Disclaimer: The X-Men are copyrighted to Marvel, we do not own them in any way, nor do we pretend to.

A/N: Yes, we sure took our sweet time again. Dunno whether this chapter is worth the wait (if indeed any of you are still waiting out there ;p), but here it is anyway. Please leave your comments and let us know your thoughts on the story so far - and what you'd like to see in the future... ;)

-xOx-

Mix 'n' Match

(15) Sex, Lies and Misunderstanding

This wasn't how Remy had envisioned this.

If he'd had to make up a scenario that involved him, Anna, and his expensive place downtown, it would've involved a romantic dinner for two, lots of wine, a dessert consisting of her entwined in red silk sheets, and perhaps a generous lashing of strawberries and cream as an added bonus.

What he got now was a dazed and disheveled woman who simply looked around his apartment in confusion. But it was her, and even if they were lacking in romance, if he was that one inch closer to having her then it couldn't be a bad thing at all.

"Y' sit down, chere," he ordered her. "Make y'self comfortable."

She stood in the middle of the lounge, coat still on, purse and tissues clutched in her hands as if she hadn't heard him. He cleared his throat, said: "I make you a drink, neh? Whatever y' want, okay? Just say de word…" No answer. "I'll make y' some tea," he finished, and hurried towards the kitchen.

He watched her sit down slowly on the nearby couch as he made her drink. She cut a lonely figure, sitting forlornly in the middle of his sparse home, where so many woman had sat before while he got them the prerequisite glass of wine before settling down to whisper sweet nothings in their ears. Yet here he was making Anna Raven tea like a fussy old mother hen.

Y' goin' soft, LeBeau…

He decided it was best to try the wine approach later.

He finished the cup of tea and went over to hand it to her. She took it, staring down into the cup as if she didn't know what it was for.

"If there's anythin' else you need…" he began. She shook her head before he could finish.

He left her, sensing she'd rather be by herself for the time being. He went up to his study, lit a cigarette, poured himself some whiskey and tried to catch up on some paperwork; but all the while his mind was on her. He knew she was upset – just looking at her was enough to confirm that – but he hadn't a clue as to why. He figured he was better off not prying. Rogue was the kind of woman who liked to fight her own fights, and she'd be darned if she complained to anyone about her humdrum life – least of all him. He wanted to help her, but knowing their track record it was probably best he kept his mouth shut.

Forget about helpin' de femme, LeBeau, y' promised y'self you wouldn't get involved, right? Just move right on in dere and lay on de charm. Comfort her. Make her trust you. Make her believe you de only one who can kiss her better.

Remy stared pensively into the bottom of his glass of bourbon, turning the thoughts over in his mind, knowing it would be easier to seduce her now than ever before. She was upset, defenseless. She was vulnerable. She was exactly where he wanted her.

His hazy reflection frowned back at him.

Dis ain't right…

Remy sat back and downed the rest of his drink. He wasn't going to. It was too easy. It wasn't worth it.

He wasn't going to take advantage of her.

Yup, he thought wryly to himself, y' really goin' soft, LeBeau.

-oOo-

Night had descended on New York with a thickness punctuated only by the neon lights of the city. Out in the twilight, Warren Worthington killed the engine of his black Jaguar and looked up at the unfamiliar block of fashionable apartments. For about the tenth time since setting out on this trip to see Betsy, he questioned whether he was doing the right thing. After all, she'd canceled their date on Saturday with suspicious alacrity, and he hadn't even bothered to call her before coming out for fear he'd be rejected again. But he couldn't have mistaken the signs. The looks she had given him, the smiles, the touches. And besides, he couldn't stand another night without knowing where he stood with her. He had to know.

Warren got out of his car, secured it and strode towards the building, checking the notepaper she'd given him, the one with her address scrawled on in her neat and even calligraphy. Even her handwriting reminded him of her presence – tall, graceful, elegant. She was wasted not being a model, he thought. He'd have to do something about that.

He took the elevator up to her floor with a curious nervousness growing inside him. Warren was seldom nervous, and never with women. He'd played the playboy lifestyle hard and fast for some years now, much to his mother's eternal dismay. Women literally fell on top of one another to be in his bed, and though he was never the type to take advantage of women, he was used to having his way with them. But Betsy was different. He hadn't expected her to play hard to get, yet here he was, doing the chasing himself.

He arrived at her door, taking a quick second to straighten his tie and smooth back his unruly blond hair before ringing the bell.

Why is it that I feel like I'm being beaten at my own game, he thought wryly.

The patter of quick, light footsteps and a familiarly accented 'I'm coming!' told him it was her. Despite his nervousness he heaved a quick sigh of relief as the door was finally flung open to reveal the woman he'd been thinking about ever since he'd parted from her what felt like weeks before. There she stood in the doorway like a vision, draped in an elegant dressing gown of lilac satin, loose hair tumbling over her shoulders in a tousled cascade. She wore no mascara, no makeup, and yet his breath caught involuntarily at the sight of her. He'd seen her face a thousand times before on billboards, magazines and commercials, but none of those did justice to what he now saw before him.

"Warren!" she cried, her violet eyes wide with astonishment.

"Surprised?" he asked, his nervousness vanished now that he was in her presence once more. She gaped, tongue-tied, not knowing what to say.

"I'm, uh, well, yes actually…I'm very surprised." She faltered off, lost for words, her eyes darting towards his then away again as if embarrassed. He searched her face, wondering why she was suddenly so uneasy. They'd never had that problem before. At last she straightened, saying rather coldly: "What brings you here?"

"Well, to see you of course," he replied, his smile fading a little at her now severe countenance. "Can I…May I come in?"

She was silent a moment, indecision on her face before she finally held the door open for him rather ungraciously. "I suppose so," she said, standing aside. Though puzzled at her coolness, he stepped over the threshold, giving the place a cursory glance around. As he'd suspected, the room was impeccably furnished with a few antique pieces here and there, no doubt inherited from her ancestors in the Braddock family. Behind him, she shut the door, closing him inside her sanctuary. Everywhere he stepped he was lost in her perfume. Once again his resolve began to fail.

"Nice place," he commented, trying to make small talk.

"Thanks," she replied, her tone non-committal. He was confused. She still hadn't moved away from the door, as though she expected him to leave any minute. He turned back to face her, wanting to question her motives, wanting to ask her what he'd done wrong; but he could find no words. All the while she'd been reluctant to meet his eyes, but when he said nothing she was forced to speak first.

"So…" she began stiffly, awkwardly, "what was it you came for?"

He was even more confused. All the signs he was sure he'd read before had disappeared. It was as if she were a stranger. In spite of his confusion, he began to feel annoyed and not a little hurt.

"Sorry, but I seem to have missed something here," he spoke sarcastically. "Only I thought you'd be happy to see me, Betsy, but obviously that's not the case. Is there something I've done wrong?"

He thought she'd show some guilt, some remorse, since to his knowledge her treatment of him was utterly unfounded. But instead her violet eyes hardened at his words.

"Well, for a start you could've phoned me before you came. I wasn't expecting you at all."

"I figured it'd be better this way," he remarked, bristling at her confrontational tone, "since you've obviously been avoiding me."

"Avoiding you!" she flared up, her eyes flashing, but he cut in before she could continue.

"Come on, Betsy, let's be frank here. We both know that the excuse you gave me the other day was a lie! You blew me off and didn't even give me a proper explanation! If you didn't want to see me, you could at least have given me a real reason why!"

She fell silent at his accusation, her cheeks suddenly reddening with guilt as she realized she'd been caught out. "I don't owe you an explanation for anything," she retorted petulantly, the fire of challenge in her gaze, a fire that made her ten times more beautiful than she already was. Somehow that spurred him on, made him bolder.

"I think you do, Betsy," he replied hotly.

"Excuse me…!"

"Oh come on, Betts, give me some credit! Normally I don't mind a girl giving me the brush off, but when she leads me to believe that there could be something more between us, when she flirts and gives me signals that I'm supposed to interpret as interest and then blows me off the very next day, isn't that more than just a little deceptive?"

He'd expected her to stutter her way round an excuse but instead she went on the defensive, her expression one of contempt as she regarded him.

"Well that's rich coming from you, Mr. Worthington!" she retorted vehemently.

"What?" he cried in frustration. "Betsy, what am I supposed to have done? Please, enlighten me here. I just don't get it. As far as I was concerned, everything was going fine between us. Then all of a sudden, for no reason or rhyme whatsoever, you cancel our date with some half-baked story about forgetting we even made it! Was I so unimportant to you? Because forgive me if I'm wrong, but you gave me the impression that the opposite was very much the case!"

Her countenance suddenly changed from angry to harassed. She looked away sharply, her eyes glinting, her jaw set. "I hardly know a thing about you," she muttered caustically, before turning and shooting him another fierce glance. "And you hardly know a thing about me, so why should your interest in me be anything but suspect!"

"Oh, so is that what this is all about? You think I'm untrustworthy?" His tone was one of disbelief. "Alright, so I've been with a few women in my lifetime. But I've never taken advantage of any of them, and I certainly never intended to take advantage of you!"

"Really?" she retorted bitterly. "And how am I supposed to believe you?"

"How?" He gave an explosive sigh, frustrated, perplexed. "Because up till this point, I've done nothing to even suggest that I had anything but honorable intentions towards you. Or have I? For God's sake Betsy, would you come clean with me already? I haven't the faintest idea what you're talking about! What am I supposed to have done?"

For the first time there was doubt on her face as he challenged her with this final question. She opened her mouth, then closed it, then opened it again, her brow furrowed. He was beginning to lose his patience.

"Alright," he nodded, half to himself. "If you don't want to tell me, that's fine. I can handle it. Obviously I misread the signs you were giving me. I'm sorry I took up so much of your time." He strode towards the door, brushing roughly past her, ignoring her look of sudden alarm. "Don't worry," he added coolly, "I'll see myself out."

He was about to storm out when to his surprise she stopped him, catching a hold of his sleeve, giving him a ray of hope, a reason to stay. He held his breath.

"Warren…" she began desperately, but whatever else she wanted to say wouldn't come out. He sensed she was still holding back, still doubtful of his intentions – still doubtful of her own. He was darned if he knew what this was all about, but feeling the urgency in her fingers as she grasped his sleeve, he knew he couldn't let go of her without a fight. Without thinking he turned, grasping her by the elbows, forcing her to look up into his eyes, to see the sincerity in them.

"Betsy," he urged her in a low voice, "I've got to know whether I'm still in with a chance here. I can't rest until I do, and you know why? Because from the moment I met you, I haven't been able to get you out of my head. You're right – we hardly know one another, and I guess I must be going insane, because I still want a shot at this. I still want a shot at us. Is that so much to ask, Betts? Just one shot?"

She gazed up at him, pained indecision in her violet eyes and suddenly he knew, he knew that she felt the same way and that even so she was fighting with all her might to deny it. And it was her ferocity to deny what was so painfully obvious that made her even more beautiful and alluring to him. Almost involuntarily he leaned over, his kiss enveloping her mouth with a passion he'd never felt before. She didn't even fight back. A sigh fluttered in her mouth as he kissed her, exposing her fragility, the true depth of her feelings for him. He was suddenly dizzy, all rational thought leaving him far behind as he cupped his fingers over her shoulders, slowly sliding the dressing gown down her arms, the silky material caressing her skin… the warmth of her body pressing against his own…

…And then she was pushing him away roughly, unwillingly.

"Stop," she breathed, her voice dazed but firm, her hands trembling against his chest. He was perplexed, still giddy from their embrace, his arms still encircling her.

"Betsy?"

"This isn't right, Warren," she told him, her voice a thick murmur. "I –"

Ding dong.

They stared at one another a moment, their eyes clouded both with regret, confusion, desire. He saw her swallow once, then she pulled out of his embrace, hastily pulling the gown up over her shoulders once more before unlatching and opening the door.

Only to reveal – to Warren's intense surprise and displeasure – a handsome young Asian man with a bouquet of roses in his hand.

"Neal!" she gasped weakly, and Warren saw her body turn rigid, and the hand that clasped the door handle turn white.

"Betsy," the man cried, not even bothering with greetings. "Why didn't you call?" He paused and noticed Warren standing behind her, his eyes giving a narrow glance of open hostility. "And who's this?"

Warren could make no reply. He was rarely taken by surprise, but this was different. All of a sudden Betsy's actions were clear to him. And Warren just didn't know how to react. He'd never been outdone by another rival for a woman's affections. And yet, he couldn't help but notice the dread on Betsy's face, nor could he escape what he'd felt inside the passionate maelstrom of their kiss. Betsy Braddock felt something for him, and it wasn't all just smiles and casual flirtation. It was something more.

He glanced at her, seeing in her face that she was about to make a decision, one that neither she nor he were ready to make.

Nevertheless, she made it.

"Neal," she finally spoke, her voice calm and composed yet laced with a regret that was only too clear to Warren's ears. "This is Warren. He's…a friend I met in England. Warren…" She turned to him, unable to look him in the eye, and he felt his throat tighten as he realized what she was going to say next. "Warren, this is Neal," she began weakly. "He's my…"

"I'm her boyfriend," Neal broke in indignantly, "and I'd like to know what the hell you're doing in my girlfriend's apartment!"

-xXx-

It was an hour before Remy ventured back downstairs, only to find Anna still sitting on the couch. She'd finally taken her coat off and wiped the streaks of mascara from her face. She didn't notice his presence and he saw that there was something in her lap that she seemed to be regarding – a picture, or a photo.

"You better?" he asked.

She started, quickly slipping the piece of paper back into her purse before regaining her composure.

"Yeah. M'fine." The corners of her lips tugged into a smile, and it was pale but at least she was talking. He took it as a good sign and felt assured enough to sit down next to her, not too far, not to close. She seemed wary but didn't move away, saying: "Thanks for the drink."

He smiled.

"No problem."

Offer to take her back home, offer to call a cab, anyt'ing, jus' get her out b'fore y' change your goddamn mind LeBeau…

He said nothing.

Silence washed over them and she looked away, embarrassed, dabbing her eyes with a rumpled tissue.

"Golly gosh, look at me! Ah must look a sight!"

"A gorgeous one," he murmured, reaching out to tease an errant lock of snow-white hair back behind her ear. He just couldn't help himself – every time he was near her he wanted to touch her. She stiffened at the contact and he moved his hand away, knowing he'd overstepped the mark.

"M' sorry," he apologized quietly. She relaxed, enough to tell him he was forgiven.

"Nah," she began with a forced lightness, still avoiding his eyes. "Ah'm the one who should be apologizin', for makin' yah go outta your way to take care of me an' all. You've been really kind, Mr. LeBeau."

He was still looking at that lock of hair, at the way it caressed her throat and curled into the dip of her shoulder… His mouth was suddenly dry.

"Remy," he corrected her softly, absently.

She half-smiled, her eyes lighting up… those beautiful green eyes… "Thank you… Remy." She paused, her teeth tugging at her lower lip, her smile fading. "Ah mean, thank you for puttin' up with me. Ah just… Ah don't really know what came over me, and suddenly you were there and Ah had no idea…"

She looked down at the tissue in her hands, fingering it nervously, heightening the awkwardness between them. He watched her profile, the crescent of her lashes, the soft curve of her lips, and suddenly he wanted to kiss her, kiss her as passionately as he had that day in his office. Jus' one more kiss, one more kiss an' I'll be able to let it lie… He swallowed hard, knowing that that one kiss would lead to another and then he'd end up doing something very naughty indeed – if she hadn't slapped him in the face beforehand, that was.

"You wanna talk 'bout it?" he asked instead.

"Nah." She shook her head. "Don't wanna bore you. It's just… girly stuff."

"A guy?" he asked, feigning casualness yet feeling his breath catch in trepidation of her answer.

She let out a small chuckle. "If Ah'd had a guy, Remy LeBeau, Ah would've seen t' it he would've sorted yah out the moment y'all started layin' the charm on meh."

He was half relieved, half amused.

"You think dat would've been effective, chere?" he joked. "Unless de guy was a pro-wrestler, I would've beat de crap outta him if it meant I was gonna get my hands on you."

She laughed bitterly. "It didn't take a bout o' fisticuffs for you t' get a kiss out of me, did it, Cajun."

"I prefer t' take de easier route if I can," he agreed.

"Ah bet," she commented sourly. She wiped her nose inelegantly with the tissue and asked: "Wouldja though?"

"Would I what?"

"Fight for meh?"

"Is there a man who wouldn't?" he joked. She didn't laugh and he straightened his face. "Yeah," he admitted softly, "I would."

She smiled then, a genuine smile. "Only so's you could get me into yah bed."

He leaned in a little closer to her, slinging his hand casually over the back of the sofa, almost ringing her shoulders but not quite. He knew she was feeling vulnerable and he shouldn't, but he couldn't help it. "So?" he replied softly, dangerously. He thought she'd frown but she didn't.

"It's against the rules," she said.

"Whose rules?"

"The rules."

Silence. He didn't know how, but they were suddenly closer to one another, and he could almost feel the warmth radiating from her skin.

"So lemme get dis straight," he began casually, "if dese 'rules' didn't exist, we'd've had hot, passionate sex already?"

He thought he'd blown it then. He thought she'd slap him in the face and tell him not to flatter himself. But she didn't. A corner of her lips upturned and she said, in that soft, sultry voice of hers: "Maybe only in yah wildest dreams, Cajun."

"Maybe?" he repeated, his voice just as low, just as sexy. "In my wildest dreams it's already happened." He leaned just an inch closer. "About fifty times a day since we first met."

He was testing the boundaries now, pushing as hard as he could and they both knew it. He steeled himself for her reaction but she merely gazed back at him, wordless, green eyes smoldering at the boldness of his confession.

"Then yah best keep dreamin', sugah," she finally murmured in reply, her voice haughty.

"I intend to. Until I get de real t'ing, dat is."

He was almost there, he was so close to getting that kiss out of her when she suddenly frowned and moved out of his way, rising to her feet before he could even think of backing away first.

"Ah haveta go," she mumbled quietly, dabbing her nose again and throwing the spent tissue in the nearby wastebasket. "Ah've taken up too much of your time already, Remy."

He rose too, sensing the lightness of their banter was over – as well as his chance for a final kiss. "It's okay. Anytime." He paused, feeling awkward, disappointed. "I jus' hope, y'know… whatever happened… dat y' feel better."

"Ah'll be fine," she assured him, slipping on her coat. All of a sudden she seemed to be in a hurry. He knew it, he knew he should've just kept his big mouth shut and treated her with some respect…

"Y'know… if you want de day off on Monday…" he added, hoping to redeem himself.

"Nah, Ah ain't at death's door. Ah'll be fine on Monday."

She fumbled for her keys, dropped them.

"Maybe I should drive you back home…" he offered.

"Remy…" she sighed, picked up her keys and turned to face him. "Ah'll call a cab. Ah'll be fine."

"Alright," he finally acquiesced. "Good. Well…bye, I guess."

"Bye."

Neither of them moved. Remy looked at her, seeing the hurt, the indecision, the conflict in her eyes, and suddenly he understood…

She doesn't really wan' t' leave me…

He tried to fight it. He tried to tell himself she'd been hurt and that was why she didn't want to be alone. He tried to tell himself she was vulnerable and that she deserved better than to be taken advantage of. But she was just too delicious, just too irresistible to give up on…

Suddenly his arms were around her, pulling her close, his lips crushing against hers before either of them could get a word or thought out. He thought she'd struggle, but to his surprise her arms immediately came up to wind about his shoulders and draw him into a deeper kiss. He could hardly contain his excitement. Up until that moment he hadn't known she'd wanted him as much as he'd still wanted her. Their kiss became greedier as he cupped her butt, pressing her hard against him, and she responded, her thigh brushing upward to rub coyly against his leg, teasing him, driving him crazy for more.

Before things could get anymore heated than they already were she broke the embrace, and when she did they were both breathless.

"Maybe we should continue this upstairs," she murmured, her breath playing against his lips. His heart clenched at her words. All that time and now it'd taken so little effort, almost nothing at all… And yet still a sense of duty somehow prevailed. He tugged his fingers lightly through her copper curls, brushed his fingers against her cheek.

"I should drive you home," he muttered. Remy Entienne LeBeau, what de hell are you sayin'!

She curled her fingers into the collar of his shirt, raised those smoky green eyes of hers to his, sad, earnest eyes giving him a look he couldn't understand. "No," she murmured softly. "Ah don't wanna be alone. Let me stay with you tonight."

She pulled him towards her again, opening her mouth slowly, sensuously over his, and this time he didn't stop her.

She'd surrendered. She was his.

-xXx-

It had been another busy Friday night at the Hideaway and usually Logan would've been right in the heart of it. He never did any job by half, however dirty it got; but working at the Hideaway was one of the few things he really enjoyed doing. It was an honest day's work for one thing. For another, dealing with customers and pulling pints was a distraction, a way of mentally escaping from his past.

The distraction, however, hadn't been working of late.

Not since Dr. Jean Grey had showed up.

He'd left the bar early that evening, letting his employees hold fort for the night. He needed to get back to his apartment. He needed to be alone to brood. It was what he did best these days. Even those closest to him liked to joke about it, how he skulked around the neighborhood looking mean and scaring little kiddies away. For some reason, it drove the ladies wild. Even Logan himself didn't fully understand it. If he had to give himself marks out of ten for attractiveness, he'd give you the marks in negatives. It didn't stop the women from vying for his attention. The only woman who hadn't tripped over herself trying to get into his pants was Ms. Grey herself. It was just fucking typical. He was used to women who were coy and flirtatious and threw you come-hither looks from across the bar. But Jean was just about as open and natural a girl as you could meet. No airs and graces with that one. No batting of eyelids or toying of hair and naughty banter. She said what she thought and was passionate about it.

And heaven knew that was what he found sexy – a girl that could speak her mind and treat him like an equal.

He hadn't met a broad like that in what must've been over ten years.

Boy, was he getting old.

Just about everything was getting depressing these days.

So there he was, in his apartment, brooding away over the good doctor. He'd spent too many nights alone, too many nights in the company of others feeling alone. It was, he thought, exactly the way he'd always liked it. Until tonight, that was.

He was about to light up a cigar, pour himself a drink and spend the night alone on the roof again, when the doorbell went off. He went to answer it, puzzled. He hardly ever got any calls, let alone late night ones – he'd long ago found friends an unnecessary source of attachment.

Mus' be that punk next door complainin' 'bout that flamin' leak again.

He unlocked the door, grumbling all the way through doing so. But when he opened it, he didn't know whether to gape with surprise or thank the Fates for answering his prayers.

It was Jean, eyes red and puffy, her red hair disheveled and her cheeks tearstained.

"Logan," she greeted him when he was too amazed to say anything, let alone 'hello'. "I think I want to take you up on your offer." She paused, embarrassed. "Can I come in?"

He didn't think. His only response was to open the door wider and let her in.

-oOo-

Only one thing is streaking through my mind.

Ah can't believe Ah'm doin' this.

Here I am, back to the door, and I can't run away and I don't want to run away, and the part of me that's still thinking is saying, Ah can't believe Ah'm doin' this. It doesn't change the fact that I'm still really here, in only my stockings, bra and panties, and that I'm ripping the pants off some guy who, until a few weeks ago, I hadn't even laid eyes on.

The trouble is, I can't say he's just any guy anymore. He isn't just any guy, and I can't recall the moment when he stopped being 'any guy' and became something to me. For some reason, that bothers me. I don't know why. Maybe it's because I know I'm being stupid and irresponsible. Maybe it's because Cody's gone, and I know I shouldn't be doing this just because I want this guy and I've wanted him longer than I care to admit. Maybe it's because I know I'm heading for another heartbreak, because he doesn't love me, because I'm just another conquest to him, one more tick in his little black book.

But I don't care anymore.

I unbuckle his pants and let them drop and he pins me up against the door again with his body and kisses me and in between kisses he says: "Anna… y' sure… y' want dis?"

I pull him in for another kiss. "Shut up," I say.

Ah don't want to analyze this…

I don't get why he's still being so concerned for me. He's been like this all evening, fencing round me, offering me anything I want, going out of his way to be nice to me. Is this some sort of weird penance for all the times he's messed with my head?

"We can stop…" he insists.

"Jus' kiss me…"

Truthfully, the lengths we've gone to now, I don't even know if we can stop. We kiss again and I can't help touching him all over. Dammit, I can't get enough of this guy. If the girls could see me now they'd think I was the world's biggest hypocrite.

"Jus' tell me if you still want dis or not," he persists once we break apart. What the hell is up with all this cheap talk?

"Why?" I ask.

"Jus' wanna hear you say it, chere…"

Oh, I get it. He wants to hear the evidence of his triumph straight from the horse's mouth. He wants to hear me say he's won.

"Yes," I reply before I can mentally convince myself otherwise. "Ah do." Goddammit, Remy!

That shuts him up. His hands caress the length of my back as we kiss again, and his finger slips into the back of my bra, unhooks it. I don't know why I'm giving into him so easily, why he makes me feel the way I do. Why am I even doing this? Is this a distraction, or some kind of twisted consolation, or just pure lust? Or all of the above? It doesn't matter anymore. I'm right where he wants me – and I'm right where I need to be.

My bra gone, his hands run over me, warm, sensitive, worshipful, and I moan, pressing myself against his palms, seeking out his touch. He curbs my impatience, slowly beginning to kiss a trail down my body, my throat, my breasts, my navel…lower…

My fingers tangle in his hair. I close my eyes. He unrolls the panties over my thighs, my knees, my ankles, his hot breath tickling my flesh…

He kisses his way back up again with tantalizing latency, catching my bottom lip against his mouth, murmuring: "Mon Dieu you're beautiful, chere… I want y' right now, don't make me wait any longer…"

I can't wait either. I slip out from under his arms and we go to the bed and I lie down and I'm still questioning, even when I tug him towards me impatiently with both hands, my mind clouded with passion. I need to feel him against me, to take away the loneliness, the empty ache inside me, and I want it to be him and no one else.

I whisper his name and he looks at me, a long, penetrating, wordless gaze that takes my breath away. His weight settles upon me, and I cup his face, pulling him closer, our lips joining in yet another fevered and desperate kiss. I close my eyes and try to pretend he's someone else, just like I know he's pretending I'm someone else, like he pretends every women he's with is that someone else. But all I see is him. It's his mouth that kisses my jaw, my throat, my shoulder, his hands that taste every curve of my body. And it's my arms that wrap round him, my fingers that drag through his auburn hair as I hold him close with both arms and legs, as close as I possibly can and more.

That look on his face, the gaze we'd shared, replays itself through my mind, poignant, bittersweet, and it's familiar, it's comforting, it's a ghost from my past.

It's the look Cody used to give me all those years ago…

Suddenly there are no more questions. The answer's now as clear as day.

Ah'm fallin' in love with Remy LeBeau.

-xXx-

To be continued...