Logan comes back from the mission in bad shape. Physically, he is fine – he always is – but mentally, this evening has taken a toll. Lab raids are always the hardest, and while Logan has seen everything from wholesale slaughter to unspeakable experiments on children, tonight's foray into the world of human cruelty has managed to shock even him. Tonight, he had to put down another mutant, one created to be his replacement and trained to exterminate the X-Men. This one's healing factor was not as strong as Logan's, and the metal reinforcement hadn't been completed; he didn't even have claws. That made Logan's grim job easier, but it left a gut-wrenching pain in him. Is that what he was like back then? Utterly feral, violent, without a trace of conscience or compassion? A thing, a tool for whoever created him?
He goes directly to his room, passing by Marie's. She always makes him promise to stop there when he returns, but he does not honor that promise tonight. She doesn't need to see him like this, and he is more than a little worried about how it might affect her if she did. To her, he is the hero - the invincible, unshakable protector. She needs that to feel safe, he tells himself, and he will not take that from her. He twists the knob with a quiet precision and enters.
The room is not how he left it. In the corner, there is a small, potted pine tree subtly decorated with a string of softly glowing lights and a dozen or so ornaments. Logan shakes his head, the black mood temporarily banished. He's been grumbling for weeks about not wanting to take part in the upcoming mansion Christmas celebrations – he'd told anyone who would listen, loudly and often, that he would not be buying presents, eating cookies, and defiling his sanctuary of a bedroom with glaring, garish décor. Everyone called him a grinch. Everyone but Marie, that is, and he knows that surely it is she who has given him the tiny pine tree.
He strips off his shredded leather jacket and sits on the floor by the tree, letting some of the tension bleed away from his body. He lets the lights transfix him, lets his mind drift. He does not notice when his doorknob turns, not even when the door creaks open to admit a petite, nightgowned brunette. It is not until she sits down beside him that he flinches and that the events of the night come back to him with a rush.
"Hey," she greets. He expects a rebuke for not stopping to see her, but she only sits there, smiling at him. Finally, he returns her nod. "I see you found the tree."
"Yeah. Thanks." This time, it is she who nods. "Look, Marie – it was a long night. I'll see ya in the morning, huh?"
She frowns, lays a hand on his thigh. "Are you OK?"
"Yeah. 'Course. I'm fine. Go on back to your room. I'll see ya tomorrow." She doesn't move, and Logan finally meets her eyes when he speaks to her. "Go on, Marie. I – it was a long night. You don't need to be here right now." He knows she is sensitive about things like this sometimes – like when he stops their sexual explorations, or whenever he turns her away from him in any fashion. He hopes she won't be too upset this time and he tells himself he will make it up to her in the morning with a trip out for breakfast. But she's not frowning; she's not doing anything but gently stroking his thigh.
"What do you need right now?"
"Not like this, Marie." Her eyes snap up, and now he does see a shadow of hurt in them but it is mercifully fleeting. "Darlin', it was bad. You need to get away from me for a while until I sort things out. I – I need some time."
"I don't think that would be good. I – I don't think you actually know what you need," she says in a tremulous, velvety soft, southern-accented voice. Logan finds that he can't argue. "Why don't you get in the shower and clean this off of you? I'll be right back."
Still numb even as he watches her go, he decides that it isn't a bad idea – he's covered in blood (his own and others') and black soot from a round of explosions that had nearly killed them all before they'd even gotten very far inside. He strips off the leather pants, leaves them in a heap beside the tree, and heads into the shower. His senses keep watch for Marie's return, and it is not long before he hears the door open and shut once again. This time, he hears her slam the lock home. He knows he should stop her; he knows he can't let things between them go too far. She's not ready. But the fact of the matter is that he *is* soothed by her company, and he is desperate for any salve now.
In a moment, she appears like a vision in the steam-filled bathroom. The clear shower curtain lets him see her without interrupting his ablutions. Made curious by her change in clothing – she'd been wearing a long white nightgown, but now he can't tell what she has on - he sticks his head out for a better look.
He immediately wishes he hadn't; she's wearing a sheer black body stocking that covers every inch yet leaves nothing to the imagination. "Marie – we – we can't. Darlin', I toldya – "
"I know." She reaches out a gloved hand to take his, holds on to it tight. "But I can give you what you need. Trust me." He is unsure, but he keeps the hold on her hand and watches as her eyes travel south, centering on his erection. He is feeling anything but frisky tonight, but his body unfailingly responds to her, and this time is no exception. "Do you want me to – "
"I will." He uses his free hand to begin with long, slow strokes. "Watch me." She nods, and he tightens his hold on her hand and lets his head loll back.
There is no holding back, no censorship of the act for her. He touches himself exactly as he does when he is alone; the only difference being that when he climaxes he both calls her name and squeezes her hand. When he comes back to himself, he sees her watching him with soft, gleaming eyes. She lets go of his hand and gestures for him to finish the shower, then heads out of sight.
He emerges to find her lying in his bed, beneath the covers. "Come here," she beckons and, despite his better judgment, he complies. When he lies down beside her, though, she does not move to kiss him or to intimately stroke him. She wiggles up, high on the pillows, and gathers him close, scooting him down until his head rests on her chest, between her ample breasts.
At that, all the tension – even the lingering bits his orgasm could not release – leaves his body. He melts into her completely. She twines her fingers in his hair and begins rubbing his back – slowly, soothingly. She was right – he had no idea he needed this, but, God, he did. He lets his eyes fall shut, and gives himself over to the feeling of being surrounded by her and her scent, held by her, soothed by her. In just a few moments, he sleeps.
Scott is in the middle of a long-denied round of self-satisfaction. Stuck on 'mansion duty' today, he had actually very much enjoyed spending the day with Kitty in the gardens. Indeed, watching her sweat, watching her on her knees, stealing glances at her cleavage – it has made it hard to wait to get back to the safety of his room.
He's made no advances to her, done nothing inappropriate. She's made small advances, subtle ones, ones he neither discourages nor encourages. As Scott thinks about this, he increases the pace and pressure with which he strokes himself, imagining himself being much more bold, much less proper.
In his mind's eye, he is taking her in the garden, on the frosty ground beside the pile of dead limbs she'd helped him clear away. She is on her back, legs splayed wide, and he is rutting into her shamelessly, seeking his own pleasure. His hand moves even faster as he imagines her reactions – arched back, parted lips, labored breathing. Moaning for him. Begging him.
Without warning, he is interrupted by a knock at the door. He doesn't answer and his hand doesn't stop moving. He is too close, and stopping now would be painful. He's felt like he's been carrying baseballs between his legs all day, and denying relief now is not an option. Whoever it is will just have to wait.
However, the intruder doesn't wait. She calls, "Scott?" and he immediately recognizes Kitty's voice. He tries to say something in response, but his body is hurtling toward orgasm and it comes out as only a groan. Hoping he locked the door, he hurries to finish.
He is not fast enough, and he did not lock that door – Kitty swings it wide open, gasping and averting her eyes as soon as she sees what he is doing. Scott moans and climaxes right then and there, in plain view of Kitty and anyone else who might happen to pass his wide-open door.
"Sorry! Sorry!" Kitty closes the door behind her, then realizes, much to her embarrassment that she's locked herself in, not out. Fumbling with the door and trying to quell her mortification, she keeps apologizing. "Sorry!"
"Kit," Scott pants. "Leave the door." He's not quite believing that he's gotten those words out, not quite believing the ones he's going to say next. "Come here." There is a terrifying moment when Kitty does nothing and he thinks that he's somehow read her all wrong, but then she turns and puts her back to the door. She looks at him directly but with wide eyes. The corner of Scott's mouth quirks up into a smile. He must be quite a sight – naked, disheveled, covered in the evidence of just how much he needed this release. "Come here," he repeats in a softer tone. This time, she complies.
To his great satisfaction, she kneels beside the bed. Giving him a steady look, she leans down and licks his bare stomach, following the trail of fine hair down to his navel. To his disappointment, she stops there, without tasting any of his climax. When she raises her head, her cheeks are flushed and her breathing has picked up. "Do you want me to – to get you off, um, you know, again?" she asks timidly, but in such a way that there is no mistake that she will do it. Her earnestness gives him pause. He still hasn't resolved his feelings for Jean and just because the woman offering him pleasure now stars in the vast majority of his sexual fantasies of late, it doesn't mean he is ready to embark on a relationship with her. He doesn't want to use her or hurt her. "It's OK," she says, leaning a bit closer. "I'd like to – to do it. If you want."
He still doesn't answer, can't answer, and she breaks the stalemate for them both by grasping his soft penis. "I'm – I'm not ready to – "
"I know," she assures, touching him only lightly there. Her warm mouth returns to his stomach and this time her tongue does sweep up more than a few pearly drops of his release. He grunts and sinks back into the bed. "Tell me what you want, what you like best," she urges when she has covered every inch of his torso with her tongue. That is altogether too close to his most fervent fantasies of her, and his spent penis is no longer quite so uninterested. "Tell me, Scott."
"I want you to suck me," he says plainly, trying to make the words gentle but unable to temper the heat in them. Surprised by the glimmer in her eyes – there is more than a little heat of her own in it – he adds before he can stop himself. "I want you on your knees sucking me. I want you to swallow." She nods and that glimmer is now a full-on fire behind her brown eyes. Scott rises to his feet and she remains on her knees, eyes centering immediately on his semi-erection. With one last look at his face, and a wish that she could see what was in his eyes behind that visor, she lowers her head and begins to pleasure him.
He already knows with the first few tentative sucks at his tip that this will be the best blow job of his life. Kitty's mouth is warm, strong, and her hands are busy as well, cupping his tender flesh. She takes him a little more deeply now, taking another inch with each bob of her head. Scott can't resist tangling his hands in her short hair and pushing her head in the rhythm he desires. She doesn't resist – in fact, she lets him guide her, show her how he wants it. When she begins moaning, he begins thrusting, and soon, he comes again. Kitty flinches, surprised, but swallows, just as he asked. Scott flops back to the bed, spent.
"Was that OK?" Kitty asks, creeping onto the bed beside him. He looks up at her bright, clear eyes and red lips. No, he hasn't resolved his feelings for Jean, he thinks, but he has resolved the ones he has for Kitty. He wants her, and he doesn't think that there's any going back now. Yes, part of him wanted to believe Jean when she'd come to him, asking to try again, but now he is not sorry that he didn't. At the time, it meant that he was letting a chance to work things out with Jean pass him by. Now, it means he can be with Kitty without guilt. He answers her question in a tone that does not let any of his inner deliberations show.
"It was perfect, Kit." She quirks a half-smile at him, and begins to slide off of the bed, making ready to leave. Scott grabs her hand, a bit clumsily, to stop her. "Stay." There is a question in her eyes when she looks at him. He's not ready to tell her all of it, not even ready to say in words that he wants her even though he's just finished screaming it out with his body. Instead, he puts on a grin of his own and tells her, "You haven't had your turn yet."
Kitty's eyes get wide, but she lets him tug her back to the bed and put her on her back. Without words, he strips her from head to toe, leaving her gloriously naked. He just looks at her for a moment. Like everything he sees, she is in shades of red. But for some reason, instead of seeing her as the skewed representation of reality that he sees mostly every red-filtered image as, she seems to be to him something like a thermal map – redder at her lips, her sex, her nipples. "Scott?"
"Just looking at you." Her eyes dart away from his face. "You're really beautiful." Her cheeks flare with warmth, and then it dawns on him – she appears differently because that's what she is to him – warmth personified.
"You're not too bad yourself." He chuckles at that before setting to his task. Spreading her legs apart, not so much that she'll feel too vulnerable, too exposed, but enough to let him get more than an ample look at her, he slithers down her body and begins with soft, tentative licks. Kitty is responsive beyond his wildest dreams, and Scott is soon lost in pleasuring her. He is careful not to bruise or scrape her with the visor, but other than that, he laps at her with abandon. Soon, she is groaning, panting, and screaming his name.
Suddenly, her body clenches and she cuts off her last plea for more with a gasp. Everything stands still for a few seconds and then she convulses, writhing and bucking so hard that Scott cannot keep his mouth where he wants it. But soon, she stills, body completely slack, and his tongue is pressed against her heated flesh again, this time bathed in a rush of slippery moisture. At first, Scott thinks how unusual and how wonderful it is that she orgasms this way, that she becomes so wet in response to his ministrations. But then it dawns on him that perhaps this isn't so unusual; perhaps Jean hadn't ever really been as satisfied with his attentions as she'd pretended to be. That thought saddens him, and he pulls away from his present partner.
Kitty seems to sense his change in mood, and when he arranges himself so that he lies beside her, facing her, she gently strokes his arm with one slender-fingered hand. "You OK?"
"Yeah. Just – just thinking."
Kitty can guess that his thoughts might be about Jean, so she offers, "Scott, this – what happens between us is up to you. I'm not going to push you, but I'm not going to wait around for you either. It's up to you."
He thinks for a moment, licking his lips and tasting again the evidence of her satisfaction, the evidence of his prowess. "Stay here tonight, OK? Sleep here." She nods, and that is enough for both of them, for now.
Jean stares up at the ceiling, wondering just how the hell this has happened. She steals a glance at the man sleeping beside her in bed, thinking that he looks even younger than Scott did at his age. Wryly, she wonders if she just has a thing for younger men. After all, how else can she explain winding up in bed with St. John?
They have nothing in common. She doesn't think him particularly handsome, not in the way that Scott is, at least. He is woefully inexperienced and sometimes immature. But when he flirted with her a little more boldly than usual, she found herself flirting back, and nine beers and three shots of tequila later, they were unabashedly fucking like animals.
Maybe it's the stamina, Jean muses, or maybe she just likes playing the role of teacher. Smirking to herself, she thinks – St. John surely still has a lot to learn. Still, he did bring her to orgasm, and that surprised her – it hadn't happened with Scott until after a dozen or so times they'd been together. St. John was clearly getting a little practice in somewhere.
But there were things she'd had to take the lead in – he'd never let a woman be on top, didn't know that he needed to signal her before coming during oral sex, and he was mostly either too rough or too gentle with her breasts. Remembering that he hadn't, however, needed any instruction in how to use his fingers while he took her from behind, she smiles and slides a hand toward the moist flesh between her legs. He'd given her one orgasm, but that isn't going to be enough tonight.
She begins touching herself, slowly, lazily. She has time, and after all, it is only fair – St. John came three times tonight, and she owes herself this. Tomorrow, she can rebuke herself for sleeping with a former student, for losing control, for drinking too much, but she's going to thoroughly enjoy tonight while it lasts.
Jean works on herself for nearly an hour before she is even close to release. Teasing, letting herself *almost* climax, intensifies the orgasm for her when it finally does come. But before she can finish, her lover awakens, and notices her efforts. She is startled when his hand stills her busy one – she had been too caught up in her own sensations to notice that he was waking – but she quickly pushes his hand away and goes back to touching herself. He gives her a questioning look, clearly not getting it, so she spells it out for him, "I need to come."
That prompts a smile, and he grabs her hand away once again, more forcefully this time. Moving over her and spreading her legs, she thinks first that he can't possibly be hard and ready again, but then he slides inside her in one powerful stroke, proving her wrong. She can't help but give out a little moan, even if this is not exactly what she wanted. "I'll make you come," he says, beginning to thrust and find a rhythm. Jean has her doubts, but after a few moments, he slides that talented hand between their sticky bodies and presses one finger to her flesh right where it counts.
"John!" she cries, arching her back and clenching her body more tightly around his. "God!"
He goes faster, harder, and before long, Jean's promised orgasm arrives, washing over her and making everything recede except the sensations, everything including St. John. After she comes back to herself a bit, she realizes he is still pounding hard into her; he hasn't found his release yet. She shifts beneath him, angling her hips so that he has a tighter fit. Judging by the grimace of pleasure on his face, this is a good idea. "Gonna come, Jean," he warns. "Gonna come!" And then he does, spilling inside her. She again thinks to herself that perhaps they should've used a condom since she isn't on the pill anymore, but assures herself that she should still be several days away from ovulation. St. John pants and raises up to look at her. "God, that was good."
"Mmm-hmmm." She gently pushes at his stomach, prompting him to get off of her. He obliges, then slumps into a satisfied heap beside her on the bed.
"You staying here tonight?"
"You have a problem with that?" She isn't sure she wants to stay, but she certainly doesn't like being told to go.
"Hell no. I'd rather you did." St. John props himself up on one elbow and meets her eyes. "Look, I know things between you and Scott aren't – I know there hasn't been a clean break there. But I'm not asking for a commitment. I'd just like to hang out with you."
Jean frowns a bit at how terribly young that last part had sounded. "Just the sex, then? Is that what you're thinking?"
"I'm not gonna lie – I loved the sex. And I'd like more than that, if you want. But I'll settle for what I can get from you. Jean – you've – you've always kinda been my fantasy woman, you know? You're, like, *it*. You're the dream. Hell yes, I wanna have sex with you, as much as possible."
Jean's frown fades at his unguarded compliments. They are a sorely needed boost to her self-esteem at the moment. "I'll stay. Don't snore, though, all right?"
"Deal," St. John smiles, then snuggles down into the blankets. He is more than pleased that she is staying, and he watches her as she drifts off to sleep.
Hank, too, is spending part of the night wondering how he wound up with the person currently sharing *his* bed, but his thoughts have no shame or regret connected to them, only astonishment. His colleague, the woman he's fantasized about so often, is naked, pressed to his side, and, at the moment, stealing most of his covers.
He'd come back from that horrific mission with Logan, lucky to be alive and bearing more than a few wounds from the battle. The 'date' (he resolutely refused to think of them that way, but that's what Ororo insisted on calling them) with his colleague, Keli, was all but forgotten in the aftermath of the fight. Forgotten, that was, until he returned to his lab to find her dressed in very nice clothes and waiting patiently for him.
As he remembers the events of the evening, Hank wiggles an arm around her now, gazes at her as she sleeps and sighs, cuddling closer to him. He'd fumbled through apologies, inwardly berating himself that this was most assuredly *not* the way to see that these nice trips out with Keli eventually did turn into actual dates, and trying to mentally calculate whether he could patch himself up, shower, and dress in time to still get to any of the city's nicer dining establishments with her. She hadn't said a word, not one. She'd let him go on and when he'd finally run out of apologies, she'd flung herself at him for a full-body hug, followed by gentle kisses to his furry cheek.
Somehow, before he knew it, her lips had found their way to his, and she was touching him - *touching* his wretched blue body – all over. Despite the horror and carnage of the night (or perhaps because of it) he found himself pushing aside his questions and doubts and responding with only fierce need and desperation. Clothing hit the floor, his blue-furred rear hit his plush leather office chair, and Keli climbed on top of him. It was not tender or gentle – it couldn't have been mistaken for anything but wild – but somehow, she'd made it feel loving, too. All of those things he'd long imagined about being with a partner were realized, and at the end, she found her release and collapsed into his arms, holding on to him tightly.
There *is* a little shame for him in thinking back to that part of it – after they'd finished, when she'd wrapped herself around him, he unaccountably began to cry. Not big sobs, not big tears – he'd mostly held it in – but she'd seen it. Keli hadn't seemed offended, or put off, but Hank worries now over his inability to control the emotions created by their intimacies. He needs to keep them in check, he thinks, in order not to lose this opportunity with her. He can't do anything to scare her off, to somehow ruin the miracle of her wanting to be with him, and doesn't want her to think of their lovemaking as an act of charity or pity. He hopes that is not what it was to her. Whatever bits of an optimist, dreamer instead of scientist, that there are left in his soul, whisper to him that it wasn't, that it was so good that it can't be.
Keli shifts in her sleep, and flings a leg over him. Hank's eyes roam down her body, drinking in the exotic sight of a naked female back and the swell of a full breast. Those breasts were even more enticing than he'd imagined. He traces her curves with a knuckle, just lightly, so as not to wake her. He thinks back to how light and small she seemed in his arms as he carried her to the bed. She hadn't protested staying the night, and he hopes she will be okay with what has happened in the morning. Turning his light caress into an open-palmed but still gentle squeeze, he lets his mind drift back to how it felt to be with her, to how good it was. He feels himself begin to grow hard in response to the remembrance of their passion. For just a few moments, he lets the optimist in him surface again and he hopes that when she wakes, she will not only be untroubled by their lovemaking but that she will also desire him again, and that he can feel that elusive thing called love once more.
Marie shifts in her sleep and wakes with a start. Finding Logan gone, she begins to panic a little, thinking maybe it was too much, maybe she'd been too pushy – maybe he'd run. But before she can scramble out of bed to search for him, he appears in the doorway, clutching her scarf in one hand and something she can't quite make out in the dim light in the other.
"Went lookin' for somethin' to use to kiss you awake with," Logan explains while kicking the door shut behind him. "Found somethin' interestin' in your scarf drawer." Marie gasps as she immediately realizes what he has found. "How long've you had this?"
"I – I – Jubes made me get it," she half-lies.
"But you've used it," he smirks back, and she suddenly remembers that there isn't any arguing with his sense of smell. "It's okay. Don't be embarrassed."
"I don't think non-embarrassment is possible." She watches his expression soften and since she'd expected bemusement or even teasing, she shoots him a confused look. "What?"
"I don't hide anythin' from you. I didn't hold back before, in the shower. You don't hafta hold back with me, Marie."
"But you don't think of me like that, like – " She's about to say 'like something less than innocent' but he's brought the scarf to her lips, interrupting her.
"I guess I didn't think of you that way before. But I kinda like knowin' that you – that you use this." He pictures her doing just that, imagining the toy is him, losing herself in passion. All of a sudden, even the loose boxers he threw on for his journey to her room seem restrictive. "I wouldn't mind usin' it with you." Her eyes get *really* wide at that and the blush she's been wearing ever since he came in the room deepens to a tomato red. He is undeterred. "I could show you things, show you how I move, how I'd do it."
"We could just do it," she splutters through her embarrassment.
Logan weighs the option for a few moments. Finding this has clearly shown him that she's readier than he thought, but he still hesitates. "Let's do this first. We have time, Marie, there's no rush."
"But, Logan, I want – I want you."
"I know baby," he murmurs as he slides down next to her on the bed. "I'm not goin' anywhere. You got me. Just relax and let me do this for ya, okay?"
She just looks into his hooded eyes for a long time but finally, she nods. He sets the toy at her side, and begins with the promised kisses. The scarf is thin and filmy enough that she can feel the heat of his lips very well. He leaves no inch of her face untouched. When he reaches her neck, she feels him shift and reach a hand over to caress her body-stockinged breast. The material covering her body is so thin, so sheer, that she can almost convince herself that it isn't there. She wonders if he is doing the same thing.
His mouth and tongue slither downward across her body in an achingly slow fashion. He smiles as he feels her arch beneath him, trying to speed the process. Strong hands hold her hips to the bed as he begins nipping at her breasts, then sucking them wholeheartedly. This causes her to squirm and arch all the more, and in turn, causes Logan to become even harder for her. Her responsiveness to his touch is something that never ceases to amaze and arouse him. That she can be so trusting, so pleasured, by the same hands that shot out claws and stabbed her through the chest is astounding to him, nearly miraculous. Part of why he has gone so slow with her is because he doesn't want to push that unbelievably good luck.
Before either of them quite realizes it, his hands are between her legs, stroking, pleasuring. They have done this only twice before and the newness of it still affects them both. For Logan, the rush of her thickly aroused scent is the best part; for Marie, it is the gentleness with which he touches her. When she is moaning his name, he disengages a bit, tears himself away from those alluring breasts, and props himself up to look at her. "Wanna taste you, Marie."
"Mmmm…." is all she can manage at the moment. He splays her legs wide and rubs his face against her several times before she feels his lips and tongue begin to explore her through the sheer material. She sighs, and gives herself over to his attentions. He has never done this before, and she wonders whether he will bring her to orgasm this way. Her doubts are soon resolved when she feels the tension in her body begin to build. Logan keeps up his pace as her legs and belly tense. In a flurry of spasms, she explodes, and he gives her several long, soothing licks to help her come down. When she realizes she's wrapped her legs around his head, she is a bit embarrassed, but the pleasure he's just given her has washed even that away for the most part.
"Felt so good." She hasn't caught her breath as well as she'd thought – it still comes out in pants and puffs along with the words.
"Relax now, baby," he instructs her, reaching for something. The toy – she'd almost forgotten about it. "Keep your legs open and keep real still for a second." She hears the *snikt* of a lone claw extending and realizes he means to cut a hole in her body stocking. He does, but then he suddenly jerks the claw in, and pops his head up to see her face. "I, uh, I didn't mean to just……."
"It's OK," she soothes, and she means it. He has much better control with the claws than he'd ever have with a knife or scissors. "It's really OK." Her hand reaches out to caress his arm to reaffirm the words. Burning hazel eyes still hold an apology, so she adds, "I'm not afraid of them."
"I hurt ya with 'em, before."
"Just like I hurt you with my skin."
"It ain't the same thing."
"It's exactly the same thing."
"You're not a freak." That startles her. She sits up as he backs away from her.
"Logan…….you're not either. You know that, right?"
"They – they made me, Marie. I'm a thing, not a person. They made me to kill with 'em, they gave me these damn claws to do the killin' for 'em." His mind flashes back to the mission, to the approximation of himself that he'd had to put down. "I'm just a thing."
She shakes her head, grabs his wrist to pin him to the bed and prevent his departure. "Hey – that's not right. You're not – you're not – " It occurs to her suddenly that she could probably tell him he *wasn't* all those bad things until she was blue in the face; he wouldn't believe it. Maybe she should tell him what he *was* instead. "You're my man." The words were plain, and the possession in them was too. "You're mine, right? That means that you're a very good man. You're good to me." Judging by his pressed-together lips and glistening eyes, she is reaching him. "I love you, everything about you, and Logan – I *know* you. You're a good man."
His bare hand nestles in her hair. "I think that's 'cause you make me that way."
"No," she answers thickly. "I think it's because nothing can change that about you, nothing, no matter what." He doesn't argue, just gives her a lop-sided smile. "I – I love you, you know? I love you a lot."
"I know, darlin'." He does, he really can feel it from her, and it is probably the only thing that has ever truly given him peace and comfort in his remembered life. "I didn't mean to go off on a tangent there. I – lemme get back to takin' care of you, OK?"
Marie nods, and lets herself fall back to the bed. She is still wet, ready for his exploration with the toy, but he thinks it somehow wrong to just plunge ahead. Instead, he carefully uses the scarf to stroke her bare flesh, waiting for it to be dampened with thick evidence of her arousal before proceeding.
He teases her with it, first, running just the tip of the toy against her heated flesh, making it slick with her juices. Tentatively, when he thinks she is ready, he begins to enter her with it. He is slow, but unrelenting, and he takes her deeply, almost flattening his palm against her body when it is all the way in. Marie reaches for the pillow above her and digs her fingers into it. "That's how I want it, darlin'. One long stroke. All the way in. Deep, real deep. Gotta have all of you, baby."
With that, he begins to work the toy in and out of her. He does so in a languid, almost lazy rhythm, and notes with satisfaction that she is unconsciously matching his thrust with slow ones of her own. "Yeah, like that," he encourages. "Hafta know you want it too, Marie, I hafta feel it."
"I want you so much," she breathes, matching his subtle increase in pace.
"Want you too, Marie." She lets out a little grunt and turns her head to the side as it starts to get good. "Yeah, that's it. That's it." He can see her legs tensing and her lower abdomen begin to quiver. "Fuck, yeah." He picks up the pace, going rigorously now, and she matches him yet again. "You want more baby?"
"Harder? Faster? Tell me what you like." His tone has dropped to a velvety whisper, something sexier than anything she has ever heard.
"Deeper," she pants, "deeper, please, Logan………"
Without breaking his rhythm, he reaches for the scarf with his free hand, then uses it to grasp the toy. He pulls out of her and lingers there for a moment, with just the tip still inside. Her eyes flutter open and she turns to look at him, wondering why he has stopped. What she sees is a look unlike any other she's ever seen on him, like nothing she's ever felt from him before, not even in his own memories. It is passionate and wild and desperate, but there is a pervasive tenderness in it too. "You're mine," he tells her, slamming the toy home in one urgent motion.
"Ahhhh!" Her head thrashes back to one side and her scent becomes a dozen times more alluring.
"Mine," he repeats, punctuated by another deep thrust. The tips of his thick fingers that are holding the toy enter her body this time. "I'm gonna be the only one to fuck you, to have you, to make you come. You're gonna be the only one I come inside." More thrusts, more moans from Marie. "Gonna give it to you any way you want it, baby, any way you need."
He lets out a low growl and begins pumping the toy furiously into her. In just a few moments, she begins to thrash. He puts a hand on her body, just below her breasts, to hold her in place as he continues working. "Feel it, feel it, Marie! Come for me!"
She complies with his demand as soon as his words are out. Screaming, moaning, thrashing and gasping for breath, she comes back to herself to find him still pressing the toy into her convulsing body – not thrusting, just holding it inside her. "Oh God, Logan………"
"That's how it's gonna be," he says in a low, quiet voice. "I'm gonna be on top, and I'm gonna take you just that way. I won't stop until you get off and get off good. That's how it's gonna be." She blushes at the explicitness of his words, and at her vulnerability, still laid out open before him and penetrated. He leans closer to her. "It's gonna be so damn good between us, Marie. Like nothin' I've ever had in my whole life."
"Me either." His eyes flash with sadness and she regrets the words – they've triggered memories of what she's told him about her sexual past, and none of it is pleasant, as she well knows. "Hey," she whispers, "I know it won't ever be anything but good with you, and safe. I couldn't ever be with anyone like this, not anyone but you."
He nods, and, finally, he eases the toy out of her, and lays it on the bed beside her. She can feel the wetness of it pressing up against her thigh as Logan begins to rub a hand all over her body. "I dunno how much longer I can wait," he muses.
"You don't have to wait at all," she offers. He considers it, but then seems to take a pass, giving up contemplation for continued caresses of her pink skin through the body stocking. "Logan, I mean it – I'm ready. I'm ready whenever you are."
She thinks for a moment that he will give her some excuse, put her off once again, but then he casually says, "Now?"
Breathlessly, she nods. He smiles, and finally - *finally* - gives up the wait.