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 mysweater 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."
And then his mouth is on mine again, and I stop thinking about scars and lost time and all the reasons this is a terrible idea. Instead, I focus on the way his hands feel on my skin, the way he tastes like coffee and possibility, the way my body seems to remember exactly how to fit against his.
The back seat of the jeep is looking more appealing by the minute, and apparently Logan is thinking the same thing because he's already reaching for the door handle.
"Back seat," he says, his voice hoarse with need. "Now."
"Thank God," I breathe, because the center console is really starting to become a problem.
We move into the back seat slowly, deliberately, every movement charged with anticipation. Logan pulls me onto his lap so I'm straddling his thighs. The position puts us at eye level, and for a moment we just stare at each other, breathing hard, both of us seeming to realize that we're actually doing this.
"Savannah," he says, my name a prayer on his lips. "Are you sure?"
"I've never been more sure of anything in my life," I tell him, and it's the truth. Years of wondering, years of what-ifs, years of pretending I didn't still want him with every fiber of my being.
His hands slide up my back, finding the clasp of my bra with practiced ease. "I've thought about this so many times," he confesses, his voice thick with arousal. "What it would be like to touch you again. To have you in my arms."
The bra falls away, and his eyes go dark as they roam over my exposed skin. When his hands finally cup my breasts, thumbs stroking over my nipples, I throw my head back and moan.
"God, yes," I breathe, rolling my hips against him. "I've missed this. I've missed you."
He responds by taking one nipple into his mouth, and I cry out at the sensation. Years of celibacy, years of pretending no one else could make me feel the way Logan did, and now I'm reminded exactly why no one else ever measured up.
His mouth and hands work in perfect harmony, driving me higher and higher until I'm trembling in his arms, making sounds I'd forgotten I was capable of. When he switches to the other breast, his teeth grazing the sensitive peak, I actually see stars.
"Logan," I gasp, my hands fisting in his hair. "I need you. Please."
He lifts his head to look at me, his eyes dark with want and something deeper. "I need you too," he says, his voice breaking slightly. "I've needed you for so long."
My hands find his belt buckle, fumbling with shaking fingers. He helps me, lifting his hips so I can push his jeans down. Then he does the same with mine.
"Are you sure?" he asks one more time, his hands stilling on my hips.
"Logan Pierce," I say, looking directly into his eyes. "If you don't make love to me right now, I'm going to die of sexual frustration, and then you'll have to explain to Mrs. Patterson why her cat rescuer died in the back of your jeep."
