Page 62 of Under the Orchard’s Spell

His eyes trace my face with an attention I can’t escape. It’s the same way he’s holding me—deliberate, warm, and impossible to ignore.

“Ah,” he says carefully, “but I’d like to know you even better.”

For the space of a heartbeat, we stare at each other, bodies still pressed together, touching for the first time in days, caught in shifting light and shadow under the canopy of a pear tree.

Then I lift my chin. And his mouth descends onto mine.

Logan hauls me against his body just as my hands fist his shirt, yanking him closer. Heat pours through my limbs, lighting my blood on fire. His kiss coaxes my face higher, his mouth hungry on mine, and a sigh loosens from my chest.

With one arm around my shoulders, he eases me backward until I’m pressed against the tree trunk. The backs of my shoulders scrape against bark and Logan’s beard scratches my cheek. They’re both rough, not enough to hurt, but to build friction.

There’s an urgency and purpose to our movements that we didn’t have in the creek—and certainly never had as teens. His fingers in my hair. My teeth at his bottom lip. Our panting breaths between tongues. It’s like the last week of his physical absence, but persistent presence, is lancing me with a sharp pulse of need. Need to be closer. Need to close some gap that’s been opening for days. Need to close the distance that’s stretched over years.

“Logan,” I murmur.

I arch like a bowstring, bending my body into his. His hand skims up the back of my thigh, lifting the hem of my nightdress with it. The air is cool against my skin, and I shudder—not from cold, but from the way his touch wakes something under my ribs.

“Your outfits drive me crazy,” he says, voice so rough it’s almost dazed. “It’s September in Oregon and here you are in a dress.”

“A nightdress,” I correct for reasons that surpass understanding. Maybe it’s just the frenzy of my brain, the pool of heat between my legs as Logan works his lips along the base of my throat, the back of my ear. “And when it’s cold, I wear leggings.”

He grunts a laugh and his hand dances higher, drawing a trail of fire with his touch.

“Not tonight, though,” he says.

I gasp as his fingers glance along the edge of my underwear, so near where I want him. And still not nearly close enough.

I try to press into his hand just as Logan’s lips drop to my ear. “Can I touch you?”

I shiver, a week’s worth of desire lifting my hips with unconscious thought. “Yes. Please.”

Logan groans, low and urgent, one elbow inching my legs apart as he swipes my underwear aside. His finger barely brushes against me, but even with that touch, I can tell I’m embarrassingly wet.

“I’m sorry,” I stammer out. “I’ve just wanted this.”

His fingers trace in a tight circle, coaxing pleasure through me.

“I don’t think I’ve ever wanted anything more,” he whispers.

I shudder at his words, torn between the aching pleasure of his touch and the echo of his absence. “But you’ve been so far away.”

Logan’s mouth is on me again, his lips urgent. His finger hooks inside me, moves slowly, in and out, and I feel myself moan, another locked room inside my soul unfastening for his key. Every swipe is devastating, pulsing, infinite pleasure. I’m wobbly and jelly in his arms, like nothing is holding me upright except Logan and the tree trunk.

“I never stopped wanting you,” he says.

“Didn’t you?” I ask.

Something soft trips against my shoulder. In the pale light of the crystal pears, a blossom descends the length of my dress—a shock of white against plaid. Before I can wonder about that I hear Logan say, “I tried to forget.” His voice is rough, pulled tight. “I’d lie in bed at night, staring at my ceiling, thinking about nothing but you. Wondering where you were. Missing you is the only part of my life that has felt fully mine.”

For a second, I can’t breathe.

“Logan,” I say, strumming and needy.

Suddenly, it’s still not enough. He’s not close enough, could never be close enough. With one hand, I fist the fabric of his shirt and use the other to tug at his belt.

“Ali,” Logan says, and to my consternation, there’s a warning in his voice again. “Unless you’ve got a condom in that nightdress, we might need to take a pause.”

My hand stalls, but there isn’t a single chance I’m willing to walk back to the house, putting distance between us in the meantime.