IV. Release
Twisting and turning
Your feelings are burning
You're breaking the girl

She was standing in the doorway leading to her veranda, draped in a white, silk robe he'd seen her in a million times before. It was modest while being too revealing. It was long and graceful; something you'd expect her to wear. But every move she made, every curve she possessed, was reflected in that robe. And he'd been guilty of watching her ass in that robe a thousand times over.

Even now, as she stood there, he could make out the soft contours of her breasts that tapered into a small waist accentuated by lush hips. Don't go there, bub, he said to himself, reminding himself that he hadn't came there to ogle her.

Her curtains wafted in the breeze as a chill ran through her room. She didn't as much as shudder as the winter's breeze blew. She just stood silently, facing it head on. Then, she turned to him, slowly, her face as cool as the breeze attacking her room. Finally, she closed the double doors to the veranda softly, securing the latches.

"Hello, Logan," she said with just a hint of a smile. "What brings you here?"

"Just wanted to make sure you were okay."

She let out a nervous chuckle. "I'm fine." The ever emotionless leader. Everything's fine again.

He knew she was bothered by her earlier show of emotion, and her agitation had only grown during and after the mission. He'd been the only one who saw how her hand trembled after they found that kid in the abandoned house, and she pulled away from him almost fearfully. At first, he convinced himself that it was a natural reaction to him, but when she tried to explain herself, cutting her own thoughts off, leaving him standing there staring after her, he realized it wasn't him. It was her.

"I don't think you're fine. Back there at the house with the kid, you seemed bothered."

"Yes, I was," she admitted with little emotion, as if she were explaining the technicalities involved in performing heart surgery. "Doesn't it bother you sometime? I mean, it's like we're playing God sometimes, taking our pick and choose of who's life is more important. And it seems like even when we decide that this person is worthy of saving that we still fail at saving them sometimes. Then, you have to wonder if we'd chosen the other person's life over this one, would we have been successful?"

"Is that really what's bothering you?" he asked, not convinced. It wasn't that she hadn't made a valid point. Hell, it was something he sometimes found himself thinking about. And it wasn't that he didn't believe it was something that she cared about, but he thought there was much more being left unsaid.

"Why wouldn't it be?"

"You've been doin' this how long and now you think to question the consequences of choosing who lives and who dies?" He didn't mean for it to sound accusing, but he could tell by the look on her face that she was taking it as such. "I think you're just tryin' to find somethin' to distract you from the real problem."

"Logan, I refuse to have this conversation with you," she started, her voice tight, as if he'd just hit her in the stomach, like she just knew what he was going to say. Maybe she did, but that didn't mean she was going to stop him from saying it.

"I think more of this has to do with what happened at Alkali Lake more than you'll admit. You haven't showed any real emotion since—"

She waved a commanding hand quickly. "Don't say it," she said her voice the equivalent of stone with an expression to match. He could see her eyes lighting up like a stormy sky, though.

"Why not?" he challenged.

"Because… because I'm not ready yet. There will be time for me to come to terms with what happened that day. There will be time for me to grieve." Ororo said haltingly.

"When? When everyone else has moved on and you're left here carryin' the weight of everyone's sadness?"

"I am not a perfect person, Logan…" She said trailing, her voice giving way to tiredness.

She couldn't even see that she was hurting herself by refusing to allow herself to express her emotions. The rage wouldn't subside. The pain wouldn't fade over time. It would only continue to grow like a fire with an endless supply of fuel. She thought she was capable of handling such emotions, but in the end, it would consume her from the inside out.

"Who is?" he barely showed any emotion, taking a cue from her, but he felt his anger at the easy way she tried to disregard the situation creeping up his spine, screaming in his head. He repeated himself just as calmly while his anger continued to rage inside his head. Each word was a punctuated staccato snap off his lips, "who is, Storm?"

It was exactly the point he wanted to get across to her. She didn't have to be so damn perfect all the time. She needed to let loose like the rest of them—scream, cry, rip shit apart. Why couldn't she be angry like the rest of them? Why couldn't she hurt like everyone else? Wasn't she entitled to such feelings?

"You didn't let me finish," she said, her voice even. "I'm not a perfect person. A perfect person would've found a way to save her friend. She would find a way to heal everyone's pains. She would find a way to heal her own pain."

"But—"

And there was that authoritative hand, silencing him again.

"For my own failures, for my own piece of mind, I have to do this. To let myself be overcome with emotion is dangerous, but I will find a way to deal with it in my own time. This is the only way I know to be. This is how I have always been."

"But you ain't doin' nothin' but tearin' yourself down, and then, when there's nothin' left, what good will you be to anybody? What good will you be to yourself?" he asked angrily.

"Why are you so persistent? Tell me how I'm supposed to feel, how I'm supposed to act. How? Tell me, and that's what I will be. Do you want to hear how much I hate those who have hurt us? How every night I pray for vengeance?" She asked him in a quite voice that did little to hide her own anger, her eyes liquid fire. He'd pushed her, and now she was pushing back.

"Or do you want to hear how angry I am with her? Am I supposed to scream at a ghost? Not even that. What do you want to hear? Do you want to hear how much she hurt me? How could she do this to me? How could she leave me? How could she be so selfish?" Lightning cracked in the distance, and she put her hands behind her neck, locking her fingers. "Breathe, breathe, you're stronger than this," he heard her whispering to herself.

She paced the floor, furiously, her robe whispering angrily around her feet. Back and forth, back and forth, a tiger ready to attack. "It's okay," he said, grabbing her arms lightly, breaking her even pace. It was okay for her to be angry with Stryker. It was okay for her to be angry with Jean. It was okay for her to feel abandoned. Though they might not admit it, they all felt it to some degree. It wasn't fair that Jean made this decision, that she left them all.

"No! It's not okay!" she shouted, trying to pull her arms from his grip. She jerked against him so violently that he nearly let her go out of fear of hurting her. Then, she stopped, leaning on him like a crutch. Her body trembled against his slightly and he could smell the first drop of tears. Her tears fell soundlessly as she tried to hold on to her decorum, to elude vulnerability.

He placed his arms around her cautiously, wondering how this was going to pan out. And where exactly was he supposed to put his hands? He decided to let them rest around her waist on the small of her back, hoping it wasn't too intimate or too offensive. She didn't seem to mind much as she moved closer to him, and God forgive him, he felt an ache in his loins for her.

She pulled back from him, slightly, gazing at him for a second. She was confusing him with what he thought he saw in her eyes but didn't truly believe he saw, but his nose never lied. The smell of longing and need lingered in the air. She touched the side his face softly, her pulse beating like butterfly wings. Her hand felt was warm silk on his skin, and on impulse he kissed the palm of her hand.

She pressed her lips to his softly, using her tongue to part his lips, bridging a path between their tongues. Her kisses were urgent and sweet like honey. How many times had he played this scene out in his head? How many times had he thought about devouring her lips with his own, her legs wrapped around his hips in passion? Too many.

In the back of his mind, though, he wasn't so sure that this was what she really needed, but he savored more of her kiss, feeding off her lips like they were a forbidden fruit. Somewhere in the distance thunder boomed, but it didn't match the thunder booming in his body, through his blood, in his heart.

She broke the kiss, sighing softly, and he was sure that she'd come to her senses. This is where she would tell him that this was nice, but it couldn't happen. This was the part where her rationale would set in because his sure as hell wasn't. What if he got it all wrong? What if he somehow managed to fuck it all up?

He didn't know what women like her liked. Women like her were on a different plane when it came to sex. She was in that higher class of woman, one that he never encountered because he just wasn't good enough. He wasn't their type. He was too rough, too feral. He gave too little, and he took too much. But, once again, she didn't seem to much mind.

She didn't stop, as she ran her fingers through his wild hair, tickling the base of his neck with languid fingers. She kissed his neck lightly, and he would've sworn that he felt jolts of electricity rush through him. Her tongue flickered across the sensitive flesh, and he tried to fight back an appreciative groan when she nipped his skin lightly.

"Your flesh is so nice," she whispered against his neck, the brush of her lips teasing with every word.

"And I bet yours is just as nice," he said. Before he could taste her, she put one finger to his lips. Not yet, it said. She was in control now, but for how long? How much longer would the animal inside of him allow her to play this slow game of seduction?

She pulled away from him again, leaving an emptiness where her body had once been, and he fought the instinct to pull her back into him, to rip the robe from her body, and make her succumb to him. He would let her set the pace, follow her lead, and see where things took them. Nimble fingers untied the silk sash that held her robe together, and it fell to the floor without much attention from either party.

She didn't drop the robe immediately, and that only made his need for her grow. For just a fleeting moment, he wondered if she always walked around the mansion nude beneath her robe. She kissed him again; her lips were thunder and lightning, electrifying every nerve ending, belying the cool demeanor she often presented. And he returned her kiss hungrily, placing his hands firmly on her waist, pulling her into him with more force than he'd intended.

She didn't break their searing kiss as she pulled his shirt from his pants, her hands slipping under the material, her hips grinding into his—a silent offering, her robe whisking to and fro with every move. A low growl of want escaped from his lips—the only warning he could offer her. If she didn't turn back now, she wouldn't have a chance to later.

She pulled the shirt over his head, her robe opening wider, revealing more, like a package being unwrapped slowly, as she lifted her arms and his shirt. Soft breasts and warm skin assaulted his bare skin, as she slid down his body to her knees. Warm fingers sank into the skin of his waist, her lips burning an unknown language into the bare skin of his stomach.

The button of his jeans seemed to give way to her very touch. She pulled the metal clasp of his jeans down slowly, too slowly, giving him too much time to imagine what would happen once she did get his jeans undone. He liked what he saw, but that was not how the shit was about to go down.

He pulled her to her feet, maybe a little too roughly. She looked at him startled by this sudden breach of command. She pulled her robe tighter to her body, as if this sudden shift of things had shocked some sense into her. He wouldn't let her get away that easy. She held her ground, staring him down as she would one of her adversaries.

His body was in action before his mind could concede. He pulled her toward him, parting the robe, pushing it from her body. Some people like to believe that if you've seen one naked woman, you've seen them all. Not him. She was beautiful, her brown skin glowing in the moonlight. She wasn't ashamed of her nakedness, showing no signs that his intense gaze bothered her at all.

He buried his face in the hollow her neck, relishing in the intoxicating sweet, musky smell that she emitted. The taste of her skin was like a potent aphrodisiac against his tongue, torturous and heady. The more he tasted, the more he wanted. The animal in him wanted her now. He wanted her breathless, twisting and turning in pleasure under him, preferably calling—no, screaming—his name. The part of him that truly cared about her—the part of him that respected her—wanted this to last, wanted it to be more than what the act implicated, wanted her to crave his touch for a lifetime.

He scattered soft kisses down her chest, her head dropping back, as he placed a kiss between her breasts. Her heart thundered against his lips. Boom. Boom. Boom. Like a coming storm. Coming Storm, he repeated to himself. Heh. He liked the sound of that.

Suddenly, she was pushing him away, but pulling him toward her all in the same motion. The hand on his chest pushed, the hand on his arm pulled, and he didn't even think she realized it. He pulled her close to him; he could feel her withdrawing, warring within herself. "Just let go," he growled into her ear, and she shuddered against him, closing her eyes.

For a moment, she did let go, but just as quickly as she let go, she tensed again. "I can't. Not like this." She managed to slip away from him, shaking her head at him, backing away. This time for good if he let her. She started this, and he was going to finish it.

- - -

She was the one who made the mistake of turning her back on him, thinking she could scuttle over the bed quicker than he could catch her. Goddess, scrambling across the bed like a little girl running from the big bad wolf. She would've taken the time to be ashamed if she had the time to think about such trivialities.

What she been thinking? Earlier, she'd felt a stirring she knew she should've doused and fast. She'd felt the slight glimmer of chemistry. But maybe that was because he was a man and she was a woman. Logan was the embodiment of raw sexuality. Besides, attraction didn't have a name or a face pre-attached to it. It would be so much easier if it did, though.

Her mind concentrated on the grip she felt on her ankle. He wasn't hurting her, and she believe that he wouldn't cause her any deliberate harm, but there was something she'd seen his eyes, something about his manner, that did make her a little wary. But what was she to do? She had nothing left to fight him with. She was the one that initiated this, after all, and Goddess help her, she did want this. Her body ached for him, and she couldn't hide it from him.

This is the beginning of the end, she whispered to herself, as she slid backwards against her silk sheets. Her only defense was to grab the sheets in her hand, bringing them with her. Her attraction to him throbbed in time with her heart. That meant it was just lust. Right? Just a warm body in her bed to serve as some kind of comfort. But she knew she wasn't the type of woman who eagerly invited men into her bed because she lusted after them. Therefore, she didn't know what this was. A break in character, perhaps? A surrender of passion? Something else? There was no time to analyze.

She felt like she was falling, and she quickly dropped her legs, her feet hitting the floor with a thud. She could feel him, pressing hard into her, the rough material of his jeans caressing the backs of her thighs like calloused fingers. A rather sensuous feel, she decided. She stretched her arms forward not really sure what she intended to do. Attempt to scramble for her life again? Not hardly.

He rested his hands on her shoulders, massaging gently, continuing down her arms over her stretched arms. She laid her face to the side, her cheek brushing against the cool silk. His chest moved rhythmically on her back with each breath he took, their body heat interlocking together—an ouroboros of need, want, desire mixing perpetually.

Her hips rocked against his begging for what she could not voice, as his lips skim across her shoulders. He kissed the back of her neck causing the fine hair on her body to stand at attention. Her body was like a flower unfurling to his touch.

A shudder of heat rolled in her belly, extending its fingers to every part of her body, warming her all over, as his tongue slid down her spine. He gripped her hips, motioning for her to turn to him. He was kneeling before her like a servant paying genuflection to his pagan goddess, preparing to worship at her holiest of altars.

"Tell me what you want," he said.

"I think you already know," she countered, purposefully defiant. Wasn't it obvious what she wanted? Otherwise, why else would she stand there trembling like leaves in a rainstorm?

"Tell me," he demanded. She let her head drop back, staring at the ceiling above her. He was going to make her work for this; he was going to make her relinquish her control. "Look at me."

She straightened her neck, looking into his dark eyes. She realized he wasn't going any further until she said something. Goddess help her. She felt the muscles in her stomach clench at her verbal admission, but what was done couldn't be undone.

That was the funny thing about giving up control; you had to put your trust in someone else. You had to depend on someone else to be stronger, and while that didn't make her weak, she realized that it did mean that not only did she trust him but she also trusted herself and her decision to trust him.

They moved together, their bodies singing off each other as if they'd done this before in another place, in another lifetime. Release for her started as a contralto that came from deep within in her belly, rushing over her with the force of a summer storm, as she hit a high note that would've made even the best soprano jealous.

Afterwards, she laid close to him, feeding off his warmth, her eyes at half-mast, as he caressed her still quivering thighs. Neither of them said word. Nothing needed to be said, she decided as the first drops of rain hit the mansion's roof.

- - -

Author's Notes: I tried. I wanted this to be just as compelling as the unedited version of this chapter. I didn't just want to slap anything in here and throw it up for you all to read, but I admit it was a little hard. I wanted to leave in the "important" stuff while taking out the graphic detail. I didn't want you to get the short end of the stick, and as I mentioned in the first chapter, the unedited version can be found at the RoLo Realm (Adultfanfiction, pending).