Page 40 of Somewhere Without You

“Because I fucking love you!”he burst out, the words ripping free like they’d been trying to claw their way out for years.

My breath hitched—swallowed by the silencethatfollowed his outburst. I opened my mouth to argue, to tell him hewaswrong,thatloving mewasa mistake.

Butbefore Icouldspeak,he’dalready closed the distance between us.

His hand cupped my face, thumb brushing away the tears as he brought me closer to him.

“I always have,”he whispered.Thenhis lips crashed into mine.

The kisswasn’tsoft. Itwasn’tcareful. Itwasa wild storm, a hurricane of longing and undeniable need. Itwasfierce and heavy, held together by years of silence, and missed chances. Itwasn’tthe tender kissI’donce dreamt about—but a reclamation shaped by the wreckage we both carried.

I melted into him, my arms winding around his neck in instinct. Thetasteof him, thefeelof him—itwasan addiction Ihadn’trealizedI’dbeen craving. I needed this. I needed him.

Pulling me closer, I inhaled his scent as he guided megentlytoward the sofa. I couldn’t let go—the only time I pulled awaywasto breathe.

The cushions dipped beneath us as he laid me down, his hands warm and deliberate. A shiver rippled through me as his mouth found the sensitive spot along my jaw.

I moaned, my fingers threading through his hair.

“Emily. . .”he breathed against my skin. I loved the way he said my name, the way it coated his tongue in sweet ecstasy.

“Say it again,”I whispered, my hips rising to meet him.

He smiled against my neck. “Emily.”

Whenhis mouth found mine again, itwaswith a hungerthatnearlyunraveled me.

His hand slipped beneath my shirt, fingersdelicatelytrailing over the curve of my breasts.

The heat of his touch seared into me, pulling a soft gasp from my lips.

Icouldfeelthe urgency in him, the hard evidence pressed against me as he began to lift my shirt.

Butjustasquickly, doubt crept in. I shifted, pressing my palms to his chest.

His eyes searched mine,immediatelyconcerned. “What’s wrong?” he askedgently, his fingers hesitating at my waist.

I swallowed hard, shame blooming in my throat.“It’sjust. . .”I stumbled, unable to express the rush of insecurities threatening to swallow me.

Logan shifted backslightly, cradling my face in his hands. “Lookat me,” he whispered.His gaze locked with mine.“You are the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. Every inch of you—every curve, every line.Butif you want to stop, we’ll stop. I understand.”

I blinked against the sting in my eyes. I wanted this. I wanted him. Butthe wordswerejagged on my tongue.

“I don’t lookthe way you think I do,”I revealed.I’dlostweight since Jackson, butwasstill heavier than I liked—my body still carrying remnants of the violenceI’dsurvived.

Logan’s thumb brushed against my cheek.“No, you don’t,”he smiled.“Youlookbetter.”

I let out a shaky breath, the tightness in my chest looseningjustenough for me to nod. “I want this,”I said, voice small but steady.“I want you. ”

Something in him shiftedthen, as if my confession unlocked a doorhe’dbeen waiting years to walk through.

He leaned inslowly, his lips brushing mine with a reverencethatmade my heart ache.

This kisswasdifferent—less urgency, more worship.

It said you’re safe, and Iseeyou, and you matter.

Asour bodies pressed together again, I let the tension melt away. His hands moved with purpose, exploring with a slownessthatmade every touchfeelsacred. He lifted my shirt, pausing for my silent permission before peeling it away. His eyes drank me in—not with lust, but awe.

“You’re stunning,”he murmured, as if the word itselfwasn’tenough to capture what hesaw.

I didn’t push him away this time.

His fingers skimmed down my sides, leaving a trail of heat in their wake. He kissed the hollow of my throat,thenlower, his mouth tender and patient. With every touch, he unspooled something tight and fearful inside me.

My hands roamed over his broad chest, memorizing every inch. His breath hitched when I ran my fingertips along the line of his ribs. Something primal anddeeplyhuman stirred between us.

Therewasno rush. No performance.Justpresence.Justtwo people rediscovering a rhythmthathadneverreallyleft.

Logan leaned back, muscles flexing as he peeled off his shirt, thelowfirelight casting warm shadows across his chest.

A slow smile tugged at my lips. His dark olive skin shimmered in the amber glow, and the way his hungry eyes locked onto mine sent a pulse of heat spiraling through me.

I propped myself up on my elbows, anticipation curling in my belly.Butas I lifted my mouth to meet his, he leaned in too fast—and with a sickening crack, the two of us collided.

Stars burst behind my eyelids as pain bloomed across my forehead. Disoriented, I blinked,instinctivelyraising a hand to my face.

Across from me, Loganhadrecoiledto the other end of the couch, one hand clutched to his forehead.

“Are you okay?”he asked, his voice heavy with concern.

“I’m fine,”I said, wincing as I pressed my fingersgentlyto my eye.ThenIsawa thin line of blood trailing down his temple.“Oh my god, you’re bleeding!”

Logan swiped at it and let out a short laugh.“Well, that’s a first.”He didn’tseemthe least bit fazed.“You might want togetsome ice onthat,”he added, nodding toward my swelling eye.

“Thereshould be a bag of frozen peas in the freezer,”I said, easing myself upright.

He disappeared into the kitchen and returned a moment later, not with peas—but with two frozen dinner rolls.

“I couldn’t find any vegetables,”he said, grinning as he held one out.“Thesewerethe next best thing.”

“Seriously?”I asked, raising a brow as I took it and pressed it to my face.

“Hey,”he shrugged, mimicking the gesture with the other roll,“at least we’ll have a hell of a story.”

I couldn’t help it, I burst out laughing. One minutewe’dbeen wrapped in heat and hunger, ready to burn the house down, and the next wewerebruised, bleeding, and icing our injuries with frozen bread.

Ifthatwasn’tan accurate description of my life, I didn’tknowwhatwas.

Logan chuckled along with me, though he winced when the roll shifted.“Well,”he said, pressing it back into place,“I can’t say our reunionhasbeen boring.”

“That’s one word for it,”I giggled, sinking deeper into the couch.

The laughterslowlyfaded, leaving behind a warm quiet. Not uncomfortable—justreal. Like a curtainhaddroppedbetween us and wewerefinallyseeing each other, bruises and all.

Logan turned toward me, resting the roll on his knee.“Youknow, I meant what I said earlier. I love you, Emily. I always have.”

Ilookeddown at the dinner roll clutched in my hand, nowslightlythawed and damp with condensation.

Itwasridiculous, this whole situation—butmaybethatwasthe point.

Maybelovewasn’talways neat and tidy.Maybesometimes itwasclumsy and bruised, patched together with frozen bread and unsaid words.

“I’m still trying to figure out who I am without him,”I confessed.“I’m still trying tofeellike I’m worthy of love.”

Logan’s voicewaslowbut reassuring.“Thenlet me remind you.”

Ilookedat him andsawthe man whohadwaited, the man whohadcomeback. Not to fix me, not to save me, but to stand beside me.

My heart crackedwideopen.

“Okay,”I whispered.“Remind me.”

He leaned forward again—slower this time, and kissed me. Not out of desperation, or uncertainty, but with the quiet conviction of someone whoknewexactlywhat he wanted. Me. Every wound, every sharp jagged edge.

He didn’t flinch from the broken parts or shy away from the scars I tried to hide.Hewasn’tafraid of the darkness I carried. Itwaslike hesawit and chose meanyway.

Andinthatmoment, wrapped in the warmth of his arms and the hush of the firelight, Ifeltsomething Ihadn’tin years—safe.