Nice Southern girls aren't supposed to talk about sex. I'd guess they're not supposed to think about it much either, pure minds and all that.
I am Southern, but I'm not very nice, and I'm certainly not a girl anymore. I can't touch other people with my bare skin, which makes sex rather challenging. And since forbidden fruit is always so damn tempting, I spend an inordinate amount of time contemplating various combinations of silk scarves and leather and latex. I've always been the masochistic type.
Plus, I spend a lot of time with Logan, and I don't know how any straight female with a pulse can sit in a room with Logan and *not* think about sex. He exudes sexuality.
Like now, for instance. He's slouched on the leather couch, jeans-clad legs propped up on the coffee table, crossed at the ankles. Remote control in one hand, beer bottle in the other, his attention on the Giants game. He's more of a hockey fan, but he'll settle for football, 'cause it can get brutal and aggressive. Well, perhaps the Giants can't. In point of fact, they're losing. As ever. I don't see how the team keeps his interest, but I don't complain. Logan concentrating on a game gives me a chance to indulge in one of my favorite pastimes.
Loganwatching.
Fuck Lifetime and Oxygen; any sane heterosexual woman would prefer Loganwatching.
Problem is, Logan knows that I like to study him, and it annoys him because he knows *why* and likes to pretend that he doesn't. Actually, he'd rather avoid the topic altogether. Like now. He doesn't betray it with so much as a glance in my direction, just says, "Marie."
Caught fairly, I curl myself more securely into the arm of the couch. "Yes, Logan?" I ask, injecting that purr I know he likes into my voice.
"Quit it," he orders gruffly.
I lift one shoulder in a careless shrug. He's still not looking at me, but I know he caught it in his peripheral vision by the way he grumbles something and takes a swig of beer. I'm momentarily transfixed by the muscles in his throat. He is raw sexuality, my Logan.
True, he's not mine in the sense that I'd prefer, but it's been nearly eight years since I climbed into his truck, and I know that I'm the only person with a permanent hold on him. We're currently in negotiations over what form our bond should take. I think I'm losing, and I am not a graceful loser.
Understanding that whatever it is between us is more intense and satisfying to him than his periodic flings doesn't make it any easier to deal with them. Especially since my own sexual escapades have been largely unsuccessful. I'd be able to ignore Logan's women a little easier if I had some men of my own. (Or so I tell myself.) But there's enough Logan left in me to smell fear, and I'd rather spend some quality time with my shower massager than deal with men who are so scared that their hands shake when they reach for me.
Logan's never been afraid of me.
I could get over my adolescent fantasies about Logan. I could find half a dozen men who would love me. But I haven't ever found another person who touches me so casually, so matter-of-factly. I think it's that more than anything that keeps me pushing at this thing between Logan and me.
There's a commercial, and Logan takes another long swallow, draining the bottle. I enjoy the view, and then he glances over at me. "Another?"
I give him a slow smile. "Sure, sugar." Shifting, I turn sideways on the couch, stretching my legs out along the cushions. I've got a long skirt on, but the slit goes halfway up my thigh; when I move, Logan's dark eyes drop to my silk-clad legs.
He tears his gaze from my body and glowers at me for a moment. "We're not having this conversation again, Marie."
I don't bother with an answer, and he doesn't expect one. My gaze follows him as he rounds the couch and heads for the kitchen. This is a New York apartment, which means small, old, way too expensive, and a fourth-floor walk-up. But it's in a gorgeous brownstone located in a questionable area of Brooklyn, and it's an acceptable compromise. Logan still disappears to Canada occasionally, but this place, instead of a cruddy old camper, is his home base. Plus, he can't possibly handle the teen melodrama at the mansion on any sort of regular basis, so even when he's teaching a six-week defense class, he lives in Brooklyn and zooms in every day on his motorcycle.
He's had the place for five years, and I've had the key for four years and nine months. He pressed the silver key into my gloved hand, mumbled the address, and said, "The lock sticks a little. Put some muscle behind it."
For a heart-stopping minute, I thought he meant it in a very different way. Sanity returned, and I gave him a grateful smile and showed up on his doorstep a couple weeks later. I'd taken the train into the city, despite the fact that train cars still make me nervous, and he had the door open before I knocked. We got Thai food and watched part of a baseball game while Logan bemoaned the utter lack of action or excitement in the game. We drank a couple of beers and I stayed the night. In Logan's bed.
Sadly for me, Logan spent an uncomfortable night on his leather couch. This was back when I mistakenly believed that he looked at me as a kid sister. Didn't occur to me to wonder why he needed to sleep elsewhere if his feelings for me were so fraternal.
The next day he drove me back to the school on his motorcycle, and the combination of the vibrations and Logan's proximity gave me a pretty nice orgasm somewhere near New Roc City.
Logan watched me oddly when I slid off the bike, and for a moment I thought he'd figured out exactly how much I like his motorcycle. Then he said, "Next time, bring some clothes."
I nodded, but I could feel the flush on my cheeks. Logan brought one gloved hand up and traced the line of my jaw, not allowing me to hide behind my hair. "Red's a good look on you," he said with an amused grin.
I rolled my eyes and sauntered off, relishing the fact that he waited until I reached the door and gave him a finger wave before roaring off. Sure, he's an overprotective guy, but I was on school grounds, and therefore safe. No reason for him to watch me unless he was enjoying the view.
The next time I took the train into the city, I brought a small duffel bag with some essentials -- couple pairs of my best underwear, three spare pairs of gloves, two t-shirts, an old pair of jeans, my favorite leather pants, and some assorted scarves. I was very tempted to bring a box of condoms, but Logan'd probably smell the latex and give me another of those annoying looks.
When Logan opened the door and saw me with my bag, he half-grinned and then led me to the bedroom. I would've liked him to toss me onto the bed and have his very experienced and probably intensely pleasurable way with me, but he headed for the bureau instead.
"This is yours," he said, yanking an empty drawer open.
And so I had a drawer in Logan's apartment.
And a vaguely smug feeling of accomplishment. He may lust after the occasional redhead, he may bed the occasional blonde, but *I* kept panties at his place. The best part is that I'd never pressured him for the key or for the space or for the open invitation. I wasn't the annoying kid who begged him to spend time with her. Nope, Logan was making these choices on his own, and that's when I started wondering if my idle fantasies about Logan could actually, at some point, resemble reality.
Over the past few years, I've accumulated more stuff. A toothbrush, a small makeup bag, my "girly" conditioner that smells like citrus, and even a box of tampons, and every time I show up with a bag from the drug store, Logan just watches the encroachment with an amused half-smile.
"Marie." Kind of like the one on his face right now, actually. He's standing at the other end of the couch, a beer bottle dangling from each hand, and I nearly growl in frustration. His eyebrows quirk and he moves closer to hand me my drink. I shift, pushing upright with one hand. His gaze drops unerringly to my cleavage, which I have, coincidentally, brought into his line of vision with my movements.
Smiling now, I reach out for the bottle and let my spine arch just a little.
Logan's nostrils flare, and his gaze snaps up to mine. "Marie."
I hate that tone. "Don't talk to me like I'm a child, Logan."
He takes a step away from me and drops onto the other end of the couch. "Then stop acting like a child."
Eyes narrowing, I glare at him. "I'm *trying* to act like an adult," I point out. "Specifically, I'm trying--"
"I know what you're trying." There's the slightest hint of desperation in his voice, and I give myself a couple of points. I move closer on the couch, and his gaze drops to my legs again. "It's not going to work, Marie."
Tell me about it. For someone who's had sex with a mind-boggling amount of people, he's been damn resistant to my attempts at seduction. And it's not like I'm a fumbling virgin. Well, okay, in the limited technical sense, yes, I suppose I'm a virgin, but I certainly ain't inexperienced. And I happen to know that my seduction skills are pretty impressive.
"Why not?" I demand, and as hard as I'm trying to be slinky and seductive, there's anger in my voice. I'm so sick of not touching him.
"You know why not."
"Explain it to me."
"Marie--"
"Stop saying my name like that!"
Logan turns, pulling one knee up on the couch to face me. He touches my cheek, and his tone is almost apologetic when he says, "I don't do long-term, Marie."
He can be so damn obtuse. I would laugh if I weren't so annoyed with him. "It's been eight damn years."
His eyes darken. "Not the same thing."
"Yes," I tell him. "It is." Before he can anticipate my intention, I'm on my knees sliding towards him, slinging one leg over his. His hands land low on my hips, guiding me down until I'm straddling him. "I'm not a little girl," I say. "I don't need your protection."
He snorts at that, and I lean in, holding his gaze, until I'm inches from him.
"Do you trust me?" I breathe.
He doesn't answer aloud; he doesn't have to. His fingers tighten on me, not pushing me away, but holding me in place.
And I smile.
Logan's breathing quickens as I close the rest of the distance between us. As I feel his bare lips on mine, I thank God for the Professor and his insistence that I work for control. Eight years of frustration and agonizing work and suddenly it's worth it, 'cause I can't do it for long periods and sometimes I slip, but I'm kissing Logan. And, God, is he an amazing kisser.
Logan's mouth opens under mine, his tongue slides against mine, and he gives a low growl that I can feel all the way to my toes. I wrap my arms around him, and one of his hands leaves my hip to smooth its way up my spine, pressing me closer.
It's explosive and it's perfect and it's too much.
I jerk away from him, because I can feel my control slipping.
Dammit!
Logan is beautiful, pupils dilated, breathing ragged as he stares up at me with a puzzled expression. "Well," he says finally. "This isn't good."
See, this right here, this moment where Logan's control has finally snapped and he's inadvertently confirmed my suspicions? This is what he's been fighting off for years. Given Logan's preference for action over words, I knew it would have to happen like this. I knew his body would give him away eventually.
Well, I'd hoped it would, anyway.
As well as I know Logan, I've never been quite sure how he'd react in a situation like this. Maybe he'd growl, roll me beneath him and peel my leather pants off with his teeth. (Unlikely, yes, given my deadly skin, but an incredibly attractive possibility; from the relatively calm look on his face, not going to happen.) Maybe he'd toss me off of his lap and storm out. (No tossing yet. In fact, his hands are holding me right where I am, which I hope is a good sign.) Maybe he'd give me his serious face and try to explain why This Can Never Happen. (Thankfully, no signs of the serious face yet; this expression is one I can't say I've ever seen on him before.)
"Neat trick," Logan says after a long moment. His breathing is slowing down, which means he's thinking instead of acting, which means I may be deposited neatly on the couch beside him momentarily.
I don't like that possibility, and I curl my fingers into fistfuls of his shirt, determined to stay where I am. He merely raises an eyebrow at me.
"I can control it," I tell him.
The hand clutching at my hip releases and I tense, my thighs squeezing closer to prevent being tossed off his lap. Logan freezes, his pupils dilating as I stare at him. It's incredibly erotic. His hand moves into my peripheral vision, and he gives me a questioning look.
Oh. He wants to touch my skin.
I actually shudder at the thought, and, yup, Logan is definitely exhibiting some evidence of his interest in me. Logan's palm presses firmly against my spine and he's staring at me, waiting for permission.
I dip my chin ever so slightly, and then my attention catches on that perfect, unscarred hand drawing achingly close to my cheek. I breathe in through my nose, out through my mouth, centering myself, harnessing my power, and then his fingertip touches the line of my jaw.
It's exquisite torture. I'm hypersensitive after years of everything save my own fingers being blunted by layers of fabric. I think I'm shaking. His fingers trace a burning path down my throat, and I swear I can feel the individual whorls of his fingerprint. I swear he's left a mark.
My eyes have fallen closed, I don't remember when, and I'm arching into his touch, leaning my head back to give him more access.
"Marie," he murmurs, and this time he's speaking in an awestruck tone I've only ever heard in my imagination. "God, Marie." His fingertips skim the edges of my shirt, the tops of my breasts, and then I feel his lips at the corner of my jaw, pressing tiny kisses along my skin.
I shudder, fighting for control, wanting this to last forever, dammit. Logan's mouth on me. Logan's hands on my skin.
"Tell me when to stop," he whispers into my ear, taking the lobe between his teeth for a quick nibble.
"Don't stop," I answer breathlessly. "Please, Logan. Don't stop."
One hand is still pressed to my spine, holding me against him, and the other slides down my arm, pushing my gloves down, down, exposing more bare skin. "So beautiful," he murmurs into my neck. "Your skin is so beautiful."
I can feel the tears now, and fight against them. It's quickly becoming too much, this exquisite touching plus the knowledge that it's *Logan* doing the touching.
I'm shaking against him, my hands clenched into handfuls of his shirt. And then his free hand skims up my arm, caresses my neck, slips into my hair. "Marie," he says, pulling me upright. "C'mere."
I manage to get my eyes open, and the sight of him -- the look on his face, the desire in his eyes -- it shatters my control. "Logan!"
He stops, his lips inches from mine, his gaze locked on me.
And the tears overflow, tracking down my cheeks. "I'm sorry," I manage, trembling, overwhelmed.
He shakes his head, pulls me closer, wraps me up in his solid embrace. I slide my arms around, clasping them together behind him, and wiggle closer, wrenching a groan from him as I end up flush against proof that he's as affected by this as I am. I manage to get myself under control, sniffle a few times, take a couple deep breaths, and then I sit upright. The movement shifts me closer to him, and his hands tighten on me.
Then I recognize the expression on his face, and I swear to God I'm going to kill this man.
"I'm sorry," he says.
He's sorry? He's *sorry*? I nearly have an orgasm from the feel of his lips on mine, and he's *sorry*?
My voice is shaking with anger. "Don't."
"Marie--"
"Don't say it, Logan. Don't ruin this."
His eyes are sorrowful when he shrugs. "I don't think of you that way," Logan says. "I think of you--"
I interrupt him by pressing myself against the impressive bulge in his pants. "If you say sister," I tell him, "we're both going to need therapy,"
He groans, then attempts to glower at me. He gives up and grins. "I wasn't going to say that. A friend, Marie. I think of you as a friend."
I gnaw on my lip, trying to figure out how best to approach this. Then I notice his gaze has dropped to my lips, and I inhale, exhale, center, and lean forward, capturing his mouth even as he opens it to protest. He doesn't fight me, not at all, the big talker. Instead, he allows me control, allows me to explore his mouth hungrily. His hands tangle in my hair, pulling me closer, and he responds eagerly.
He can say the words all he wants, but his body is sending me some pretty clear signals. He wants me. I know he does. I just need him to admit it.
I concentrate and kiss him for all I'm worth. I kiss him until he groans, until he growls into my mouth, and then I pull away. He's breathing hard, eyes wide with arousal.
"Don't lie to me," I tell him. "You wouldn't kiss me like that if you thought of me as a friend."
He stares at me. "Marie, you *are* my friend. One of the few I've ever bothered to make. I'm not going to lose that--"
"What makes you so sure you'd lose me if we did this?" I demand, grinding against him for emphasis.
His eyes slide shut and he grimaces, his hands landing on my hips to hold me still. "Stop it, Marie."
"No."
"Marie, this is a bad idea."
"It's not." I slide my hands over his shoulders, his impressive biceps, then back up to cradle his face. "You just have to trust me."
"I do," he admits. I can tell he's struggling for the right words. "No one else even knows the address of this place," he points out, exasperated.
I grin at him, 'cause he's never acknowledged that out loud before, what this means. "Exactly. Trust me with this. I don't want to tie you down, Logan. I don't want to change you. I just want this," I shrug, "with you."
His eyes close and he leans forward, resting his forehead against my neck. I'm momentarily shocked that he trusts me *that* much, that he leaned into my skin without hesitation. I know he's struggling with this, with the idea that he can have me, with the idea that I'm right about this. He's been telling himself for eight years that I'm too young, that we're just friends.
I'm holding my breath, 'cause I'm really not sure which way this is going to go. I know Logan better than anyone else, and he still puzzles me sometimes. He might decide to toss me off his lap and stay with the status quo.
Then Logan moves. His hands slide down, cupping my ass to yank me closer to him. He lifts his head, trailing his tongue across my collarbone before looking up at me. The look on his face is breathtaking, amusement and lust and happiness and not a little bit of raw sexuality. He quirks one eyebrow and grins at me. "Just how good is your control, Marie?"
I let my breath out in a whoosh, laughing because he trusts me enough to let himself want me. "Don't know," I admit with a saucy grin. "Haven't had much in the way of a road test, sugar."
Logan moves so suddenly that I let out a shriek. The world tilts, and then I'm on my back on the couch, and Logan's on top of me. He kisses me, hard and fast, then says, "How about a test drive?"
Logan's weight on me is the most amazing feeling. Okay, sure, we've been in positions not unlike this before, but only ever in the Danger Room, sweaty and hot in a completely nonsexual way. Well, Logan always seemed to be unaffected by our sparring, though he must know what any touch of his does to me.
Still. This is different. This isn't battle. This is choice. This is, if I were to indulge my girlish romantic side, destiny.
I'm grinning stupidly up at him, my arms wrapped tightly around his back, my legs around his waist. Test drive, eh? I manage to swallow a bad NASCAR joke and wiggle a little underneath him. "We need a safe word."
The open-mouthed lust that flooded his face just now? So worth my embarrassment when I realize what he *thought* I meant. "No, not--" I grasp for an appropriate word. "I mean, for when my control slips."
Logan nods, still a little shell-shocked, I think. "Control," he echoes gruffly. "Right. That's what I--"
"Liar," I interrupt with another well-timed wiggle. "You were picturing silk scarves and four-poster beds." I can tell my cheeks are ten shades of red, but the look on his face is too amusing. "I'm just curious which one of us was tied up in your fantasy."
Oh, my God. I think -- is he *blushing*?
"Marie--"
"C'mon," I press, sliding my arms up over my head to mimic what I imagine I'd look like tied up. With a knowing grin, I say, "It was me, wasn't it?"
Logan drops his head and licks my neck, pressing little kisses behind my ear until I shiver. "Either way," he murmurs agreeably. "You can't imagine the things I want to do to you."
My brain stutters to a halt at his words. It takes me a long damn time to come up with a response to that. Well, a response other than the way my hands slammed down onto his ass to pull him closer to me.
"You're saying I can tie you up?" I ask finally, oddly intrigued by the idea. The Wolverine, all tied up and at my mercy. Not an unappealing thought.
"Sure," he says to my left breast, pausing to tease my nipple through two layers of material. "So long as you promise tit for tat."
What? Huh? His mouth is so... warm and wet and talented. "Tit for tat?" I echo blankly. What is he -- oh. I can tie him up if he can tie me up. Hmmm. Putting myself at the mercy of Logan? I'm not sure if the shudder that wracks my body is from the thought or from Logan's tongue on my breastbone. "Sounds good to me," I manage, my voice all strange and breathless.
Logan lifts his head up, his eyes meeting mine with an incredibly intense look. "Next time, darlin'," he promises. "Right now, I want your full participation."
Holy shit. I'm about to have sex with Logan. It's starting to sink in, and it's making me nervous and so damn impatient. I can't get over the heat of his gaze. I swear, I could come just from the way he's looking at me.
Full participation. He wants my full participation. I don't think that's going to be a problem. "'kay," I manage, squeezing that delightfully firm ass of his. "We--"
But he doesn't give me a chance to finish the thought, covering my mouth with his for another one of those amazing kisses. His lips, his tongue --it's all new and it's *Logan* and it's perfect and, damn, why can't I figure out how to turn my skin the fuck OFF so that I don't have to worry about--
I push him away roughly when I feel the pull start. "Logan!"
He's staring down at me, breathing hard, just a little bit dazed. "I'm fine."
The pull didn't last long enough for me to hurt him; he's probably a little dizzy. And my arousal just bumped up a couple notches, 'cause --wow, his senses are just singing with this, and that touch was enough to give me a hit of pure lust.
"Wow."
Logan arches an eyebrow at me. "What?"
He wants to see my breasts. I didn't get fully formed thoughts, but I got some of the urges he was having, and seeing my breasts was definitely one of them. I give him a grin and reach for the buttons of my shirt. "You really are a breast man."
"You've got great breasts, Marie," he counters, his gaze dropping to my hand, watching me unbutton my shirt.
"Wait!" I pause, and Logan groans in a very frustrated, heartfelt kind of way. Man, he is so hot. "Safe word," I remind him.
"Okay," he mutters, "we need to call it something else."
"Like what?" I ask, innocently playing with the buttons of my shirt. I swear, my hand is about to burst into flames with the heat of his gaze.
Logan leans up and kisses me with a gratifying sort of desperation, then says, "I don't give a shit. Pick a damn word, Marie."
He's on the skinny edge of control, and knowing that it's me causing it, it's me making him tremble -- God. I don't think we're going to need a word, because any shot I had at control is disappearing in direct proportion to the length of time he looks at me like that.
I shake my head, unable to figure out how to say it. Damn it to hell. I wanted to feel his skin on mine. I want to feel his lips and his tongue and--
Yup. There went the last bit of my control. All gone. The mere *thought* of Logan's tongue--
Logan's staring down at me, a curious look on his face. Then he starts to grin. Smugly. "Picking a word would be purely academic at this point, huh?"
Bastard. I try to give him a haughty look, but he just slid one hand under my skirt and, well, it's hard to concentrate. "Sorry," I mutter, turning my face away.
"Hey," Logan says, skimming bare fingers along my cheek. Startled, I meet his gaze, which is what he must have intended all along. "Believe me, I've got a few ideas how to do this without needing a word."
My turn for a smug grin. "Oh, really."
"Marie," he groans, clutching at my back to pull me against his erection.
"You've thought about this before," I say, relief and wonder in my tone. "You've imagined--"
"Of course I've imagined this," Logan interrupts with an exasperated look. "You prance around in those leather pants and--" He slides his hand down my leg. "--these tempting little skirts."
"*Little* skirts?" I repeat with a laugh. "It goes down past my knee."
Logan snorts. "It's slit up to here, Marie," he counters, pressing his palm flat against my thigh to emphasize his point. It's a really, really good point, one that he should feel free to spend more time on.
Before I can come up with a response, he's moving, lifting himself off of me, and I'm really not happy with that at *all* until I realize that he's taking me with him. "What are you--? Oh."
He stands me up in front of him, one hand sliding through the slit in my skirt to torture me further. "One second," he tells me, and he sounds so calm that I'm left gaping in shock when he leans over and sweeps the remote control, two half-empty bottles of beer, and various other artifacts of daily life off of the coffee table.
"Logan!"
He's still ignoring me, pushing the table backwards a few inches, paying absolutely no attention to the bottles sluggishly spilling beer onto his hardwood floor. I start to move, intending to right the bottles, at the very least, but he reaches up, his hands landing low on my hips. "Sit down, darlin'," he orders.
Very ungracefully, I comply, dropping down to sit on the coffee table facing him. "And this accomplishes what, exactly?" I manage.
Logan's sitting on the edge of the couch, and he leans closer, his hands landing on my calves. Slowly, slowly, he drags his fingers up my legs, disappearing under my skirt. Between the sight of his hands on me and the feeling of, well, his hands on me, I'm quickly heading towards non-verbal.
"Access," Logan says, and it takes me a minute to figure out what the hell he's talking about. Then he grins at me. "Take off your shirt, Marie."
Uh...
I think that once, a long time ago, I could speak. Wish I could remember how. Closing my eyes, I reach up and unfasten the last couple of buttons, shuddering from the feel of his fingers tracing patterns on my thighs.
I shrug out of my shirt and open my eyes, my arousal kicking up a few more notches at the undisguised lust on Logan's face. Thank God I wore the cute bra tonight. He seems mesmerized by my chest, and I shift, leaning back on the table, which -- oh, look at that -- presses my breasts out further.
"You're so gorgeous, baby," he mutters, his hands moving suddenly farther up my legs. When he reaches the tops of my thigh-high stockings, his eyes go comically wide. He opens his mouth, but doesn't manage to come up with anything.
To see him so affected gives me a little bit of equilibrium back. I favor him with a slow, knowing smile. "Yup," I tell him. "Garters."
And then faster than I can react, he's standing and pulling me up against him. "Off," he orders, fumbling at my waistline. I go up on tiptoe to drag my tongue across his stubble. Close enough to his skin so he can feel the heat, but without the pesky putting-him-in-a-coma complications.
"You first," I tell him, tugging at his giant belt buckle. It's the one I got him a few years ago as a gag gift. An ugly-ass pewter thing with a small bear etched into the surface since I couldn't actually find one with a wolverine. When he opened the box, he laughed until a couple of tears leaked out, and he's worn it ever since. It's a sweet story, and usually I love to see him in it, but right now, it's an unacceptable obstacle between me and my goal.
"Careful," he warns, leaning back a little. He reaches up to my throat and tugs on the silk scarf I've got on. "Take this off," he orders, yanking his belt from the loops and tossing it haphazardly behind him. It bounces off the wall, the pewter buckle leaving a mark, but Logan doesn't seem to notice. With a relieved sigh, he undoes the buttons on his jeans, but he doesn't take them off.
"Logan," I protest, my fingers shaking almost too much for me to untie the knot in my scarf.
"Later," he tells me, those hazel eyes dark and intense. "I want you as close to naked as possible."
Speechless with lust. Again.
Wordlessly, I hand him the scarf and drop my skirt, standing before him in a bra, panties, garter belt, and thigh-highs. All in black. I make a mental note to thank Kitty for forcing me to buy racy lingerie. 'Cause I feel really, really, really self-conscious right now, but at least the lingerie's sexy.
Logan stands in front of me, my silk scarf hanging from one lax hand as his heated gaze rakes over my body. "Wow," he says finally. After wrapping the scarf around one hand, he reaches for me, tracing the lines of my body until I'm shuddering. Meeting my eyes, he quirks one eyebrow in question.
I want to kiss him, too. So badly. So I gather up the shredded remnants of my control and nod. "Make it fast, Logan," I warn him.
Snickering, he leans in. "Not gonna be a problem."
I'm still laughing when he kisses me. I press closer to him, my body flush against his, even though he can only touch me safely with one hand. My hands find purchase in his shirt, holding him tightly to me. It's quickly too much, and I have to push him away.
"Sit," he orders, easing me back down to the coffee table. I reach for him to pull him closer, but he slides to his knees. Those large hands of his land on my knees and ease them open, sliding up my thighs to the edges of the hose.
I'm breathing so quickly that I think I might hyperventilate before we actually have sex, but I'm so not willing to tell him to stop. Logan leans closer, draping the scarf over my midsection. His hot tongue traces the edge of my bra, the hard point of my nipple, the dip of my bellybutton.
There's a damp spot beneath me on the table, probably a ring of condensation from the beer he so cavalierly tossed onto the floor, but I can't be bothered to move. Not when Logan's touching me like this. My hands roam as much of him as I can touch -- his shoulders, his silly hair, his stubble-covered cheek.
"C'mere," I beg. "Logan."
"Not yet," he answers roughly. Sitting back, he pulls the scarf lower and gives me that damnable eyebrow. "You ready?"
Am I supposed to be able to answer that question? He's about to-- to--
And then he his, his mouth hot and insistent even through two thin layers of fabric. I can feel his breath in short puffs, and then his tongue pressing insistently against my center. I've been on the edge since I first kissed him, and he's so damn talented that it doesn't take particularly long for him to make me come.
I'm slumped flat on my back, my head dangling stupidly off the far edge of the table when I'm next aware of my surroundings. I manage to lift my head, expecting to see a smug grin on Logan's face.
He's still kneeling between my thighs, and the look on his face -- his beautiful eyes are just glittering with lust. For me.
God.
I reach one trembling hand out, my gloved fingers tracing his jaw. "Come here," I order, still breathing rather erratically. Because, damn, I want him right now.
My muscles are still weak and shaky, but I didn't go through years of physical training to miss out on *this* because of a little physical exhaustion. I push myself upright, staying on the edge of the table for the briefest of seconds before dropping onto his lap. His rough denim jeans chafe against my sensitized skin, but I couldn't care less about that, 'cause Logan's cupping my ass with one hand and loops the other arm around my neck to haul me up against him.
I wrap my arms around his rib cage and squeeze, pressing closer until I feel the burn of my powers opening up. My bare shoulder is touching his neck. Damn it.
I jerk away, but I've got another taste of him buzzing under my skin. Lust, still. Lots and lots of it, and it amps up my own reemerging desire to have him. Immediately. If not sooner.
Also, there's a swell of male pride and satisfaction for making me come. I blush a little at that, but it also kicks up my arousal another notch. The way he wants me -- I feel... I actually feel sexy in this poisoned skin. That's new.
And then the undercurrent registers, and it feels familiar. It's warm and comforting and joyful and protective. It feels like--
"You love me?" I blurt out.
And then I want to die, because, wow, could I have chosen a worse moment for *that* little declaration?
Logan frowns at me and I have to look away. He has a particularly nice chest and I chose to focus my attention there. Very nice pectoral muscles. Surely his t-shirt shouldn't be rumpled like that, so I decide to smooth the fabric. Mostly, though, I pretend as hard as I can that I'm not sitting mostly naked on his lap. That I'm not burning with adrenaline and dread, waiting for Logan to call the whole thing off.
When he doesn't say anything for a damn long time, I steal a glance. He's watching me, and now he looks pensive. Shit.
But all he says is, "You can tell?"
Blink.
What?
"What?" My voice is all high and strange but I can't be bothered with that because -- "What?"
Logan reaches up and brushes a lock of hair out of my face. "I didn't realize you'd feel things," he shrugs, "like that."
But.
But.
He's not denying it. He's not freaking out or getting all growly. He's--He's-- He--
"You *love* me?" I ask, but it's not really a question and he doesn't bother to answer with anything more than an exasperated look. Like Mr. We're Never Going To Have Sex Because You're Too Young is *surprised* that I never just assumed his demonstrated *lack* of interest in me meant that he loved me. Impossible man.
"Huh," I comment.
Now he's starting to look a little miffed. "That's it?" he asks. "All I get is 'huh'?"
Well, this has certainly turned into the strangest night of my entire life. Logan not only wants to have sex with me -- and let's pause a moment to savor *that* heady bit of information -- he also *loves* me, on top of which he's irritated that *I* won't say it to *him.*
Any second now I'm going to wake up in the mansion and implode with disappointment.
On the off chance that this is my new -- and, if I may say, fucking *fantastic* -- reality, I tilt my head to the side and give him an imperious look. "You'll get more," I assure him, leaning closer until his heated gaze drops to my lips. I center myself and kiss him. Hard. And this time I let myself linger, let myself pour all of the lust and love I feel for him into the kiss.
He's really, really, *really* good at this.
I reluctantly pull away when I feel my control wavering. "You just have to earn it," I tell him with an air of nonchalance, which is probably undermined by the way I can't seem to breathe normally. I keep taking in these gasping breaths, but I still feel lightheaded.
"Earn it?" he splutters, indignant. He's really cute when he's like that. Then he drags a hot, meaningful gaze down my body and "cute" comes nowhere close to describing him. "I *already* earned it."
Man, did he *ever.* I shiver a little just remembering his mouth on me. But if I can taunt him into earning it some more -- And there goes my control again.
God damn it.
Before I can refocus on the conversation, Logan's moving, shoving the coffee table away and laying me down on the floor. Thankfully, he managed to miss the pool of spilled beer from earlier, but the hardwood is cold against my back and I arch up with an undignified yelp.
Logan chuckles and leans over me, his expression almost mischievous. "You ready?"
God, yes.
The floor warms slowly beneath me and Logan's body is half on top of mine. Then he's touching me and I could give a flying fuck about the floor. His hands are everywhere -- my breasts, my thighs, my waist, my -- "God," I groan. "Yeah. Like that."
"Earn it," he mutters against my cloth-covered nipple, and he sounds almost amused this time. "Fresh kid."
That rouses me from my stupor and I shove one gloved hand into his pants to cup him. "I'm not a kid," I grumble, punctuating my point with some well-timed squeezes.
Logan growls and thrusts into my palm before he regains some control. Then he gives me the smuggest of grins. "You can't just *say* you're an adult. You've got to *earn* it."
Cheeky bastard. And yet I'm beaming up at him with what must be a truly daft expression. Because... wow. This is just... wow. I swear, I used to be an articulate person, but *you* try coming up with words when Logan's amazing body is on top of yours.
He lifts an eyebrow slightly, a look I'm fast learning means 'Get that control good and focused so I can kiss you senseless.'
That look is so hot.
I nod, and then we're kissing again. He's draped over me, a sexy suggestive weight on my body and he's got one hand on my breast and the other lifting my leg up to encircle his hips. The zipper on his jeans scratches my inner thighs and his heavy length presses against me.
"Logan!" I jerk away, just as my control abandons me.
Logan just nods. "S'okay."
I can't seem to stop moving. I'm clutching at his back, his arms, urging him closer. I want him as close as possible. I want him inside me. "Logan," I murmur, and even I can tell my voice sounds strange. Low and husky and all kinds of desperate.
Somehow Logan got hold of my scarf again and wrapped it around one hand. His fingers are digging into my hips, trying to hold me still as I shift restlessly against him.
His eyes are so dark and so beautiful as he stares at me. "Yeah," he says, and his voice is worse than mine. It's that, more than anything, that pushes me over the edge. Logan -- *Logan* -- is so turned on that I can hear it in his voice. I can't wait another fucking *second.*
"Earn it," I order, but it comes out like a plea.
Logan thrusts against me, dragging moans from us both. Then he rears back, sitting on his knees between my spread thighs. Before I can protest, he pops one claw and holds my gaze. I nod my assent and hold perfectly still while he slices a hole in my panties.
I never really thought of Logan's claws as *sexy*. Until just now. God.
Eagerly I watch Logan flip his wallet onto the floor and retrieve a condom. He eases his cock out of his boxer briefs and rolls the condom on, glancing over at me to gauge my reaction. I know men can't stand the thought of being compared to other men, but... Logan *so* doesn't have anything to be worried about.
I manage to tear my gaze away from his erection to find him smirking at me. Then he gives me the I'm-going-to-kiss-you eyebrow, and there's no way in hell I can handle that right now.
"Sorry," I whisper, staring at the collar of his t-shirt. The t-shirt that he has to wear so sex with me doesn't end up killing him. God, this must suck for him.
"Don't," Logan orders, moving with feral grace back to the cradle of my thighs. "I don't give a shit about that."
Other people might want flowery declarations of love at this precise moment, but for me, nobody could've said anything better. I nod, just a little, and reach down to guide him inside of me.
It's -- God. He feels amazing.
We can't kiss, so we just watch each other as he begins to move.
He starts off slow and gentle, giving me time to adjust to the feel of him inside me. But he's been hard for a long damn time now, and he speeds up almost immediately, thrusting harder. Faster.
I came once already and didn't really expect a repeat performance. But then I didn't realize how goddamn erotic it would be to have Logan moving above me. To have Logan moving inside me.
The floor presses mercilessly into my shoulder blades, into my spine, and my sweat-slick skin slides a little with every thrust. Above me, Logan shifts to balance on one elbow, his free hand still twisted in the scarf. He takes full advantage, tugging my bra down to expose my breasts to his eager grasp.
Hitching my legs higher on his hips, I clutch at his shoulder. In a way, I'm envious of him, because I want to see *his* naked body moving over me. Just the thought of the muscles under his shirt bunching and releasing as he moves -- I slide his shirt up so I can see. He's so damn beautiful, hard muscle and soft skin.
And I'm so damn close. Logan's starting to sweat, starting to move with a little bit of desperation. His fingers pinch my nipple, startling me with sensation. He cups my breast and leans down to give it a haphazard lick.
"Please," he says finally, the word bursting out of him like a gunshot. He's barely holding back, the muscles in his arms taut with his efforts at self-control.
I shift beneath him, reaching down between us to bring myself off. One, two, three quick circles and I'm flying again, arching up into him. The bare skin of our bellies touches for a brief second, and then Logan's coming, roaring with it, so loudly I can feel the sound all the way to my toes.
Even shaking with release, Logan's strong enough to hold himself off of me. I have no idea where our clothes are, and I don't have the energy to make sure we won't end up skin-on-skin if he collapses onto me. But he slides down my body a little, wringing a wordless protest from me, and fumbles with his shirt. I feel my now-crumpled scarf settle across my body, from throat to abdomen, just before Logan rests his forehead on my breastbone. Each hot breath puffs across my rib cage, making me shiver.
"You okay?" he asks.
I'm a trembling, sweaty mess and I'm going to have some serious bruises tomorrow from this damn floor. Yet I couldn't be better. "Yeah," I manage, running one gloved hand over his back. "I feel great."
A soft puff of air slides across my ribs. "You do," he confirms, easing himself off of me to flop onto his back beside me. He turns his head to look at me. It's strange, seeing him so close and... post-coital.
We just had sex. Logan. And me. We just *had sex.* Holy shit, I had sex with Logan.
I repress the sudden urge to squeal in glee or do a little happy dance. A giggle escapes, and I know I'm beaming at him as I give him a nudge with my elbow.
"So," Logan asks, one large, warm palm landing on my thigh. "I earned it?"
My smile softens, less triumph, more affection. "You earned it a damn long time ago, Logan," I tell him. Damn it. I sound all girly and emotional. I swear, my voice just *quivered.*
Logan rescues me from mawkish emotion with a positively wicked grin. "I think I would've remembered that."
"Smartass," I snort.
He watches me, his expression curious. "You're really not going to say it."
"*You* didn't!" I point out, wiggling closer to him on the floor. Because now that I can touch him, I don't ever want to stop. Clothed or unclothed, he feels *way* too good to stop.
"I didn't have to say it," Logan retorts, but if he's trying to look mad, he's failing miserably. He looks -- well, if I didn't know better, I'd say he looks happy. "You felt it."
I brush a quick kiss to his lips. "So did you." I raise an eyebrow in a pale imitation of his most sardonic look. "Didn't you?"
Logan actually laughs at this, his hand tightening momentarily on my thigh. "Yeah, you could say that," he admits, sitting up. Gracefully, he rolls to his feet and reaches a hand down for me. "C'mon, kid. Let's go to bed."
He pulls me upright, and I don't mind admitting that my legs feel a little on the wobbly side. But there's no way in hell I'd let Mr. I Earned It over there know just how strong his effect on me is.
Belatedly, I register that he called me "kid." Somehow, considering the situation, it doesn't rankle anymore. I just roll my eyes at him. "You're never gonna stop calling me that, are you?"
He doesn't let go of my hand, twining his fingers with mine as he leads me to his bedroom. I have to swallow an ill-timed surge of emotion, because I've been wanting him to take me to his bed for years now. And he is. And it's so fucking perfect.
Logan tugs the sheets back, urging me to climb into bed. "Do you really care if I do?"
Considering what we just did, considering where I finally am, I really *don't* care if he calls me kid. "No," I tell him as I pull him down beside me. "I kinda like it."
THE END
The Wolverine & Rogue Fanfiction Archive
Barely Legal Since 2000
Author's Chapter Notes:
Thanks to Em Meredith, Lulu, Philateley, and Meg for all the betaing and handholding. Also to Jo March for demonstrating her mastery of this particular form of narration for years and years -- I think maybe a tiny little bit might have rubbed off. Finally. :)