Chapter 17 Savannah
SAVANNAH
"You're a big hero, aren't you?" I say as Logan starts the jeep, my voice dripping with enough sarcasm to fill a small lake.
Because apparently watching a man climb a tree to rescue a cat is my kryptonite.
Who knew? I thought my weakness was men in suits with good credit scores, but turns out it is actually men who risk life and limb for geriatric felines.
My ovaries are basically doing a standing ovation right now, which is ridiculous considering I am supposed to be focused on wedding planning, not lumberjack cosplay.
The guest list is already multiplying like rabbits and here I am, getting distracted by tree-climbing heroics.
Logan's hands tighten on the steering wheel, his knuckles going white against the black leather. "No," he says quietly, his voice raw with something I do not want to identify because it sounds too much like regret. "I'm a jerk who broke your heart."
Well. That is not what I was expecting.
I study his profile in the dashboard light, noting the way his jaw is clenched tight enough to crack teeth and the way his cedar and leather scent has gone sharp with self-loathing.
Snow is still falling outside the windshield, creating a white curtain that makes the world feel small and intimate and completely cut off from reality.
"Finally," I say, because my mouth apparently has no filter when it comes to emotional landmines. "An honest moment. I was starting to think you'd developed selective amnesia about the entire thing."
"I think about it every day," he admits, and there's something broken in his voice that makes my chest tight. "What I did to you. How I left things. How stupid I was."
"Yeah, well," I say, trying to inject some lightness into the moment because this level of honesty is making me itchy. "We were kids. Kids are stupid. It's basically their job description."
"That's not an excuse."
"No, it's not. I’m not letting you off lightly.” The words come out before I can stop them, which is apparently what happens when your brain decides to take a vacation and leave your mouth in charge of international relations.
"I just want you to grovel more and beg for forgiveness so we can start again.”
Logan turns to look at me, his eyes searching my face in the dim light. "Savannah..."
"What?" I ask, though my voice comes out breathier than intended because he's looking at me like I'm the answer to a question he's been asking for years.
"I can't resist you," he says simply, and the words hit me like a physical blow. "I want to touch you. I want to hold you in my arms, and beg that you forgive me for the past. I hurt you and I’ve regretted it every single day.”
My heart does something acrobatic in my chest, a triple axel followed by a dismount that would make Olympic judges weep. "What's stopping you?"
The question hangs in the air between us like a challenge, and I can see the exact moment his resolve crumbles. His eyes go dark, pupils dilating in a way that makes heat pool low in my stomach, and suddenly the air in the jeep feels thick enough to cut with a knife.
"Nothing," he says, his voice dropping to a growl that makes every nerve in my body sit up and take notice. "Absolutely nothing. I made a mistake, and I'm sorry. I need you to know I've changed, and I would never hurt you like that again."
And then he's reaching for me, one hand tangling in my hair while the other cups my face with surprising gentleness. His thumb traces my lower lip, and I can't help the way I lean into the touch like a cat seeking warmth.
"You sure about this?" he asks, giving me one last chance to back out, to be the smart, sensible woman I've trained myself to become.
"Logan," I say, my hands already fisting in his flannel shirt to pull him closer. "Shut up and touch me before I come to my senses."
He doesn't need to be told twice.
His mouth crashes against mine with years of pent-up want and regret and desperate hunger. It's not gentle or sweet or any of the romantic bullshit you see in movies. It's raw and needy and tastes like coffee and second chances and all the words we never said.
I respond with equal intensity, my lips parting under his as my hands slide up to tangle in his hair, pulling him closer until there's no space left between us.
His arms wrap around me like he's afraid I might disappear, one hand splayed across my back, the other cupping the base of my skull with possessive need.
The center console is digging into my ribs, the steering wheel is jabbing me in the hip, and I couldn't care less because Logan Pierce is claiming my mouth like the world is ending and I'm the only thing that can save it.
His tongue sweeps against mine, and I can't stop the sound that escapes me.
Part moan, part whimper, entirely needy.
He tastes like everything I've tried to forget and everything I've craved in the dark hours when I thought no one was watching.
His hands trace the line of my spine, the curve of my waist, memorizing the shape of me like he's trying to brand it into his memory.
"Hell," he breathes against my lips when we finally break apart for air, both of us panting like we've run a marathon. His forehead rests against mine, our breath mingling in the small space between us. "I've missed this. I've missed you so much it hurts."
I can feel the truth of it in the way his hands shake slightly against my skin, in the way my own vanilla bourbon scent has spiked with arousal. Let the whole world know that Logan Pierce can unravel me with nothing more than the heat of his mouth.
"Show me," I whisper, my voice hoarse with want. "Show me how much."
His eyes go dark, pupils blown wide with hunger, and then his mouth is on my throat, teeth scraping against the sensitive skin just below my ear. I arch against him, my head falling back to give him better access, and the sound I make is probably illegal in several states.
"God, the sounds you make," he snarls against my skin, his voice thick with arousal. "I used to dream about those sounds. Wake up hard and aching because I could still hear them."
His confession sends liquid fire through my veins. Years of wanting, years of dreaming, years of pretending I didn't still crave his hands on my body. And now he's here, touching me like I'm precious and necessary and the only thing he's ever wanted.
His hands find the hem of my sweater, fingers sliding underneath to trace patterns on my bare skin that make me tremble. Every touch is deliberate, reverent, like he's worshipping at the altar of my body. When his thumb brushes the underside of my breast through my bra, I actually see stars.
"Logan," I gasp, my hands scrambling for purchase on his shoulders, his neck, anywhere I can touch him. "I need..."
"I know," he murmurs against my collarbone, his voice thick with the same hunger that's eating me alive. "I know, baby. I've got you."
The endearment breaks something open in my chest, something I've kept carefully locked away for too long.
Baby. He used to call me that when we were tangled together in his dorm room, when the world outside ceased to exist and there was nothing but his hands and his mouth and the way he made me feel like I was the center of his universe.
His mouth moves lower, following a path that makes my spine arch and my fingers dig into his hair.
The windows are completely fogged now, creating a steamy cocoon that feels separate from the rest of the world.
His breath is hot against my skin as he works his way across my collarbone, teeth nipping at the sensitive hollow of my throat.
"You taste exactly the same," he whispers, his voice wonder-struck. "Like vanilla and bourbon and something that's just you."
I'm about to respond with something clever and cutting, because that's what I do when emotions get too real, but then his hand slides up to cup my breast properly, thumb stroking over the lace of my bra, and all coherent thought disappears into the ether.
"Please," I breathe, arching into his touch. "Logan, please."
"Please what?" he asks, but there's nothing teasing in his voice. Just raw need and years of wanting. "Tell me what you need."
"You," I say, the word ripping from my throat like a confession. "Just you. All of you."
He makes a sound that's half groan, half prayer, and suddenly his hands begin their careful exploration.
Sliding my sweater up and over my head, tracing the line of my ribs, mapping the curve of my waist like he's trying to memorize every inch.
When he finally lifts his head to look at me, his lips are swollen, his hair mussed from my hands, and there's something fierce and possessive in his eyes that makes heat pool low in my belly.
"You're so beautiful," he says, his voice barely more than a growl. "So perfect. I don't deserve this. I don't deserve you."
"Shut up," I tell him, pulling him back to me with hungry hands. "Just shut up and don't stop."
My hands find his shirt, pulling it up and over his head with fumbling fingers.
His chest is broader than I remember, more defined, with new scars that speak of years of running into burning buildings and risking his life for strangers.
I trace one with my fingertip, a raised line that runs from his collarbone to just above his heart.
"House fire three years ago," he says, catching my hand and pressing it flat against his chest. "Ceiling beam fell. Got trapped for about ten minutes before the team could dig me out."
"Logan..." I start, but he shakes his head.
"I'm fine. More than fine." His hands frame my face, thumbs stroking across my cheekbones. "I'm here with you. That's all that matters."