Wolverine was bored.

It was a beautiful summer Saturday. The brats were out doing things -- baseball, swimming, trawling the mall for sales -- and the X-Geeks were all occupied as well.

Logan had the whole damn mansion to himself, it seemed. He sat in solitary splendor in the living room, a six-pack of Molson at his side, enjoying ESPN Classic's rerun of Game Seven of the Rangers-Devils Eastern Conference Finals on Chuck's new wide-screen TV.

Soon enough, though, Howie Rose shouted, "Matteau! Matteau! Matteau!" and there was nothing else on.

Channel two -- golf, channel four -- golf, channel seven -- women's golf. Cable was no better.

He looked at the clock above the TV; it was one o'clock in the afternoon. Where the hell was Marie? She usually spent most of her free time with him, especially since she and that Remy punk split up. And he enjoyed spending time with her; Marie was a lot of things, but boring was never one of them.

After running through the channels one more time -- "Figure skating," he snorted in disgust. "It's freakin' July!" -- he turned the television off and went in search of her.

His three years at the mansion had mellowed him a little, and his friendship with Marie had been the first step he'd made toward rejoining society as something more than a badass cage fighter.

She'd gotten under his skin in a way no one else had before or since, though he did have a small coterie of youngsters who followed him around. He was popular with the younger kids because he didn't bullshit them, and they appreciated that, despite Jean and Scott's admonitions that he should be less frank with the kids.

Kids can smell bullshit a mile away, he thought, and speaking of smells -- he was down the hall from Marie's room when he caught a whiff of the most potent, heinous chemical scent he'd ever had the misfortune to encounter. He didn't even think -- his nose screamed (well, it would have if it could have, that's how bad the smell was) Marie was in danger, so he acted.

Bursting into the room, he saw a startled Marie jump off her bed. She wore a short terry-cloth robe and her hair was wrapped in a towel. He grabbed her and whirled her to face him.

"Jesus fucking Christ, Marie! What the hell happened to you?"

Her face was covered with blue goop; her finger and toenails were painted fire-engine red, and the way her robe gaped gave him an interesting view of Marie-parts he'd never really looked at before.

"Day of beauty," she finally said.

He blinked and felt his ears burn as the blood rushed to his face. "Oh."

She grinned at his discomfiture, cracking the blue stuff on her face. "Yeah." She pointed to her face. "This is a blue corn scrub mask from the Body Shop. It exfoliates the skin and cleans the pores."

He sniffed. That wasn't what he'd scented. Now that he was in the room, he recognized the chemicals -- depilatory cream and hair dye. His suspicions were confirmed by the pink bottle of Nair sitting on the dresser.

"Whatcha using that shit for?" he asked, jerking his chin in the direction of the bureau.

"Bikini line. I don't like shaving there, and can't wax myself." She sounded calm, but she was rubbing her hands -- her bare hands -- together nervously.

"Why?"

"Well, because waxing hurts like hell, no matter what they tell you, and I'm not a masochist. I'm not going to inflict pain on myself if I don't have to--"

"No," he interrupted, "why you worrying about your -- bikini line? You don't wear a bikini." Not that I would mind seeing you in one, he thought. Whoa! Where'd that come from?

"Well, ever since Remy and I started going out, he preferred, um, he liked me to, um, you know, keep my goodies neat--"

Logan nearly released the claws. "What the fuck was that boy doing near your -- goodies?" he roared.

She had the audacity to laugh at him. "He was my boyfriend for a year and a half, Logan. What do you think he was doing?"

He growled. He imagined Marie taking her robe off and giving him a good view of her "goodies" as he drove into her. Don't go there. That's trouble. Get back to the issue. "You don't need to shave your cooch like some two-bit stripper."

"Well, you've seen enough strippers to know, eh?" she said.

"Yeah." She frowned and he realized that wasn't the best thing to say. "But you're not like that."

"No. I'm not," she replied. The ice in her voice would have routed a lesser man.

He was aware that he was still in trouble for some reason. "Can I help?" he asked, figuring it would get him out of the doghouse.

She cocked her head and lowered her eyebrows -- trademark "Marie-thinking" signs. Finally, she said, "Yeah." She pulled the towel off her hair and handed him the hairbrush. She had done something subtle to it; he could smell the dye, but couldn't see any change in the color. Probably those highlight things. ... I know way too much about women's hair care products.

She sat on the bed and he settled in behind her, used to this ritual. When he first came back, at the end of the day, he'd stop in and see her. He'd always managed to catch her just as she was brushing her hair. Those mahogany and platinum locks held some strange fascination for him -- even he wasn't sure why.

He settled into a steady rhythm, working silently to detangle the knots until her hair hung straight and heavy down her back.

"I'm thinking about cutting it," she murmured, lulled by the brushstrokes.

He leaned forward and said, "Don't." His breath on her ear sent shivers down her back. His lips hovered over her neck, and for once he was unsure how to proceed with a woman.

Logan wanted the moment to last forever, charged as it was with a tension he was all-too-familiar with, but never in connection with Marie. It was that delicious feeling in the pit of his belly that signified the chase was on, and the consummation would soon follow. His groin tightened.

But she moved off the bed after an endless moment, taking the brush from his nerveless fingers and setting it down on the dresser.

"There's more, if you still want to help," she said, her voice a throaty purr he'd never heard before. He nodded, unable to speak.

He waited as she went into the bathroom. He heard splashing and then she emerged, her face free of blue goop, carrying a pair of latex gloves and a bottle of -- "Massage oil?" he choked out.

"Jean and Storm went into the city today for a day of beauty -- haircut, manicure, pedicure, waxing, facial and massage.

"I can't go, for obvious reasons, so I did most of the stuff myself. But I can't give myself a massage. Remy used to --" she broke off as he growled low in his throat at the thought of the Cajun massaging her. "Anyway, it's the only thing missing. Jubes was going to do it for me, but she got distracted by the sale at Saks, so--" He tuned out at the thought of Jubilee massaging Marie. Yeah, there's some interesting fantasy material, he thought before shaking his head. Stop thinking like that, dumbass. You're in enough trouble as it is.

"No? You won't do it for me?" Marie was asking.

Oh. "Of course I will, darlin'. Come on, take your robe off." She frowned. He wasn't doing too well today. Usually he and Marie got along like a house afire, but today he kept putting his foot in his mouth. He felt their relationship was suddenly unbalanced, what with her practically naked and him lusting after her like an untried schoolboy. "Uh, okay, wait a second." He went into the bathroom and pulled two towels off the rack.

Laying them on the floor next to the bed, he gestured for her to lie down. "I'll wait in the hall and let you get ready. Put the other towel over yourself."

He stepped out of the room and tried to get his suddenly raging hormones under control. This is Marie, for Christ's sake! he told himself.

But the thought of Marie, naked except for a towel, on the other side of the door, only increased his arousal. He knew he loved her -- always had, since the moment she'd sassed him in his trailer. But he'd never associated that love -- pure and deep and transfiguring -- with the kind of animal passion now moving him. He wondered, suddenly, if this was what being in love was like, and if it was, he could see why poets had written about it, and wars had been fought for it, for thousands of years.

"I'm ready," Marie called, her voice slightly muffled by the door, but completely audible to his super-senses.

He opened the door and caught his breath. She'd lit some candles, and drawn the blinds, so the room was dim and heady with the scent of cinnamon and Marie. She lay between the towels, primed and waiting for his touch.

He took a deep breath to settle his shaky hands and said to himself, This is Marie. You've known her for almost four years. You can do this.

After bringing the gloves into the bathroom and holding them under the hot water for a few minutes to warm them, he knelt on the floor next to where Marie was spread out on the towel. Another deep breath, and he drew the towel covering her back down to pool at her waist.

He admired the perfection of her back as he poured the almond-scented massage oil into his hands. She was all smooth, porcelain skin, lightly dusted with ginger freckles, the arch of her spine calling for his touch like a siren. He slid his hands over her shoulders and felt her sigh deeply.

Her breathing was even as he touched her. At first he was impersonal, working the knots out of her shoulders and back expertly, knowing exactly how much pressure to apply to ease the tension that hard workouts and too many long nights saving the world had made almost a permanent fixture in the set of her shoulders.

But as his hands moved over her neck and massaged her scalp, he could hear her heart race and the hitch in her breathing.

Both of them were breathing raggedly as he motioned for her to turn over so he could work on her legs. He held the towel for her as she turned over, and it was only through a Herculean effort of will that he averted his eyes from her nakedness.

She smiled a small, secret smile at that, one seen on women's faces since time immemorial. But Logan had never expected to see it on Marie's. He covered her with the towel, but she flicked it off, exposing herself to his hungry eyes.

Her body was flush with arousal and the dim light cast her partly in shadow, a chiaroscuro of love and desire, glistening with almond-scented oil.

His hands stroked her legs reverently, easing the muscles of her thighs and calves before gently rotating her ankles and pulling on each toe. He licked his lips and fought the urge to take each slim digit into his mouth. At her knees, he found a spot that made her purr when he stroked it; that made him grin with delight.

Slowly, ever so softly, he moved his hands over her inner thighs until he reached the small patch of hair at their juncture.

"Marie? Can I--"

She answered with a thrust of her hips.

He ran a finger over her glistening sex and enjoyed the sight of her back arching, breasts thrust in the air, as he touched her.

"Logan," she moaned, lifting her hips to press herself closer to his gloved hand. "I need--" she broke off as he found her clit and circled it deftly with his thumb, slipping his index finger into her tight wetness.

"Is this okay, Marie? I don't want to do anything you don't want me to," he rasped.

"I want, I need you, Logan. I lo-- like it. I like it a lot," she said, and he wondered at the shift in her words, but decided to worry about it later.

"I'm glad you like it, darlin'," he replied. "I like doing it to you. I want to make you come, Marie. I want you to feel good. I love you." It slipped out, just like that, and hung heavy between them in the cinnamon-and-passion suffused air.

"I love you, too, Logan," she whispered, turning her head away, suddenly overcome with shyness. He heard it and smiled. He moved up her body and ran a hand over her hair before brushing his lips across hers so lightly that her skin didn't have time to react.

"Marie," he said, and it was a prayer.

"Logan," was the only response necessary.

He stroked her and she clenched around him, finding her release with a force that surprised both of them.

Later, after they were sated for the moment, Logan reflected that he'd been right -- Marie was many things: sexy, vulnerable, loving, and his, but she was never boring.

End