Chapter 13

I'm bare-boned and crazy for you

Dave Matthews Band, Crash into me

"How was your date, mon ami?"

Remy sighed and slid into the vacant seat across the table from JP. The grandfather clock in the hallway moaned the early hour. "Fuckin-tastic."

The Canadian shook his head disappointedly. "You know, you're in this mess for that exact reason."

"Figured dat out, t'anks very much. An' I expect my suit back—cleaned." He pinched the bridge of his nose and let out a tired sigh. "I swear, JP, you're worse dan a petite soeur (little sister)."

His friend chuckled. "Not my fault you can't clean up after yourself. I would have thought that after I found the bra you would have had the good sense to return it to its owner." He scooted down into his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. "So."

Remy stifled a yawn. "So?"

"At the risk of sounding more like a little sister, do you like her?"

"Who?"

A pause. "Betsy."

He seemed to think about it for a moment, his teeth absently chewing at his bottom lip, and he pressed his palms into the coffee-colored wood of the kitchen table. "Yeah, she fun." He pulled his hands back; dewy silhouettes stared back at him. "Not sayin' I wan' marry her, but, oui, I have a good time wit' her." He kept his eyes on the wood; the moist outlines of his hands evaporated slowly until it was as though his touch had never occurred. He wished words could lift that easily.

His date with Betsy had been fine. When she had come to him, strawberry lips plumped out in a perfect pout, and asked if they could have dinner, he had been aching for contact. It was a terrible thing, he realized, the need for touch. And she had such a wonderful mouth. And he had needed to occupy his with something other than bitter apologies.

When she came to his room, dressed in a lovely black gown with slits clean up to her waist, he had been very glad that he had agreed to the date. Seemed strange, he admitted to himself, to go out with a casual fling, but what the hell, after all. Besides, what else was he to do? Sit around and think about Rogue? Think about the shitty things he had said to her and the shitty things she said back? Why? To what purpose? So, he'd grabbed his sports jacket, opting to leave his trench coat slung over the back of a chair, pressed a feather light hand into the small of Betsy's back and took her to the city.

They'd gone to a wonderful little French restaurant. She'd had a deep red wine that stained her lips when she sipped it. Lips, the color of wine, and he wanted nothing more than to taste them. He ordered a bottle to go and they skipped dessert, hurrying home to her bedroom. He made her drink another glass, watched as her berry lips stained a passionate purple-pink, and set his insatiable thirst against her perfect mouth. His tongue had a mind of its own, flickering across her lips, drinking them, tasting them, memorizing the plumpness of their curves before plunging past a moist moan and searching for its dance partner.

He'd pushed her back against the bed, his fingertips swirled whirlpools up her thigh while the other hand moved down her neck. Her legs parted and he settled in between them, the heat of his body hot against her chest. She reached up, freed his button-down shirt from the top of his trousers and ran her hands underneath. His stomach muscles clenched. She sighed, her fingers lazily outlining each of his abdominal muscles with the accuracy of a practiced artist.

He watched her lips. Those beautiful, wine-colored lips.

When she whispered his name, he flinched, confused by the heavy British accent. He searched her eyes. Half-closed violet slits, heavy-lidded with lust, shown back at him.

It didn't matter that he had gone out; he was still thinking about Rogue.

"Remy…" she purred again.

And he closed his eyes…

He raised them now, red fire against a black night, and set them in a hard look. JP was watching him, scrutinizing him, weighing his silence, his half-truths, sorting through the inconsistencies of his character. That was the problem with having friends from childhood, they knew too much. He heaved a sigh, pushed away from the table, stretched.

"Gotta go, mon ami. Got an early mornin'."

JP nodded, the mind behind his blue eyes still sifting, focusing, understanding… "Bonne nuit, mon ami. Tout est plus clair le matin. (Good night, my friend. Everything is clearer in the morning.)"

And Remy wondered how he knew so much…or if it was just a façade…like the one in which he had just participated.

X

She was lying in bed, staring at the clock's digital display. It wouldn't sound for another ten minutes but she couldn't bring herself to get up before it did. She needed this time to prepare herself—psyche herself up to face him—convince herself to not be lost in the dichotomy that was Remy Lebeau. She had to pick one way to see him, because one was easier—one could make sense. But the conflicted facets of his personality confused her, left her unsure of which Remy was real and which was undeniably a lie.

It was her first instinct to assume that the nice, friendly Remy—the one with whom she had shared cookies and soda—was a fake, an attempt to butter her up, to worm his way in to hurt her again and again. And yet—he'd been so real, so…genuine…when they'd shared the kitchen in the early morning hours that she could all but convince herself that he had been acting.

She rolled away from the clock and faced the cream colored walls of her bedroom. That night had made her trust him—or, worse yet, it made her want to trust him…to like him… She squeezed her eyes tight but a tiny tear managed to eek its way out. Let it go, Rogue, she breathed, it was all a lie. A giant, calculated lie. It would be so much easier if it were all a lie.

Behind her, the alarm sounded. Turning around, she pressed the snooze button. She just needed a few more minutes…

X

The sparring session was to take place in the Danger Room. Rogue shifted on uneasy feet before pushing through the metal doors that led to the large room. She had mentally prepared herself for all kinds of scenarios: an urban neighborhood, a dilapidated building, a wheat field, even the moon, but what she saw before her now, caused a tightening in her neck and set her teeth on edge. This, she thought swallowing, this, she had not expected.

One wall of the vanilla-colored room consisted of mahogany-framed windows that ran from ceiling to floor. Wooden blinds, so thin she was certain they were paper, covered the glass. The artificial sunshine pouring through them made them almost opalescent. The room was a rectangle, with the windowed wall and its opposite twice as long as the ends. The remaining three walls were home to various artwork skillfully framed and smartly identified by a small plaque beneath each work. Spread out in the middle of the floor was a large mat that reminded Rogue of weeds she'd seen growing along the Mississippi River. Curiously, she dropped to a squat, peeled away a glove, and ran her hand against the coarse material. Sort of felt like the weeds, too, she decided, before stuffing her hand back into its force field.

"Good morning, Rogue," Ororo's bright voice came from behind her and she turned just in time to see the weather goddess bound through a pair of dark wooded doors.

"This is some holograph," she whistled, waving her hands about the room. "Ah even had to feel the mat," she added, almost apologetically.

Ororo nodded. "I did, too," she whispered, stopping to squeeze Rogue's shoulder. "Even feels real." She swung her head down, gathering her silver locks into a single ponytail at the top of her head. As she weaved in the hair-tie, she set her blue eyes on her young friend. "You might as well sit down, Rogue," she started, taking a seat on the weedy mat, "I expect Remy to be late." Her eyes sparkled with amusement at the admission.

"Isn't it supposed to start at six?" Maybe she'd misunderstood the Cajun? There was no way Ororo was okay with a session's tardiness. Again Rogue wondered how one man could have bewitched the whole of the X-Men.

"No, it's starts at six." Ororo smiled, crossing her legs and rolling back her shoulders. "I just know Remy."

"Oh, you do, do you, Stormy?" His deep chuckle came at Rogue from all directions and she jerked her head up to see him lazily leaning against one of the wooded doorframes. A bandana was tied around his head, successfully lifting his bangs off his forehead but sending them sticking out in every which way. He wore a gray LSU t-shirt that had seen better days and had mercilessly had its sleeves removed. A pair of black basketball shorts covered his legs down to his knee but his calves were bare. So were his feet, Rogue noted, when a smirk told her she had been staring for too long.

"Remy," Ororo snapped, "what are you wearing? This is a training session. You look like you just rolled out of bed."

If her irritation bothered him, he didn't let on. Instead, he grinned, oozed up next to her, and pecked her on the cheek. "Did just roll outta bed. Long night," he added, smiling as she rolled her eyes. "Decided I could either be on time or be dressed in my uniform. T'ought you'd appreciate de former." He glanced in Rogue's direction. She dropped her eyes once more.

The corners of his mouth twitched downward but were corrected almost immediately and set in a lazy grin. "So, Stormy," he began, glancing around the room, "gotta say, 'm impressed. T'ought I'd be runnin' some fool mission on Mars."

Despite herself, Rogue smiled.

Ororo, too, smiled. "Let's just say that I enjoy keeping things as realistic as possible. Besides, I'm willing to bet that sparring in a non-stressful environment unnerves both of you much more than any battlefield ever could."

Remy's mouth twisted into a protest. "You naughty li'l fille. You're enjoying dis."

"If Rogue knocks you out, I'll enjoy it even more." She turned and headed to the stairwell. "I'll explain your objective from the booth. Take opposing positions on the mat."

Remy watched Ororo disappear in the doorway before moving to the mat. The reeds scratched at the bottoms of his feet. He enjoyed the roughness and dug his heels against the material. Rogue approached him cautiously, her green eyes flickering to his bare arms, legs, and feet. He felt a sinking in his stomach and wished he had worn his uniform; though, with the tight black bodysuit she was wearing how she could be worried about skin-to-skin contact was beyond him. Not that he was complaining. He liked what she was wearing very much. It left little to his imagination, but, hell, she could have worn a burlap sack and his imagination would have run with it.

Her auburn hair was pulled back into a high ponytail, while the white bangs hung freely on either side of her face. Instead of the sleek, straight lines from the previous day, curls, wild and untamed, twisted and twirled from the hair-tie's hold. They suited her, he decided, the tumultuous tresses that kicked every which way. The flattened locks were nice, but they didn't even begin to capture her personality. No, they were a pretense, a mask to smother the fire that he was sure burned inside of her.

"Like I said b'fore, you ain' gon' hurt me none, Rogue," he declared, gripping her by the arm and pulling her toward him.

She struggled against his hold, gloved fingers prying his from her forearm. "Leggo!" She hissed, her eyes flashing. He removed his hand, holding it up in defeat. "Ah'm gonna lay you flat, Swamprat!" she swore.

He was beside her before she could register his movement; his breath tickled her ear and the warmth of his closeness set goosebumps across her skin. "You can lay me anytime you wan', chére. But, we gon' havta wait 'till Stormy's gone. Wouldn't wan' her t' get upset wit' me." He danced away as she swung a drowsy fist in his direction.

"Positions!" Ororo's voice sounded across the loudspeakers. "This is going to be purely hand-to-hand. No powers or weapons are allowed. That means all powers." Remy had a sinking suspicion she was looking right at him. "All you have to do is hold your opponent to the mat; their shoulders must be down for a count of four. This session will last one hour. There will be no debriefing or going over your technique at this time; I'm just trying to see where your skills stand right now. Sort of a basal for your improvement. Begin."

She launched at him; he sidestepped and easily hooked an arm around her waist. A quick kick to her feet and a second later, she was on her back. She saw red.

"Let me up!"

"Well, now, I reckon I could do dat," she rolled her eyes at the smirk in his voice, "but…I'm afraid dat it won' make no diff'rence."

"Why do ya think that?" She gritted her teeth.

"'Cause 'lessen you calm down a bit an' t'ink 'bout what ya're doin', ya're gon' end up dere 'gain." His voice dropped away and he clicked his tongue at her. "Got an awful lot of anger, but no focus."

"Oh no, Ah've got a focus all right." She narrowed her eyes.

"Mebbe ya got de wrong one den, huh?" He pulled her to her feet and she swung at him again.

She twisted with the force of her swing. He grabbed her, pinning her arms down to her sides. "Listen, Missi'ppi, a man can only 'pologize so many times 'fore he starts t'inkin' badly of himself. So listen good! I wish I'd never said dat! You looked tres belle dat night." She kicked at his shins and he grunted in pain. "Merde!" And he let go, pushing her forward with such force that she fell to her hands and knees on the mat.

"You think Ah don't get your little game?" She spat, twisting on the mat and sweeping her legs toward his. He merely raised an eyebrow, his legs out of reach. "You're just trying to hurt me."

"Yeah, dat's it; you got me." His voice dripped sarcasm. "What de hell is wrong wit' you, woman? You t'ink I sit around all day t'inkin' of t'ings to do to you?" He winced, aware of the irony of his words. "I jus' wan' be your friend, Rogue." His eyes flashed behind his shades.

"Ah'll just bet," and she lunged for him; he moved away. The pattern continued for several seconds. She'd attack; he'd retreat. Attack, retreat. Attack. Retreat. Until finally, Remy had enough. She sprung at him and this time he grabbed her by the forearms and tucked into a backwards roll. His feet were flush against her stomach, and on the backwards swing, he pushed her away, successfully catapulting her to the other end of the mat where she landed in an unladylike heap.

The return swing brought him to a squat and he rested his elbows on his knees. "Why don' you jus' try an' listen for a change, hein? I know it gon' be hard, but give it a go. I am sorry, Rogue. I'd take back de words if I could. But I cain't. An' I do wanna be friends wit' you. Like we was in de kitchen. An' you had de crumbs all over your face…"

"Ah don't believe you." It was almost a whimper…almost.

He crossed his heart. "I swear it."

"But you're a liar."

"Now when did you go an' figure dat?"

"You lied to me."

"When?"

"On the roof. When you said that you knew 'bout my powers."

He raised an eyebrow as she adjusted her position on the mat. Her eyes were moist. He swallowed and tapped his chin. "Seems I recall tellin' you dat I hacked de computer."

"Yeah. But you made it sound like you was jokin'."

"Now see, dat's where it becomes a matter of view. I didn't lie; you just didn't believe me." He crossed his arms over his chest, a smug little smile pulled on his lips. "Ain't my fault you wan' see de good in people."

"Ya wear those damn sunglasses everywhere ya go. Hiding from yourself…that's sort of a lie, wouldn't ya say?" She was on her knees now, a gloved palm resting on a cocked hip, her green eyes narrowing.

"I ain't hidin' from nobody." That same strange flash of red glowed behind his shades.

"What's the matter, Gambit? Afraid everyone will see just what kind of a freak you really are?" She was goading him, daring him to react, as she slowly stood and moved toward him.

A smile, then, "Eat shit, skunk-head."

An equally tight smile and a slow step forward. "Fuck off, swamp rat."

A sneer. "You wish."

"Like you'd even know where to stick it." Another step. Target within reaching distance.

Gambit chuckled; it was low, guttural, undeniably male, and it made her insides gel. "If it was just about sticking it somewhere, wouldn't be no fun." Taking a step forward, until they were nearly touching, he dipped his head. "Go 'head, Miss'ippi. You t'ink you can handle it. Take 'em."

She stiffened. He had been acutely aware of her movement…and her plan. It unnerved her; how could he possibly know? He wasn't a telepath, right? Unless that had been a lie, too.

Without responding, she shot her hand forward, and tugged the shades away from his face. He blinked rapidly in the bright light, wincing slightly, until finally, he seemed to grow accustomed to the wattage. Then, he turned his eyes to her, and she gasped.

They were bloody and dark looking. Red pupils crackled with strange electricity that made them glow, made them almost hypnotizing to watch. They were set against a sclera the color of the sky on a starless night. She felt her lip tremble, felt the warm sensation moving from her chest to her core at the intensity in his gaze. She swallowed; she was unable to speak, unable to move, pinned to the mat by his eyes. A slow, sad smile stretched across his face and she felt the tears in her throat. "Ain't all dat easy to handle, is it, Miss'ippi?" He reached for the sunglasses tight in her hand. "You can scream. Won't t'ink nothin' less of ya."

She clenched her fist around the glasses, refusing to let him free them from her grasp. Her breathing was shallow. The pulse gently pushing at the skin near her throat was quicker. He raised an eyebrow, pointed at his glasses. "Can I have them back, sil vous plait?"

She shook her head, and then threw the glasses as hard as she could. They smashed against a wall. He rounded on her; anger on his face—fear.

"What de fuck was dat for?" His face twisted; his brow furrowed. She was afraid she heard tears in his voice.

She grabbed his hand, squeezing it, making him go silent as he stared at their tangled fingers, a confused expression on his handsome face. "You shouldn't hide 'em, Remy."

"Gambit." He scolded her gently, shaking his head in disbelief. "We're training, so it's Gambit."

"Shouldn't hide 'em, Gambit." Then, she stomped on his foot.

X

He was intensely alert to her position. The warmth of her body was a beacon and he couldn't help but feel her movements. She was coming closer, slowly, steadily, moving with a purpose, a destination. He saw her eyes drop, assessing the distance between them, and he knew…He was the end of her walk. Her words ripped at him, echoing hollowly through his mind: "What's the matter, Gambit? Afraid everyone will see just what kind of a freak you really are?" He didn't give a damn what anyone in that mansion thought about his eyes. They could wet themselves at the sight of them for all he cared. But if she screamed…she'd shatter him.

"Eat shit, skunk-head," the smile felt sour on his lips; the words, sandpaper on his tongue.

"Fuck off, swamp-rat."

His lips curled; he ran his eyes up and down her body, leering behind the dark lenses. "You wish." The pulse at her throat quickened, beating a rhythm against her pale skin. He wanted to touch it, feel the power of her life against his fingertips. He wanted to make that little bump, bump race under his caress.

"Like you'd know where to stick it." A couple steps away, and already he could feel the heat from her body; feel the quickness of her breath. He did know where to stick it. And he had a few other ideas as well.

He chuckled. His voice felt rusty, disconnected from his body. "If it was just about sticking it somewhere, wouldn't be no fun." And he was a hair's breadth away in an instant. He could see the silky lines of her hair move under his breath, could feel the ache in her body—the need for touch—damn it, the desire. He wasn't sure if it was her desire or the raging inferno in his stomach. Damn empathy always had to piss off at the wrong time. "Go 'head, Miss'ippi. You t'ink you can handle it. Take 'em."

Her hand crept forward, the world moving in slow motion as he prepared himself for the screams. She removed his sunglasses, and he raised his face toward the electric lights, blinking away the pain. A heartbeat later and he turned his terrible eyes to her. He heard her gasp, felt the sting against his heart. Her eyes—green and glorious—widened, rippling pools of magnified green under a steady onset of tears. He felt the tears catch within his throat; each time she cried, she broke him. "Ain't all dat easy to handle, is it, Missi'ppi?" He reached for his sunglasses; missing the pretend comfort they gave him. "You can scream. Won't t'ink nothin' less of ya." He caught an earpiece with a hooked finger; she didn't relax her grip. "Can I have them back, sil vous plait?"

She shook her head, curls flung every which way. He caught a whiff of magnolias. He hated her for it. Hated her for the way she made him want to be. Hated her for the curls that his fingers should tangle, for the lips his mouth should kiss, for the tears he should prevent. And at the same time, he couldn't love anyone more. She threw his glasses; they shattered like she shattered him. And he hated her for his fear. She couldn't even look into his eyes without tears and now he couldn't hide them. "What de fuck was dat for?" And she grabbed his hand. She didn't bother to look at their fingers—didn't see how neatly, how perfectly her hand fit into his. She didn't seem to feel the heat, the tingle that made his fingers prickle with excitement, made him want to rub his hand down his thigh to numb the sensation. She didn't look; he couldn't tear his eyes away.

"You shouldn't hide 'em, Remy."

Her voice was tender. She demolished him again. He couldn't let her know. He couldn't let his guard down. She was so beautiful; holding his hand like it was glass, like it was precious, like it meant something. Her fingers gripped a little tighter. How would he ever piece himself back together? He shook his head. "Gambit." He was sure his voice cracked. "We're training, so it's Gambit."

She smiled. "Shouldn't hide 'em, Gambit."

He felt himself reach for her. His fingers spread, strained, pushed toward her despite the fact that he was channeling every ounce of self-control to his arms. He wanted to touch her, embrace her. He wanted to tuck those stubborn forelocks behind her ears and hold them there while his palms warmed her cheeks. He wanted to look into her eyes and have her look back at him. She wasn't afraid of him. She wasn't going to scream. How was he ever going to piece himself back together? Almost touching. Almost there. A little farther. He was going to pull her toward him. Hell, he'd kiss her. He'd kiss her with every fiber of his being. A real kiss. Not like Joseph kissed her. He'd hold on until their tongues were sliding against each other and she was flushed with heat and want. He'd fight against her powers. He didn't even care if it killed him. He'd never be whole again. Not without her. And he didn't care.

A pain erupted in his foot. It felt as if someone tried to jackhammer right through the top of it. Instead of pulling her to him, he pushed her away. An ugly purple-red rectangle cut through his nerves. It was the exact shape of her boot's heel. And he couldn't help himself. He hated her all over again.

X

"Damnez-le! (Damn it!) You fuckin' piece of merde! What de hell was dat for! I was tryin' appeler une trêve (to call a truce). But non! You stupide bitch!" He held his wounded foot and hopped a few times away from her. Falling to the mat, he swore again—switching from French to English and back again so fast that Rogue's head swam. About the third time he called her a bitch, she'd had it.

"Fuck you!" She roared, her green eyes flashing daggers. "You go on and on about how you want to be friends, but your so easy to change your mind the minute everythin' ain't exactly the way you want it!" He continued to rant. "SHUT-UP!"

He froze, only his hands continued to move, rubbing the recessed square on his foot. She stood in front of him, her hands on her hips, her eyebrows arched sharply over her eyes.

"Ah guarantee it don't hurt nearly as bad as my feelings did! Consider us equal now—square. Besides, it ain't like Ah messed up your face or nuthin'! You're worse then a girl. An' how dare you get all high an' mighty with me about me being afraid to touch when you were ashamed of your eyes!" She spit out the word 'ashamed', angered that the world was the way that it was and that he had to worry about them at all. It broke her heart that he hid them; it bothered her more than it should have, she reasoned, after all, she wasn't his girlfriend. But they were so beautiful, so perfectly Remy that it sickened her to know he had been ashamed of them. And she was willing to let him know it. "You're a hypocrite!" She pushed at him then, her gloved hands balling into half-fists and connecting with the thick muscles of his shoulders; he didn't budge.

He was looking up at her from his place on the mat, the slow burn of his eyes radiating from under half-closed lids and making her swallow. If he had been good-looking before, then he was perfection now, his dark eyes—passionate, fiery—completed him in the same way the sunglasses had distorted him. She felt a lock of hair quiver at her lips and brushed it away, wetting her mouth with a nervous pink tongue.

X

He felt his mouth go dry. He had never wanted to touch one girl so much in his entire adult life. When she moved away the stray hair and licked her lips, he bit back the urge to tackle her. Instead, he offered her his hand. "Help me up?"

X

She swallowed, the air around her seemed heavy with humidity, and it felt like she was trying to breathe through soup or move through mud. Everything seemed deeper, thicker, and she moved to take his hand in slow motion. Her fingers slid against his and she felt the heat of his touch burn through her gloves. It wasn't the first time and she hoped it wouldn't be the last. His hand seemed to swallow hers and she was amazed at how nicely it seemed to fit into his palm and under his fingers. As she was admiring the long, strong fingers she felt a tug on her arm. Before she knew what was happening, she was on the floor, gazing up into two smoldering eyes and a devilish smirk.

"Now, Miss'ippi, we even." His face dipped down, coming so near to her she could feel his breath against her skin. And she was certain he was going to kiss her. Gawd, she hoped he was going to kiss her. "I am sorry for the bar." And she believed him.

"Ah know."

He nodded, content with her answer. "But jus' for de record, I let your boyfriend hit me."

She rolled her eyes, bringing herself to sit across from him. "Sure ya did."

"Non. I really did. But I got some bad news for you."

"An' what's that?"

"Your boyfriend. He hits like a girl."

She chuckled. "'S' funny. You scream like one."

And he smiled. Really, truly smiled.

She smiled back.

X

"Dimples, 'Ro. Dimples! You said so yourself! He was smiling! And there were dimples." JP was pacing in front of his friend's white couch, muttering.

Ororo rubbed circles against her temples, her eyes closed and her head resting against an armrest. "I know. I saw. Be quiet." The weather goddess was currently done for the day. Pffft. Kaput. Done. Not only had she seen a strange transformation in her unofficial little brother, but also her students had been one layer out from the seventh circle. She cursed the genius that had scheduled her with three back-to-backs of meteorology before she got one break. Scott. He would pay soon enough. But the problem of the dimples was currently the main focus of her haggard attention. Courtesy of JP. He would pay as well.

"How can you be so calm about all of this?"

She snapped an eye open and shot lasers at him. "Would you rather I become hysterical?"

"I'd feel better."

"Well, suck it up, JP, 'cause I've got enough on my plate without joining you in a freak-out party. Besides, it probably doesn't mean anything."

His jaw hit the floor. "Doesn't mean anything! Doesn't mean anything! Need I remind you that the last time our little brother showed his dimples, he ended up working through half of the free world's heterosexual women…and I'm not entirely sure there wasn't a guy thrown in there every now and again for a change of pace."

She glared at him. "Let it go, JP. Remy's as straight as you are gay."

"That's a terrible thing to say. And also a little hurtful." When she didn't reply, he continued, "How can you say it doesn't mean anything? Dieu! You don't think he's in love with her do you?"

"It wouldn't matter if he was. You know how he is. With the touching and the kissing and the…"

"Fucking?"

"Yeah. Besides, he's got a girlfriend. With black lingerie. Who he can touch. Everywhere. And Rogue's got a major fear of rejection. And he's got major notoriety. So it doesn't matter if he had his dimples out. Nothing can come of it."

"C'est pour cela que je suis inquiété..(That's why I am worried.)"

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So sorry about how long it has taken me to update! I hope you enjoyed this chapter! I want to thank everyone who reviewed! I totally appreciate it! Please keep reviewing!

Thanks to: Alecto's Muse, Rayne XX, vinh, toomakeyoulaugh, Terilicious, Mikey, Chica De Los Ojos Cafes, theblondeone07, RGMarie, PsChOtHeRaPy17, Leash, musagirl15, ishandahalf, Jedi Ditz, Spicy Sweet, and Lucia de'Medici. Also thanks for adding my story or me as a favorite! Definitely an honor to be a favorite :)

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