I remember when we started playing at it. I'd broken up with Bobby because he could barely handle a girl with untouchable skin, never mind one whose passions and powers had far outgrown his. In the weeks after, I was shocked every night when you weren't at my door, ready to lay claim to what I knew you thought was rightfully yours.
I never expected you to be subtle. Logan – subtle. It was
confusing. A paradox - until I figured out what we were playing at.
*******
We have this ritual of watching late night television together because we're too antisocial to go out with the team. You're antisocial by choice, I'm antisocial by necessity. We occupy this couch with the excuse of enjoying the stale jokes, but we could just as easily be watching the sign-off signal for all the attention we're paying to the screen. I feel every twitch, every shift in
your body every time I get near you. With your hyper senses, you notice my every reaction too. When something finally happens so quietly, with no great confession and no spoken acceptance, I wonder if it's really happening at all.
I'm tired and lay my head down near your thigh. Your arm is behind me on the couch. Half way into the late show something makes you move it. I may never know what, I'll probably never ask. I feel the heat from your palm through my shirt, warming the curve of my waist. It's an intimate touch, even for us, and I don't dare move.
The heat from your hand radiates through me, warming all the interesting places on my body. All my little embers, dormant but never dampened, stir to glowing life. Minutes pass and I know your hand on my waist is not enough. It will never be enough. Before I think too much, I roll back and slide down, catching your hand beneath my breast. Don't you dare try to move it! You have no
intention of moving it. You casually trace your thumb back and forth across the swell, now so conveniently located.
We don't say a word about it. We don't talk about it the next night either as we go through the same ritual again; you and your deliciously traveling thumb.
*********
You ask me to go for a ride on your bike, which isn't unusual. This time though, you let me have a turn. We ride for miles with your hands innocently, and awkwardly, resting on my shoulders. Coming to a stop sign, we both plant our feet on the asphalt to balance the bike. Then somehow, when we start again, your hands have moved to
cradle my hips. When we lean the bike into the curves, you feel all over mine. It's not abrupt, just a smooth caress from my thighs all the way up my side, brushing your fingers across my chest. You don't just reach out and grab and I am amazed at your restraint. Logan – restrained. I don't get it, but then I still don't know what we were playing at.
It's time to head back and you want to take over the bike again, but you won't get off to let me up. You make me lean back into you so I can swing my legs over to one side. I'm pressed against you and you don't give an inch. I can even feel your belt buckle digging into my back as I try to create space, but something tells me you don't
mind a bit if it leaves a mark there. Your hands are on my thighs as I move and then rest on my ass as I sit side-saddle. We don't say a word about it, but I smile playfully at you and get your suppressed grin in return. Whatever we're playing at, it is fun.
The ride home is even more fun. My hands like to wander too. I run them down your strong back at stop signs, up under your shirt to feel that divine chest at red lights, along your ass and up and down your thighs when we hit stretches of straight road. My wandering hands are greedier than yours though. They take more because I
don't know all the rules yet. My hands want more as we park in the garage. I need to know that you want more too, and as if reading my mind, you take my hand and guide it to the hard length in your jeans. You rub my hand across it and hold it tightly in place for a moment. You feel magnificent, strong and alive, and then you push my hand away.
"Go inside," you say stiffly.
Before I can open my mouth to argue, "Just listen to me," you add softly.
I do as I'm told because you're the one making the rules.
***********
The next morning, while you make your coffee, you use your body to pin me against the counter. Grinding your hips into mine, you run your hand through my hair and pull my head back with a fist full. I feel the tiniest suction on my ear and then nibbling along the ridge. You release my hair only to grab me and rub me roughly
against your erection like a promise. I know I probably shouldn't enjoy you behaving like a brute…but I do. You won't hear any argument from me. If you took me right on the kitchen counter you wouldn't hear any argument from me. All I hear out of you is a satisfied rumbling in your throat before you walk out of the kitchen. I don't know why you won't go for what you obviously want; what I would willingly give, but I'll soon learn.
************
I know you'll come to my room if I don't show up for late night television. I stretch out on my stomach, waiting. You don't knock and I don't roll over to acknowledge you're even there. You take your time watching me; exactly like I want. Your gaze stretches over my arms, exposed by the white tank top worn just for you, down
my bare legs, lingering over the view of the tiniest bit of cheek revealed by my outrageously short boy shorts. I can't casually flaunt skin like most women do. It's not safe, but I can't resist showing you what I've always
wanted to, what you've been dying to see…more. I know you
appreciate the view. I can feel your eyes burning me the same way your hands always do. You settle your weight on the bed, making it dip in the middle. I realize you are wearing gloves when I feel the leather against my calves.
Like the softest bit of down, they move up my thighs and brush the sensitive skin that my shorts reveal.
The softness turns firm as you put a hand on each cheek and squeeze. Roughly, you almost knead them and I can't see it, but I can feel the smile on your face when I respond. I'm not creating the response, it just happens. I arch right up into your grasp as the tiniest moan escapes. More. You want more…God, I want you to take it.
I feel you shift and realize you're taking off a glove.
"Logan you'll get hurt."
I try to stop you but with a firm hand on my back you hold me down and say, "Trust me".
You run your bare hand inside my thigh and cup me where my bottom hangs out of my underwear. You hold me there until just before the pull opens up. Danger – you love to court it. I don't think you can resist pushing the limit of my mutation any more than you can resist the feel of my bare bottom in your bare hands.
I sense you leaning down and then I feel a sharp,fleeting pain as you bite me right where your hand was. You bit my ass! It shocks me a little. It thrills me a lot. That same rhythmic rumbling is back in your throat and that thrills me even more.
I want to roll over to see your face, but I'm stopped by the weight of your body on top of me, our lengths pressed together…and then you start moving. Rubbing and pushing against me…rubbing and pushing. Your breath licks at my neck like flames and I can feel you hard against the curve of my backside. I rub back harder and you lift my
hips so you can fit your gloved hand into the vee of my thighs. I hear your zipper, and then I feel you stroking yourself on me. Moving your hand to just the right spot, you press and rub me through my underwear. Press and rub, press and rub. The feel of you against me and your hand on me is too much. It's too much! Oh God! I peak with my face in the pillow to muffle the scream. I feel liquid warmth in the small of my back and you moan my name and
God's into my ear.
You rest your forehead in my hair and we don't move for what seems like forever. Silently, you finally get up and start for the door.
Disappointment washes over me. I don't understand! Why don't we just keep going?
"Why – why don't we just…"
"Shhh," you stop me and walk back to the edge of my bed, staring down at me.
"Marie. Are you enjoying this?"
I'm sure the look on my face is evidence that I am.
"That's what I thought. Then why rush a good thing?" you ask and walk out.
The question just hangs there between my bed and the door and I feel like someone who's finally been let in on a secret.
Delay gratification; creep slowly to your destination instead of barreling full force…and draw out…the enjoyment…for as long…as you can possibly…stand it.
I know it's got to be killing you to hold back. It has to pain the untamed Wolverine not to be completely uninhibited and without regard. I just didn't realize part of you enjoys that pain.
Interestingly, I enjoy it too. But I'm getting restless. I'm not as mature, as schooled, as you are. Youth makes me eager and impatient. I don't know how long I can play by these rules…when I can get such a thrill out of breaking them.
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Author's Chapter Notes:
Marie doesn't have to understand what's happening, to enjoy it. Her POV. Thanks to Jaq for letting me bother her while on a break