.

Flour gets everywhere.

On my hands. In her hair. All over the counter.

I don’t care.

“You’re a menace,” I growl against her throat, teeth grazing the pulse point there.

She arches into me, breathless. “And you love it.”

“Wanna ruin you in every room of this house,” I mutter, mouth hot against her collarbone.

“Start here,” she dares.

Love doesn’t always whisper sweet nothings. Sometimes, it grabs you by the throat, kisses you breathless, and begs you to sin with your whole damn soul.

Her legs tighten around my waist, and I know we’re not making it to the bedroom.

The oven timer beeps.

I pause, heart racing. She groans.

“If you touch that oven right now, I swear to God…” I warn, lips at her ear.

She grins. “We’ll burn the scones.”

I slide my hands to her hips and pull her forward. “Baby, I’ll buy you a bakery.”

Then I kiss her like the world’s about to end.

The second her mouth is on mine again, I forget the rest of the world exists.

I lift her off the counter, her legs locked tight around my waist and carry her through the kitchen like a man possessed. Her fingers are in my hair, tugging, pulling, while her lips trail fire along my neck. Every breath, every soft moan against my skin sends a bolt of heat straight through me.

We barely make it to the couch in the living room.

I lower her down onto it, gently—because it’s her—but the hunger in me is anything but soft. Her hands slide under my shirt, pushing it up, exposing my stomach, and I groan when she scratches her nails along the lines of muscle there.

“Take it off,” she says, voice low, rough.

I yank it over my head and toss it somewhere behind me. Her eyes drink me in like she’s been starved.

“God, Logan…”

I strip her slowly—because I want to savor this, memorize every inch. The old t-shirt falls away first. Then the tiny shorts. Her skin is warm beneath my hands, soft and flushed, and when I kiss my way down her stomach, she arches, breath hitching.

“You’re shaking,” I murmur against her hip.

“I’ve wanted this…wanted you, since I woke up in your arms this morning.”

I look up at her, every ounce of cocky stripped from me.

“Me too.”

I kneel between her thighs and kiss her like she’s air. I take a second to just look at her—flushed and open, spread out beneath me like the sweetest temptation. Like dessert made just for me.

“You don’t know what you do to me,” I rasp, dragging my mouth over the inside of her thigh. “I want to taste every inch of you.”

My hands run up her sides, fingertips skimming ribs, cupping her breasts, drawing a whimper from her lips that shoots straight to my cock. Her back bows, offering more, needing more.

And I give it.

Because she’s Mac. Because she’s mine.

Because when I touch her like this, it feels like I’m finally whole.

I take my time.

I don’t want fast. I don’t want rushed. I want to feel everything—every gasp, every moan, every soft plea she makes beneath me—etched into the memory of my skin.

She arches for me, mouth parted, breath hitching when I trail kisses along the curve of her throat. Her skin is soft under my touch, her body already trembling, already begging. I take my time, dragging my mouth over her like she’s mine to consume—every inch a sin I’m starving to commit.

She moans, arching into me, and I don’t stop. Not until she’s trembling beneath every slow stroke of my tongue. Not until she’s wrecked. Ruined. Mine. She lifts her hips, desperate, but I hold steady, a hand splayed across her thigh.

Not yet.

“Logan,” she breathes, raw and wanting. My name on her lips is a tether, and I swear I’ve never felt more grounded in my life.

When I finally push into her, we both break—her back bows, my head drops, a guttural sound tearing from my chest. She takes me completely, her legs wrapping tight, holding me like she’ll never let go.

“You undo me, baby… Every time. Every damn time.”

She doesn’t speak, but her hands say everything. Her fingers cup my jaw, her thumbs stroking the corners of my lips like she’s memorizing me in return. And when I start to move—slow, deep, deliberate—her breath catches, her eyes fluttering shut.

I watch her fall apart for me, again and again, every moan a song that carves itself into my bones. Her hands roam my back, clutching, desperate. My name becomes a whisper on repeat, soft and reverent, like she’s afraid if she stops saying it, I might disappear.

I wrap her legs tighter around my waist, drive into her with purpose now, our rhythm building like a storm. Her breaths come faster, her grip harder, and I can feel her getting close—her body tightening around mine.

“Logan,” she gasps, voice breaking. “I—”

“I’ve got you,” I rasp, pushing harder, deeper. “Let go, baby. I’ve got you.”

Her body tightens, her nails digging in as she shatters beneath me. I follow her with a hoarse groan, burying myself in the moment, in her.

When I collapse into her arms, she holds me like I belong there.

She undoes me with nothing but a look and builds me back with nothing but her love.

It’s not just sex. It never was.

It’s every missed moment. Every night we should have had. Every kiss we never got.