Something about the color of Marie’s skin drives Logan wild.  In the fiery light of the setting sun pouring through the double-paned window in his room, his keen eyesight can pick out the veins underneath the skin, the lifeblood that courses through her.  That which makes her warm, living, breathing, and oh, God, so beautiful.
 
But it isn’t her skin that has drawn Logan towards the woman he loves, sitting in his favorite leather chair, an emerald green, silken robe tied loosely around her waist, one arm dropping down to her elbow to reveal a dainty pink chemise that barely conceals her décolletage.  It isn’t the way her hair falls in a chocolate wave over that bare shoulder, or the tiny edge of her tongue that is sticking ever so slightly from between her lips as she concentrates intently on the footstool, where her tiny feet are propped up.

It’s the smell.

The gawdawful smell of nail polish.

Logan is pinned to the doorway, wishing for the love of mercy that the air condition hadn’t chosen today to conk out -- because now there’s an oscillating fan sitting in the windowsill, blowing the smell his way in intermittent, nauseating waves. He should have known better -- Marie considered a pedicure of utmost importance. A once-a-week vanity that made his nose hairs wilt, curl up on themselves, and die.

Oh shit. Marie’s made a mistake.

She reaches for the bottle hidden behind the edge of the leather chair. The one that smells even worse.

The nail polish remover.

Logan almost cries. All he wants is to get to his big, garden tub, just six feet behind the chair. All he wants is a nice, hot shower, with nice, scent free soap. Then, just maybe, he was hoping for some pudding, you know? Some of that oh-yeah, I’m-glad-you’re-home-safe-and-in-one-piece-and-oh-is-that-your-raging-hardon-in-my-?-kinda-lovin’. Instead, he comes home from a mission to find his smoking hot woman smelling like a varnish factory.

Maybe she won’t notice him if he sneaks just along the wall...

Sneaky. Sneakky. Snea..

“Logan!” Marie exclaims, happiness evident in her voice, “I didn’t hear you come in!”

Fail.

Logan breathes through his mouth as she throws her arms around his leather-clad shoulders, fingers threading through his own as she drags him towards the chair. And oh God, she’s unbelievably hot. Her legs are slightly damp from sweat and the lack of air condition, and her nipples peek through dampened silk.

But no matter how much Logan wants Marie, she’s guiding him towards that open bottle of clear liquid that smells so bad he’d rather go through being filled with molten-hot adamantium ten times than step one foot closer.

Because something awful happens when Logan smells rubbing alcohol.

He gets very.

Very.

High.

But Logan can’t breathe through his mouth anymore once Marie pins him to the chair. Can’t breathe through his mouth once her lips are on his lips, teeth dragging the concealed zipper that keeps his shredded leather suit on down, down, down and her mouth is on him, around him...

And the smell doesn’t matter anymore, because he’s higher than ten kites and the international space station, out in the in between, theoretical space between Nirvana and Purgatory, and every sensation feels like ten thousand sensations. His claws slice off the robe and the chemise, his foot knocks over the nail polish remover.

And the smell is overwhelming, mingling with the sounds and tastes and invading every olfactory sense he possesses.

Her bare breasts are in his hands, the cascade of her chocolate...no red...red? hair is on his chest...and holee crap her hair just changed colors! Logan inhales again, and trips over names, faces, and places until the only thing that matters is the feel of Marie-well, he thinks it’s Marie-as he pounds into her, and holee crap there’s something to be said for having sex like this.

Except of course, calling Marie, Jean.

But luckily, he’s so high he’s stumbling on his words, and Marie knows something is not quite right, so she taunts him, wiggles her ass against his ego and makes him forget all about nail polish remover and to think only all about her.

And she cries out his name blissfully, over, and over, and over.

Logan might still be just a little bit high an hour or two later, but the sun has set and the windows are open, and now the fan is sucking in fresh clean air and pouring high inducing fumes out the open door. He’s sitting in his chair, a cigar between his lips, an ice cold Molson sweats on the glass covered side table next to him.

And Marie has on another silk robe. She sits on the footstool, safe between his bare legs, hands tracing patterns on his skin as he brushes her long, brunette hair.

“Love you,” Marie whispers. He can tell she’s falling asleep.

So Logan gathers her up in his arms and tugs her towards their king sized bed, white down comforter discarded for the feel of soft cotton sheets and bare skin. They tumble into darkness together, not snuggling because it’s just too damn hot...