Her closet was depressing. Black. Green. Blue. Denim. Cotton. Knits. But at the back, never taken out of its bag, was the thing. A dress, no less. Dark red silk. Like a fall of blood kissing the curves of her breasts, the sweep of her waist and hips and legs. Swirling to mid calf in a way that exaggerated every step, every sway.
Taking it from the hanger, she hesitated, blushing. But the thought of it, of him, pushed her forward. She needed to own this. “A seduction,” she whispered.
“I’m going to seduce him.” Louder that time.
Her tongue darted out, her hair rippled around her shoulders, silver strands catching the light as she shifted to stare into the mirror. “Oh, Logan. I am going to seduce you.”
Her voice rang like a bell in the room, surprising her. The girl in the mirror looked different now. She looked like Marie, but her eyes shone with secrets and mysteries. The very set of her head spoke of joy and confidence.
It was time.
Marie dropped the dress over her head and shivered as the silk slid down, cool and erotic. Considered underwear, but after a moment of virginal panic, knew she had to go without. Tooth and claw … but tonight, her weapons would be her nipples, peaked at the feel of the silk, and the scent rising up, with nothing to disguise the slide and slick of bare thighs, bare mons, bare petals in between.
She dragged in a breath, smelt her own arousal, felt the slickness build. Boldness, it seemed, was its own aphrodisiac.
Her reflection stared back at her, gaze slumberous and heated. Marie smiled at that girl’s power, her liberation from other people’s mores. She stepped out of her room, locking the door behind, and headed down the hall to the garage.
She chose the Porsche, just for the feel of the leather on her bare ass. Fourteen miles of silk and leather and fast car; she was almost sorry when she pulled into driveway of the small house he had rented. He’d moved off campus after finally agreeing to teach full time; he was still at the Mansion fourteen hours a day, what with their extracurricular activities, but at least he was his own person at night.
She’d resented it, at first. Not now.
Now, she could slide from the car, walk to his front door, rap twice. A light burned upstairs, and she could hear the thump, thump-thump, THUMP of his nightly workout. When he lived at the mansion, she used to creep into the gym to watch him some nights. Since it was always after lights out, he would ignore her presence, choosing instead to address stray comments on technique to the punching bag. Did he know those nights had left her itchy in her skin? And later, a frenzy of masturbation so frantic that she couldn’t always make it back to her room? (One day, she would write a letter of thanks to whoever it was that had installed the first floor bathrooms right there, at the top of the stair.)
Not tonight. If he let her in tonight, her orgasm would be his gift. Her fingers would be busy elsewhere.
She heard him on the stairs before her knuckles had even impacted the wood, and she pushed herself to knock – loudly. Let there be no mistake. She was here; she was seeking entry to his den. Stalking in, like the lioness she was.
Marie was still smirking at her own conceit when he opened the door. The dim hall light didn’t allow her to see his features. (She knew them by heart, anyway.) Instead, it sculpted his form into mesmerising planes of light and shadow, with tiny sparks of light coursing their way down his bare chest and darkening the running shorts he wore. Sweat, she realised, her tongue darting out as if to taste.
“Marie?” He didn’t ask what she was doing here, or if she knew what time it was. Logan was never one to waste time on rhetorical questions.
“Yes, Logan. It’s time.”
He smiled, amused and indulgent, but a bit wicked, too. Raised eyebrows demanded she elaborate. Marie laughed, because she was no longer ashamed to be young and inexperienced. There was power in that.
“It’s time for me to claim you.” Mother Nature didn’t sit around waiting to be claimed. Nor would she.
When his jaw dropped, she could only assume it was her boldness that did it. They had always been honest in all things, except this. This they had avoided with a ten-foot pole.
“I’ve realised a few things. Things I always knew, but wasn’t ready to face,” she explained.
“One. I’m yours. I always have been, from that first night.”
She gazed steadily into his eyes, refusing to be cowed by the panic that lurked there.
“Two. You’re mine. Not Jean Grey’s, not Ororo’s, not any barfly or bimbo or random blonde who crosses your path. You’ll be leaving them alone now, and they can get their hands the fuck off!”
Yeow. Had she yelled that? Bottled it up for too long, probably. He looked a bit shocked. Her little tirade had killed the panic, and hello, that was much better. His eyes had shot down to her breasts, rising and falling with her anger, and her nipples stood to attention. He noticed.
“Three. I’m old enough. I’m ready.” Was he still panicked? Thinking about running?
“I’m naked under this dress, and I know you can smell it, and do you really think you can hide your hard-on in those shorts?”
He opened the door wordlessly, and turned his back on her to walk down the hall. Marie stepped inside, closed the door behind her, and followed him into the depths of the house. Enough of this silent shit. He had to commit to this too.
She found him in the shower room, flicking on the faucet.
“Logan?” She tried not to hear the touch of fear in her own voice, or the longing that was always there.
He gave a little huff, rueful. Resigned?
“You said it, Marie. I’m yours, always have been. Even when you were too young, too vulnerable to even look at an animal like me, I was yours. I thought if I stayed away, kept away, you might grow out of it, but … I’m not going to fight you.”
Anger boiled up. Words threatened to spill out, but she bit her tongue. Handling a wounded Wolverine was delicate work.
“Let me have a shower, and I’ll see you downstairs. We’ll open a bottle of wine, talk about this like adults.”
She stepped into the shower, turned it off. Wet silk, she discovered, felt like a wet dream. Worked like a dream, too, as she watched his cock jerk, and grow even further in the confines of the lycra.
Now. She had to claim him now.
She didn’t bother to turn around. The memories she’d ignored too long whispered of how he loved a woman’s shoulder blades, the tantalising line of vertebra that took a man south, the glory of buttocks high, and firm, and round. Logan could stare at a woman’s breasts for hours, loved to measure the span of a waist with his hands, but for hard and fast and goddamn wild … that was from behind.
Marie dipped to seize the hem of her skirt, and shimmied to lift it clear of her knees, thighs, the globes of her ass. Moved backwards, capturing his hardness in the cleft, and began to undulate. Damp lycra, hot skin above it and hard, hard, hard down below.
As she moved against him, his hands grasped her waist. To restrain her, she expected, but they caught in the red silk that bunched there, so were forced to move lower, to the jut of her hipbone. And once there, his fingers gripped as if in spasm. And soothed, and stroked. She put her hands over his, moving them lower still, but it was his fingers that slid forward, tracing lines of heat across her groin. Meeting in that dangerous territory between bellybutton and pubic bone, and stroking there, circles and dips and prelude to the dance.
Marie braced herself on spread legs and threw her head back to look into his face.
“Touch me, Logan. No more pretending.” It was a request, not a demand.
She felt the growl as it ripped from his chest, only to be muffled as he sunk his teeth into her shoulder. Not a bite, really, more possession and instinct and finality and reason at last. Together, at last. His fingers plunged deep inside her, collecting the juices to draw patterns on her abdomen, her thighs. His mark.
The feel of her skin under his fingers seemed to distract him, momentarily. Marie took the moment to gulp in the air she had forgotten to breathe. He stooped to run his lips across the nape of her neck and along her collarbone, soothing the fast-forming bruise with his tongue. She felt him smile.
“Your skin, Marie. I’m touching your skin.” She could hear wonder in his voice, and for the first time, she didn’t hate it. Hate her skin. Hate the Cure for taking it away.
“And here am I, still wearing silk!”
It was the wrong thing to say. Snick … and the cold kiss of adamantium pushed its way between them, the blunt edge of his blade tracing vertebra after vertebra down to where the skirt lay bunched above her waist. He flicked his wrist, and red silk pooled on the floor of the shower, blood swirling down a plughole. Marie was trying to focus, maybe protest the fate of her dress, when she felt the blades again. Tracing her sides with such tenderness that tears welled in her eyes. Arousal, she had expected, but this was reverence. A consecration.
Mesmerised, her eyes followed the gleam of adamantium as his claws kissed every part of her. Down the sides of her breasts, sliding under as if to test their weight on the blade. Inching over her nipples, so slowly the super-smooth metal seemed to drag like sandpaper. Twin tracks of sensation, either side of her sternum, parting to embrace the swell of her stomach. And joining together again, nudging aside her outer lips to allow the metal to touch her inner folds. She swallowed.
“Don’t move.” A growl so rough she knew he was at the edge of his control. The muscles in his forearms were tensioned like cables as he maintained perfect stillness.
Marie could not.
She jerked her hips, and a trickle of blood bloomed on his innermost blade. The same colour as her dress, she mused, as her hips bucked again, as if unable to believe that sharp pain could feel so good. But it was the thought of it that sent her over. His hands on her, his claws in her, sweat and silk and blood and blackness as the pleasure took her.
*
“Marie!”
He was cradling her, legs either side of her and arms crossed protectively over her midriff as they sat on the floor of the shower. She opened her eyes slowly, and immediately searched for his hands. No more claws. Her moue of disappointment chased the alarm from his face.
“You have a thing for my claws, little girl?” His voice had dropped an octave, rougher and harsher than normal. It was Logan, but the Logan that belonged to this new Marie.
“You have a thing for little girls, baby?” She could tease. Even with that, the ugly rumour that was never mentioned in their presence, for fear of a rabid Wolverine or vengeful Rogue. This woman, Marie, could sashay in and make it hers.
“Only one. And I’m thinking she ain’t such a little girl anymore.” His voice had regained its customary introspection, and there was a question there, too.
“No. I haven’t been for a while, but I clung on to it too long. It was safe.” School, jeans and t-shirts, even her trademark gloves still got worn occasionally. Mostly, though, it was the risk of losing him that had stopped her taking the final steps towards adulthood. Logan, father figure, in her life had seemed better than no Logan at all.
Marie lifted her head and looked straight into his eyes. They were beautiful in their softness, a green-gold glow that spoke of tenderness and happiness and even contentment.
“Thank you for looking after me for so long. Now it’s my turn to look after you.”
She meant metaphorically, of course. Spiritually. Physically, if he would allow her.
But he was a man, and when his cock leapt against her, she ignored his shame-faced protests and dropped her gaze.
She had memories that would help with this.
*
to be continued ...
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Author's Chapter Notes:
With thanks to Skybluerae for the beta. Sorry I forgot in chapter one!
Smut warning! The plot seems to have evaporated in this one. I promise I’ll rediscover it soon …
Smut warning! The plot seems to have evaporated in this one. I promise I’ll rediscover it soon …