by Toni Blake
He just blinked, continuing to peer down at her, looking dumbfounded. “But . . . how? I mean, there was that one guy . . .”
Amy hadn’t ever thought about this moment, about having to confirm and explain, but she just shook her head and whispered, “Never happened.”
“So . . . I’m the first one?”
She thought they’d already established that, but she guessed he was still shocked. She simply gave a soft nod.
And he let out a breathy sort of, “Wow,” that told her he wasn’t wowing the amazing fact that she was still a virgin, but the fact that she’d chosen him to change that.
“It . . . it only makes sense that it’s you,” she said on a whisper. Because we’ve known each other our whole lives and you’ve always been one of my very best friends. That was the unspoken part she knew he heard anyway. And because I love you. That part, though, felt a little more secret.
“I wanna make this so special for you,” he told her then.
And she bit her lip and spoke the simple truth. “You already are.”
After that, he lowered his mouth to hers, and he began to slowly, cautiously move inside her—and all talking ceased.
She sensed him being careful, and she appreciated that because she needed it. One more reason why it was so perfect that this was Logan and not anyone else, not some arbitrary man she might have met or dated for a little while but who didn’t really care about her in a deep way. Amy had always believed things happened for a reason, but she’d never understood why or thought it fair that she’d had to wait so long to be intimate with a guy. Yet now she knew God, or destiny, had been leading her, slowly but surely, to this one perfect moment in time.
Logan’s soft drives into her newly-breached flesh hurt a little, but she knew he was being as gentle as he could, and even amid the discomfort, she took pleasure from the utter closeness she shared with him right now. She continued to cling to him, maybe too tightly, but she knew he understood.
As his kisses dropped to her neck, she peered up at the millions of stars overhead and experienced that feeling of being small—but in the good way, in the way of knowing there was nowhere else in the whole cosmos she’d rather be right now than where she was, in the Farris-Romo Family Apple Orchard, making love with Logan Whitaker.
Somewhere along the way her pain dissipated, giving way to at first a subtle, gentle pleasure, and then one that filled her deeper, more thoroughly, beginning to stretch all through her.
Oh! This . . . this was it. This, she understood already, was the good part. Though she was sure there were plenty of other good parts, too, this was the “wow” part that made Rachel and Tessa sigh in that lost-looking way when they talked about sex.
Out of pure happiness, as Amy absorbed Logan’s every sexy thrust into her body, she held to him still more snugly. And then she began to thrust back. She heard both of them breathing harder, felt the connection with him deepen. Her legs wrapped around his without planning and a soft groan echoed from his throat as he planted his hands on her hips and plunged a little deeper, rougher.
Amy cried out at the power and heat he delivered and found herself kissing his cheek, pulling him close, and—oh, oh God—then she started to cry. It made her angry at herself, especially when he pulled back, appearing slightly alarmed, to say, “What? What’s wrong?”
She could only shake her head as she tried to summon words. “Nothing. Not sad tears. Happy ones.” I just feel so close to you right now. But she couldn’t tell him that—it just seemed too . . . well, like she’d already done enough of that tonight, and despite the perfection of this moment, she didn’t want to overdo that stuff. “Just can’t believe this is finally happening,” she told him, which was just as true. “I’d begun to think it never would.”
“Aw, honey, I’m sorry you ever had to think that.” Then he flashed a soft, teasing grin. “You should’ve come to me with this sooner.”
Tears gone, the offer made her emit a light giggle, but then she told him, “I didn’t know until recently that I wanted it to be you.” Then she bit her lip, gazed up into his pretty eyes, and felt the pure magic of the night rolling all through her again. “And I’m so glad it’s you.”
“Me, too,” he whispered, brushing a few stray bangs from her eyes. “I couldn’t have imagined that before tonight, but me, too.” Then he tilted his head, peered down at her. “So . . . it’s okay? Doesn’t hurt or anything?”
Another nod. “A little at first, but now . . .”
He raised his eyebrows. “Now?”
“I love it.”
“Aw, baby,” he murmured deeply, and fresh desire flared in her at the very point where their bodies connected, and she automatically lifted her pelvis, thrusting upward. Which made him let out a small growl. And made her smile.
As they continued moving together, Amy shut her eyes and sank back into it—without crying this time, and just basking in the wonder of it. I get it. I finally get it. I finally get what’s so incredible about this.
And soon they were both moaning as Logan’s plunges into her body increased in intensity, and Amy thought she could do this with him forever and ever—but that was when he said, “Aw, honey, I’m gonna come.” And the next thing she knew, the hands at her hips gripped her tighter, and his drives into her came harder, wilder, and she loved knowing she’d taken him there.
Like earlier, upon going still, he touched his forehead to hers—and then he kissed her.
And once more she suffered the heartwrenching urge to say I love you, but she literally bit her tongue to stop herself. Because this had all happened so fast—well, fast in ways—and she didn’t know where it would lead or what would happen tomorrow, and again, she’d already put enough of her emotions out there tonight. And, of course, she longed for him to say those three little words, but when he didn’t, it made up for it a lot when he instead told her, “You’re so beautiful, Amy. And this was so special.” She even lifted another kiss to his mouth in reply.
And she realized there would indeed be no promises, or talk of the future—that tonight, on this quilt next to Sugar Creek, it was just about dealing with the intimacy of the moment. And that was okay.
After he’d shed the condom, Logan flipped one side of the quilt over them since the night had finally started turning chilly. Amy rested her head on his chest and he held her in a loose embrace, and they lay silently that way a few minutes before he asked her, “When did you start . . . feeling this way?”
She wasn’t dying to discuss all that, especially not knowing where they would stand in the morning, but she figured it was a fair question. And besides . . . maybe he would just love her back. Maybe it would be simple from this point forward. “After that day at your house last month, the day you kissed me.”
He tipped his head back, clearly well aware it had happened—which was a relief. They’d never talked about it after she’d left, and he had been drinking at the time, so she hadn’t been sure he’d clearly remember it. “I felt . . . so weird about that. Like I didn’t give you any choice in the matter.”
“You didn’t really,” she said with an understanding shrug, “but it was you, so it was easy enough to forgive. Especially when I realized . . . that I didn’t mind it so much.”
He grinned down at her. “Why didn’t you tell me you liked it?”
She rolled her eyes. Let me count the reasons. “Well, you acted like it was the most unthinkable thing that ever could have happened. So I didn’t think you liked it much.”
He leaned his head to one side on the quilt. “I liked it fine. I was just . . . freaked out. And, well, you know I wasn’t exactly myself back then.”
She spoke softer now, rising up, propped on one elbow, to peer down into his eyes. “About the, uh, fire . . . are you good now? Fine?”
Logan gazed up at Amy, his lifelong friend, now his lover, and the sweetest girl in the world. The truth was, he’d been doing everything in his power lately not to think about the reasons he�
��d been in such a funk after that fire. He supposed that over the last few weeks he’d gotten pretty good at finding distractions, things that kept his mood up, his thoughts occupied with better things. And hell, there’d been plenty going on in Destiny to help with that: Anna’s return and their subsequent connection, Mike’s wedding, love notes from a secret admirer—and tonight, finding out the notes had come from his freckles and the fact that no matter what happened now, it would pretty much change their relationship forever.
So yeah, he’d found plenty of easy walls to put up between him and that night, him and those awful memories. But now that Amy had brought it back with that one simple question, he had to ask himself: Was he really doing all that much better if he was only pushing it away every time it came to mind? He’d thought he was doing better—he’d made himself do better. But if it still gouged at his soul as sharply as he felt it right this minute, was he really doing all that well or was it just a head game he played with himself?
“You’re not answering,” she said then, her strawberry blond curls—a few of which had come loose from her fancy hairdo—tickling his chest. And she sounded worried.
His instant urge was to put her at ease—because that was his urge with everybody lately. He was embarrassed, even ashamed, of how low he’d gotten after the fire, and now he just wanted people to forget that and think everything was fine. And so he almost went into an explanation of just how fine he was, how that was all water under the bridge—but then he remembered: This was Amy. And he felt closer to her right now than ever, and if he could tell anyone the real truth, it was her.
“I guess it’s . . . complicated,” he said.
She lifted her head to peer down at him. “Complicated how?” And despite wishing he could ease her worries, he realized this moment was about just being real. Amy had been real with him tonight; he needed to be real with her, too.
If he could.
“I guess I still feel a lot of what I felt back then. I’m just . . . working harder not to let it show.”
“Oh,” she murmured, sounding sad. And he felt a little like he was letting her down, letting them both down. “I’m sorry to hear that. I thought things were better.”
“Yeah,” he mumbled. It seemed the only thing to say.
“If . . . you wanted to talk about it, about that night, I’m happy to listen,” she offered.
Yet his chest tightened at the very idea. He didn’t think words existed to describe that night. And even if they did, he wasn’t sure he could say them. “Thanks,” he said tightly. “But can’t.”
“I understand,” she said. She still gazed down at him, sweet and caring in the moonlight, but he didn’t meet her eyes now—he couldn’t. Instead he stared upward at nothing, his gaze fixed on stars he didn’t really see, and his chest grew tight as certain visions began to invade his memory more than usual.
For God’s sake, didn’t he have enough other stuff to think about? He’d just had sex with Amy, after all. Amy! And even if it had felt totally, shockingly good and right, it was still a damn big surprise. And then there was Anna. And his job situation. And even as confusing as all that stuff was, too, at least it didn’t rip his guts out every time he thought about it.
“But maybe talking about it would be good,” she suggested, and his chest ached further. Crap—she’d said she understood that he couldn’t talk about it; he’d thought they were done with this topic. “Sometimes, putting something into words is . . . the thing that helps you deal with it, process it. Maybe talking about it would help you put it behind you.”
Logan’s jaw clenched. What she was saying made sense to him, logically. He just didn’t know . . . if he could face going there again. So it caught him off guard when he heard himself force out one lone, solitary word. “Maybe.”
Amy said nothing else for a while. She rested her head back on his chest and he lay there soaking up the night, soaking up the memory of what they’d just shared. And things began to feel easier, like before . . . except that the fire was lodged in the back of his brain now, creeping into the edge of his thoughts, whether he liked it or not.
And he knew if he lay there long enough trying to focus on other things, he’d get back to that almost comfortable place, that place where he was happy, upbeat Logan, or pretending to be anyway, and that he could probably go on this way for a very long time—who knew, maybe forever—and no one would be the wiser. No one but him.
Or he could do what Amy had said. He could talk about it. Just once. He could put it into words. And then he could hope and pray that maybe getting it off his chest would actually do what she’d said, help him move on.
The only thing was, if he told her, he had to tell her the whole truth, not just part of it. And if he told her the whole truth, that made it . . . feel more real. And it meant . . . someone else would know.
His stomach went hollow at the thought, and he heard himself whisper in a low rasp, “You might not want to hear all of this, freckles. It’s not pretty.”
“I didn’t expect it to be. If it was pretty, you’d have already told me. I can take it, Logan.”
Of course she could. She would. For him. No hesitation. Her reaction—so tough, so sure—made him spontaneously kiss her. “You’re the best,” he told her. “The absolute best person I know.”
In response, she bit her lip, looking prettily bashful as she said, “Thank you. But . . .”
“But?”
“Wanting to help you through this isn’t about me being a good person. It’s about . . . how I feel about you. There’s not much I wouldn’t do for you, Logan.”
And he’d pretty much already known that. But somehow, hearing it, feeling it, made him—again—need to tell her.
He needed to bare his soul to her.
He needed to tell her what he could tell no one else.
“I couldn’t get to them,” he blurted out, his throat catching on the words.
“What?” she whispered.
“Ken and Doreen. I couldn’t help them.”
She was perched back on one elbow, peering down at him again. “I know,” she replied, sounding confused.
And he realized that what he’d just said sounded ridiculously obvious, but she couldn’t see the images in his mind. He had to swallow, hard, before he tried to explain. “I . . . I was standing outside the bedroom door, so close to them, but a wall of flames and smoke separated us. I knew it was too much and that I had to get out of there before the floor collapsed.” Another swallow as he stared blankly back up at the sky. “And then part of the bedroom floor did start to collapse. Ken . . . he was across the bedroom. He and Doreen both. The smoke was thick, but I could still see them, backed up against the far wall, and they were looking at me, and I called out through my respirator that it was me, thinking somehow that mattered, and . . .” Jesus God, he didn’t want to remember this, he didn’t want to keep hearing the sounds. “Ken was screaming for me to help them. Begging me.”
Somewhere on the periphery of his brain, he heard Amy expel a soft breath of horror.
“Like I said, I already knew there was no hope. The floor between us was half gone, and the floor beneath me was about to give way. And it was some kind of miracle they hadn’t succumbed to the smoke already. Yet still, there I was, so close to these two people I’ve known my whole life, and I just went . . . numb. I just stood there. Staring at them while Ken cried for help. In one way, I could barely hear him over the noise of the fire, but in another . . . he was all I could hear. I’ll never forget that sound. I wake up sometimes at night—still—hearing it, seeing his face flickering between the flames and smoke that separated us, seeing the look in his eyes, the despair, when he realized I wasn’t doing anything, wasn’t going to do anything.
“I’ve never felt so fucking helpless, so fucking useless, in my entire life. I was just . . . frozen. I couldn’t help them—but I couldn’t leave, either. So I just stood there, the flames getting higher around us, the smoke getting thicker an
d more toxic by the second—I just fucking stood there like a helpless little kid.”
“Oh Logan,” she murmured, softly stroking his arm.
And he felt it, the comfort, her care, a little, but mostly he was lost in the memory now. “Finally, the chief was calling for me to get the hell out of there, and so . . . I just took one last look at them and said, ‘I’m sorry’—which I know damn good and well they couldn’t even begin to hear at that point, so I guess maybe I was saying it more to me than to them—and then I turned my back on them and left. Just left them there to die. Just left them there to suffer a horrible, awful death. I just left them there, Amy.”
“You had no choice, Logan,” she said. “Surely you know that.”
He switched his gaze briefly to hers. And yeah, he knew she was right—he’d known that since the moment it had happened; he’d been trained to know these things—but . . . “It’s different with friends, people you care about.”
Above him, she only sighed, and he knew she got what he was saying. That this was about more than logic, that it went deeper than that.
“When it’s someone you care about, you feel like . . . no matter what it takes, you should be in there trying to save them, even if you know you can’t. You feel like you should have fought ’til the end, like . . . like . . .”
Amy blew out a breath. “Logan,” she whispered, sounding as tense as he felt, “if . . . if you’re saying you should have fought to save them until you died there with them, that’s . . . crazy. Surely you know that.”
Logan just lay there. Because, in fact, that was exactly what he was saying, exactly how he’d felt ever since that night. Like he’d let them die there alone when he should have found some way to save them, even if it meant his own death. “I’m a firefighter, Amy,” he told her. “My job is to put my life on the line for people. And I’ve never backed away from that before—I never thought I’d let somebody die just to save myself.”
“That’s not what happened, not how it was!” she argued.
“Did you ever see the movie The Poseidon Adventure, the original, with Gene Hackman?” he asked.
