Disclaimer: See chapter 1.
Summary:  Set after "Camera," Logan tries to adapt to life without money. Max tries to help. Will he survive?
AN: Please note the new rating, and my standard warning for bad taste comes with a capital "B" and a lower case "t." Well, here goes nothin' . . . except my entire literary career.

This Makes No Sense Whatsoever
Chapter 7: Meo-ooooohh

Max barged into the apartment, dragging the wheelchair behind her. She turned to see how Logan was fairing, her heart filled with dread that hypothermia may have set in and permanent damage already been done. She froze and stared at the chair in disbelief—where was he?

Mentally she retraced her steps. She remembered slamming the Aztec into its allotted space in the underground parking garage of Fogle Towers. As she had peeled Logan off the dashboard, she'd gasped at the coldness of his skin and the whiteness of his features. In fact, during the drive across town, she had noted his skin becoming progressively paler with every passing sector checkpoint she had demolished.

Dashing around to the passenger side, she had the chair set up before the remains of the last security barrier had toppled off the hood. The whump that echoed around the deserted concrete enclosure as she carefully hurled his limp body into the wheelchair reflected the emptiness and desperation gathering in her breast.

He had definitely still been with her when she'd reached the elevators. Yes, she distinctly remembered him choking on the whirlwind of dust and litter that her mad dash across the concrete cavern had stirred up. The damn elevator had taken forever to make it down to the basement, so she had scaled the stairway to the penthouse floor yanking the wheelchair in her wake, eyes upward as she assessed the terrain ahead; the bumpty-bump-bump-bump of wheels against steps, eclipsed only by the thudding of her own frantic heartbeats.

Wait a minute . . . one of those bumps had sounded louder than the others. Yes . . . about three floors down or so . . ..

***

Max sighed with relief. Logan was safely in her care again, and the steam rising from the shower was warming the bathroom nicely. He seemed a little more alert, the moaning sound he had emitted as she'd scraped him off the twenty-third floor landing being replaced by the occasional "Where am I?" and "I'll confess, I'll confess . . .."

However, he was still ice cold and shivering. She'd better help him into the shower before he became clinically hypothermic. She took a deep breath to calm herself and silently gave thanks for the artic training Lydecker had made the X-5s endure every August in Muncie. The first and most important rule in dealing with members of the human species suffering from low body temperature was to act in a composed, orderly and professional fashion.

She pushed the chair back against the vanity unit and locked the brakes. Carefully she slid one arm out of his jacket, all the time checking for muscle tone and definition. Leaning forward, in order to liberate the other equally pumped and solid limb, she felt his breath against her cleavage—yes, his respiration was definitely more pronounced, a good sign. She relaxed somewhat, and began to loosen his tie with her teeth.

Feeling the heat beginning to radiate off his body, she almost whimpered with relief . . . he was going to be OK . . . maybe even better than OK—amazing, incredible, spectacular . . .. No, wait—composed and orderly remember. Efficiently, she undid the knot of the tie with her tongue, ripping it off and spitting it across the room in one fluid motion.

His shirt was still soaking. She could feel droplets of water spill through her fingers as she clutched the collar. Best get it off as quickly as possible. Ooops . . . she hadn't really meant to rip it in two. Logan was moaning now. This was no time to worry about modesty, better get him out of the rest of those wet clothes before he became totally incapacitated.

She reached for his belt, inadvertently licking her way down his neck, over the hairs of his chest, outlining his trapezium and pectoral muscles with the tip of her tongue, and noting that his heart beat was strong and regular—although somewhat rapid. Respiratory, pulmonary, muscular systems all seemed fine—especially the muscular—still his expression was glazed and he seemed incapable of motion, she'd better not take any chances by stopping now.

Carefully, she removed his shoes and socks, recalling the last time she had looked at his feet. They had been sitting on the sofa, his bare feet resting on her lap as he had gone on about stem cells and stupid doctors. She had tried to look cool and collected and make intelligent remarks, when all the time she had wanted to take each elegant elongated toe in her mouth and suck on it until it resembled a luscious prune. Then she would have worked her way up the arch of each foot to his perfectly shaped ankles. Stop it, stop it, this was no time for idle fantasies . . .. Logan needed her help and it was her humanitarian duty to do what had to be done. She supposed the pants should go next.

"Max . . . Max." Oh no, he sounded dazed and disorientated—she'd better pick up the pace. Frantically she grabbed for his pants, her lightening reflexes compelling her to duck as the button popped and ricocheted around the bathroom. "Ouch." She hoped that imprint on his forehead would fade eventually; maybe she should try to lick it away. But, first things first.

"Put your hands on my shoulders and lift." Good, he was alert enough to follow simple instructions. In one gracefully motion she ripped off his pants. Damn, well at least the jacket had come off in one piece. And she really liked a well-built guy in suit jacket . . . maybe he would put it on for her after his shower. Oh God, she clasped her hand over her mouth to stifle an involuntary roar. Stop, stop and help poor Logan. She banished the vision from her mind and looked at stricken man before her.

Once he stopped panting and looking at her with that glazed expression, he would probably be embarrassed by the procedures she had had to follow, medically necessary though they had been. No, there was absolutely nothing to be ashamed of or embarrassed about--she surveyed her handy work--not a thing. She smiled reassuringly at him and licked her lips. Humans had such interesting anatomy, but were psychologically so much more complicated than felines. Well that was their problem, she was a lioness, a propagator of the pride, she would do whatever was necessary . . ..

Meeeeeooooooww. Where had that come from? Concentrate, concentrate on…on …on that chiseled chest, those pumped up powerful arms, the washboard abs, the elegant feet, …yes, chisels, pumps, prunes, washboards . . . anything, anything but those black silk boxers.

He was trying to say something. She leaned in toward him, but how was she going to understand him while he had one of the bitsy straps of her dress in his mouth? Oh . . . OOH good, he was obviously feeling much better. His hands were around her waist pulling her to him, until she was straddling him in the chair.  He paused and looked up at her, one strap between his perfect teeth, the other wrapped around a sizzlingly cold finger, an eyebrow raised questioningly. He was such a gentleman—well, she would have to put an end to that. Wooooaaah. Well, maybe he wasn't such a gentleman after all, although knowing Logan he would insist on reimbursing Kendra for the dress—or what was left of it.

She shivered as his fingers explored her skin, noting his appreciative ogling of her new strapless bra. She was glad she had followed her usual policy of wearing clean underwear when in Logan's company. You never knew when you might get into an accident.

Max gasped as she felt his strong arms draw her closer to him, until they enveloped her in a passionate embrace. His hypothermic fingers were fumbling with an uncooperative clasp . . . woooahhh, yet again . . . she always knew Logan was a resourceful man, but she had never imagined his teeth were that strong. She leaned down to him grinning, her hands caressing his cheeks and sliding around his neck, reveling in the soft touch of his lips, the gentle play of his tongue, the excruciating scraping of his unshaven face—later she hoped they would kiss a little.

She tried to gather her senses, were they putting their friendship in jeopardy? She didn't was to loose the respect of this man she cherished and was just getting to know. Riiipppp. "LOGAN!" She never would have thought he would have such blatant disregard for articles of clothing—now she had nothing, absolutely nothing, to wear home—obviously she didn't know him well enough. Well, she would have to remedy that.

"Lift . . . no, not me. I meant . . . " Suddenly, whatever she meant was a tiny blip of incoherence rushing to the end of the known universe at the speed of light. The man was an animal and . . .  "ohoohooohooooh" . . . an inventive one at that. But, it was time for her to take matters in hand.

Yes, that had got his attention. Now a little maneuvering—she wanted those boxers in one piece, for now anyway. She surveyed the scene before her . . . oh my, it was going to be a long night.

Slowly, she untangled herself from the mess of limbs, hands, fingers, teeth and whatever else he was using to torment her. She stood before him, studying her prize. There he sat, standing tall and erect. "Don't move a thing." She stared triumphantly at the leader of the pride. "Not a thing."

Her expression became suddenly serious. She had dwelt on thoughts of this for many a long night—and morning, and afternoon, and frequently during lunch, sometimes during her afternoon coffee break and . . .. Focus woman focus--this had to be perfect, just perfect. Leaning forward, she released the brakes and put a hand on either side of the chair, pushing it back against the bathroom wall. "Logan!!" He was just like a kid, had to put everything in his mouth—there would be time for that later.

Gently, she shoved his head back with one hand, the other locking the brakes. She raised an eyebrow suggestively as she gathered her supplies with the discipline and precision of trained soldier: loofah, nail brush, soap, hair brush, baby oil, shaving cream (well, of course), tooth brush . . . that should just about do it, except for . . . shampoo, conditioner, emery boards, soap-on-a-rope (no, forget that—the rope wasn't nearly long enough), hair gel, body lotion, extra-strength dental floss, more tooth brushes . . . that would suffice . . . for now. She could get additional supplies from the kitchen later—much, much later. Reaching behind her she swung the bathroom door shut.

And so, as a curtain of steam envelopes our two heroes we contemplate the meaning of . . . "oooooOOhhhHHH . . . aaaaAAAhhHHH . . . mmmooOOAAaaannn . . ." for crying out loud keep it down in there—well, maybe it's too late for that . . . for Logan anyway. Ahem, even in this broken world there is room for what we all, deep in the heart of our humanity seek . . . "NNOOOO . . . YEEEEEEEESSSSSSS . . ." look, I'm coming in there with a bucket of iced water if you don't shut up . . .. In this broken world there is still the possibility for . . . "meeeeooooooooowwWWW . . ." perfection, dammit . . .perfection. Sometimes things are just perfect . . . and . . . "ooowwwWOW,WOWOW. . ." where's the damn ice tray . . ..

Bloody actors. Never working with them again. You think Jackie Collins or Nora Roberts have to put up with this crap . . ..

Gee, I hope that wasn't too mushy and romantic. I know it brought at tear to my eye. I think your reviews will determine if there will be a chapter 8, or if I will change my IP address, shut down my hotmail account, erase my hard drive and move to Muncie.