Page 88 of Under the Orchard’s Spell

“We don’t listen to our guts?”

“We don’t make any big, complicated life decisions. We stop worrying about what’s already happened or what could happen.”

He doesn’t answer. His hands cup the backs of my thighs, just along the hem of my dress where it flutters against my leggings. Music and electricity hum in the disappearing space between our lips.

Logan’s pupils have nearly swallowed his irises.

“What do we do instead?” he asks.

“This,” I whisper. My fingers pull at the short hair at the back of his head. “Just…this.”

He draws me closer until I’m pressed against him, knees sinking into the collapsing cushion and hips driving into his torso.

“This.” His breath is warm against my cheek. His voice low and rough. “And?”

I nudge my nose against his, angling his face higher, letting my lips graze his beard. “Maybe this too.”

My lips sink to his.

Logan’s lips part and his tongue scrapes against mine. He tastes like mint and he smells like soap and those two sensations are powerful enough to drown out everything else. His hand goes to the small of my back, securing me to his chest. My breaths grow shallow as he kisses me with an urgency I can’t help but match.

Logan’s hands ride up my leggings and there’s a bonfire building under the thick material of my cable-knit dress. Our tongues tangle. My hand finds his cheek as his teeth graze against my bottom lip. A groan slips out of me.

Maybe I should care that this is messy. There are kids here, basically, and some might be watching. That’s not to mention the fact that, twenty-four hours ago, I was curled in this man’s arms, sobbing because I had to talk to my ex–best friend and ex-fiancé for the first time since I found them together. Or that I’m losing myself to a man who is supposed to leave the only place I want to stay forever.

Yet I can’t summon the energy to care because in this exact moment, every part of me wants him and only him.

I tug at Logan’s shirt and untuck it from his pants, not because I’m planning to screw him on this couch, but because I want to feel his skin against mine. The rough fabric pries loose and his skin is so smooth that I shudder as my fingertips race over the heavy lines of his body, wrought from a lifetime of working with his hands.

Both of us are breathless to the point of panting, trying to suck in air between the swipes of tongue and press of lips. Logan shifts, repositioning me in his lap, and I feel the hard lines of his erection straining against his jeans. My body flushes with desire. Nothing about this is restrained anymore—my moans, his hands, our hips. It’s a whirlwind of touch and clumsy movements and chaotic kisses.

All noise has bled into the background: the music, the intermittent muffled cheers from outside, the dull roar of conversation.

Yet, somehow, two sounds pierce our pocket.

The bang of a door.

And a booming voice. “Where’s my ringer?”

Chapter Twenty-One

We spring apart. I land on one end of the couch, threading my fingers through my hair as Mason weaves around the Ping-Pong table. My cheeks have been consumed by fire and I’m positive my curls are as wild as my eyes.

Logan is breathing hard, but he isn’t tracking Mason’s approach. He’s staring at me, pupils blown out like I’m still straddling him. It sends another rush of desire and heat through me even as Mason lands in front of us.

“Whatcha doin’?” Mason cocks his head like he absolutely knows the answer.

“Nothing!” I chirp.

“A likely story,” he bellows as he pulls up Logan by an elbow and squats like he’s going to fireman-carry his (much larger) brother out of the room. “Time for bed, you assholes.”

We saunter back to Mason’s house through a campus maze of lampposts and sycamores, my arms prickling with goosebumps from the late-night air and Logan’s proximity. Mason stumbles ahead, occasionally belting out off-key lyrics to a nearby trash can. In our pocket of shadows, Logan keeps bumping my shoulder and brushing the backs of my fingers with his. Each touch sparks like static under the streetlights.

“So, sleeping arrangements,” Mason says, grinning, when we’re in his living room. “Here’s what I’m thinking—”

“Absolutely not,” Logan says.

“You have to listen to my idea before you shoot it down,” Mason protests.