Logan rubbed his hand absently over the crotch of his jeans as he waited for the girl to get ready, enjoying the muted sensation against his semi-aroused flesh. He was in no hurry. He wanted this to last.
Finally, she emerged—and he nearly swallowed his tongue at the sight of her.
Long, rich brown hair, longer than he’d thought, tumbled down past her shoulders in soft curls. The makeup made her look less tired, made her eyes and lips look even bigger. A short, clingy black dress revealed a figure that was a little underweight, but still much curvier than he’d realized.
She had on black gloves that came up past the elbow. He’d never seen a woman wearing gloves like that, but he found he liked it.
He really, really liked it. “You look so good,” he breathed.
She forced a smile. “Thank you. Um, is this the music ya like?” she asked softly. “Want me to dance to this?”
“Yeah, baby. Yeah.” Logan’s eyes continued traveling down her long, toned legs encased in sheer black nylons as her body began to sway . . . and then he saw the four-inch stilettos.
Instead of his usual reaction, he felt a pang of guilt. He remembered how she had been on her feet all night, carrying trays and pitchers. He remembered how exhausted she really looked underneath all that makeup, and how he hadn’t seen her eat anything in the four hours he’d spent at the restaurant. “You—you don’t have to wear those, baby,” he said, gesturing to the heels. “You don’t have to dance in those.”
She stopped moving. “Oh. Are—are you sure?”
He nodded, feeling a little bit better when she slipped off the stilettos. He downed a generous swig of bourbon.
She started to dance again, and it was good. He breathed her in, feeling himself gradually relax as she did. Her hips moved in a mesmerizing pattern, silk-clad hands traveling up the sides of her body to play with her soft, touchable hair. No hairspray. That was good. That was really good. He settled back in his chair and took another drink.
“So pretty, baby,” he muttered, entranced as she let the saxophone guide her lithe body. “Dance for me. Just for me. Just how I like it, darlin’.”
It was everything he wanted, the burn of bourbon in his throat, the rich saxophone, her slowly relaxing scent and the sight of her dancing just for him, the rub of denim against his sensitive flesh whenever he shifted in his chair. All his senses were thrumming. Perfect.
The music went on, unhurried, drifting up and down the notes in no particular direction. She took her time, drifted along with it for endless minutes. But then . . .
Her scent started to change, as she eased her hands down to the hem of her dress and began inching it up. She didn’t pause the movement of her hips, didn’t miss a beat, but she turned her face away, and he knew—he knew she was going to cry.
“Don’t,” he found himself saying. “Don’t—you don’t have to. Don’t worry about that. Just keep dancing.”
She nodded silently, letting the dress fall back into place. Logan made himself watch, but it wasn’t as good anymore. He knew she was grateful for his words, for his generosity in letting her keep the dress on. But the scent of her unshed tears still hung in the room, heavy and thick, and part of him wanted to stop this altogether, wanted to shove the three hundred at her and say he was sorry for he didn’t know what and tell her to get her stuff and go.
He sat stiff in the chair and watched, and loved it, and hated himself for loving it. When the fuck had he become the good guy?
Time passed. He had no idea how many minutes drifted by as the turmoil played itself out in his mind. "Do you feel okay, baby?" he finally asked, the question surprising him as much as it surprised her. "I mean, is this okay for you?"
"It's okay," she whispered.
"Good," he said. "I-I want it to be okay."
Something came over her features. Something better than anything he'd seen before.
Everything changed.
“Maybe you could . . . dance with me,” she offered, nervous, sweet, intoxicating.
The Wolverine & Rogue Fanfiction Archive
Barely Legal Since 2000