Disclaimer: These characters belong to Marvel, and I have nothing to do with Marvel.

Rating: Rated M for sex.

Author notes: This chapter was a birthday gift for the awesome Jehilew, and was the reason this ficlet came into being in the first place! So thanks, Jehilew, for being an inspiration, as well as being all-out awesome! :) XXX

- 96 Hours -

I Would, For You

It's late, and he should be home, but… here he is, in his office, at his desk, still staring at his tablet screen.

This should be just like any other job; just a routine client check. Katherine Pryde's employee file stares right back up at him. Everything checks out – everything is exactly as it should be. So why is his heart in his mouth?

Katherine Pryde.

He remembers the name of course – written in small, neat print on the spine of a mem-chip case. One of hundreds that had been archived by the original Weapon X project.

He can barely breathe. There's a feeling inside him, one he's buried for months and months now, that's snaking up inside him again and threatening to spill out.

"Anna," he murmurs to himself. "It's you, Anna."

It's the name he's been denying himself for an age, and saying it now is like an incantation to break a spell. His gut churns furiously. Even now, 14 months and thousands of miles apart, she does things to him no other woman has done. There are things she conjures up inside him that have no name, driving hungers he hasn't trusted himself to feel.

Until now.

He gets to his feet and goes to the window, he lights up a cigarette.

He considers how to play this. Toys with the idea of simply contacting Katherine right now, calling her out on this little charade, telling her it's a waste of time. He's waited so damn long for her already. And now – suddenly – she's tantalisingly within arm's reach. He wants a resolution to this so bad. And, in a matter of a few short hours, he can have it. He can have her.

He sucks in a slow drag and lets it go in a torrent.

There's another part of him that wants to string this out, to follow this trail of breadcrumbs right down to the prize at the end. He admires good craftsmanship, and he's always admired hers. He wants to see how this little ruse she's constructed plays out, how she plans to draw him in. It wouldn't be the first time he's let himself be knowingly snared by a woman. And hell – he'd be dumb to turn down a free flight and an all-expenses paid trip to New York.

And then her at the end of it…

He taps loose ash and smiles tightly to himself.

The promise of her presence; the things he remembers and the things he's forgotten… He's all about delayed gratification. He won't spoil her plan. He'll bide his time, let this play out. See her under her own terms, as she wants him to see her. He'll wait, for her.

He grinds the cigarette out on the sill and closes the window.

He goes back to his tablet, and starts searching for flights to NY.

-oOo-

The streets of New York were alive with sights and sounds and smells that had been the backdrop of his life for so long, sensations he'd thought he'd forgotten, and yet now covered him in a security blanket that was as comforting as it was familiar.

He'd been here before; walked down this exact same street before with the sun warm on his back, a beautiful woman by his side, nimbly pocketing the same old wallets from the same old unsuspecting passers-by. It wasn't hard to resist the urge to do so now. His mind was on far more pleasant distractions.

He slipped an arm round the waist of the woman walking beside him, pulled her just that little bit closer. There was nothing else for him right now but her, her, her.

"So," he asked her playfully, wanting her even closer but still irrationally afraid of scaring her away, "where we goin'?"

Anna smiled up at him, free and easy, hooking her thumb in the back pocket of his jeans and coming in closer so that their hips were flush.

"Just some place that opened a couple of months back. They do amazing chicory coffee. I thought you might like a little taste of home."

Home. The South hadn't been his home for years, and he didn't give a damn about chicory coffee, but if it made her happy he didn't care.

"Mmm, sounds good," he grinned stupidly. He put his face in her hair and savoured the closeness. She smelled of lime and bergamot, the fancy soap he'd taken pleasurable satisfaction in slathering all over her in the shower this morning. The scent was enough to take him elsewhere, to the mouth-watering delights of her body, of their lovemaking. They'd only been back in one another's company for a full 15 hours or so, but they'd hardly done anything else. A part of him was painfully aware that there was so much for them to catch up on, but… the rest of him was in no mood to rush things. She'd never been this open, this responsive to him, and it was damn gratifying to have her as unapologetically into him right now as he was into her. Even if the change in her brought up a thousand questions that demanded an answer.

She led him into a chic little café he didn't recognise, her easy banter with the proprietors telling him that she came here often. He noticed that she didn't let go of him until they took their seats by the window, a token of possessiveness that made him stupidly, deliriously happy.

He ordered a chicory coffee to go with his light lunch, just to return the sentiment; wondering, not for the first time in the past week or so, whether he wasn't just dreaming this all. He'd been in enough simulations to know how real they could seem; but most of them didn't have content like this, not the ones he'd spent time in anyhow. The dirty sex, sure – the giddy little moments in-between, not so much.

She was looking at him across the table, trying to hide a smile. He didn't think he'd ever seen this expression of girlish coyness from her before, and it was tugging at all sorts of emotions he'd purposely closed off a long time gone. It seemed so insane to be with her like here like this, after everything they'd been through, that it made him laugh.

"What's so funny?" she asked him with an inquisitive smile.

He leaned back in his seat and shrugged helplessly.

"Nothin'. Jes' the fact that we're here, really doin' this, chere." He stretched out his legs, innocently bumping her foot as he did so. "Last time we did the café thing, circumstances were kinda, well…" he gestured vaguely, "diff'rent." He hooked her calf with his own as he continued: "You remember, huh? The day after we met, by the river. You was ready t'fight me t'the death, chere, if I remember correctly. Pitched a thousand dollar's worth of expensive gear down the Hudson while you were at it."

She rolled her eyes at him.

"Yeah, well, y'didn't exactly endear yourself t'me, sugar," she retorted in the most sarcastically sweet tone he'd ever heard. "Coming along and actin' like you were God's gift, thinkin' you were so darn clever seein' through my Tanya Trask identity."

He loved it. The way the South randomly started edging back into her accent when she got piqued. It was the kind of thing that, frankly, made him want to haul her right back off into bed.

"Admit it," he couldn't help but prod her silkily, "you thought I was hot." He paused, and she lifted a sceptical eyebrow, to which he added suggestively, "I sure as hell thought you were."

She pouted, slipping her feet out from between his own, replying nonchalantly as she did so:

"Well, ya weren't bad-lookin', I s'ppose. But then, when you see as many beautiful men as I have, they all start to look the same after a while."

She was doing such a perfect job of getting under his skin that he was instantly ready to respond to it… only to be immediately cut off when their drinks were served.

He grinned and hooked her foot again. He needed the contact.

"Hm," he sounded casually. "Yeah. You're right. Sooooo many years spent fuckin' around with the world's most beautiful people, and yet…" and he leaned in, holding her gaze sensuously, "I still don't reckon I ever met a woman quite like you."

"Y'flatter me, Cajun," she remarked coolly, lifting her coffee to her lips. "But I'm pretty sure I can't've been the first woman who ever snared yah 'cos she was a challenge."

This time there wasn't even a hint of a smile on her face, none of the playful flirtation they'd been indulging in all morning long. She suddenly seemed a little distant, which confused him, but… she didn't move her feet away from his, which was a kind of comfort.

"Non," he admitted quietly, seriously. "But you're the first I'm still here with, two years down the line."

She laid the cup down and gave him a look.

"Liar," she said softly – because she knew, just like he did, that the first woman who'd ever challenged him – the forbidden daughter of a rival gang – was the one he'd ended up marrying. The one he'd still have been with, if things had ended up differently.

Their food arrived. He couldn't help noticing that something had shifted her mood, and he was peripherally aware that it was something he'd said. She'd gone from almost blissfully giddy to brooding, uncertain. It reminded him that there were things he still didn't know about, things that had happened to her the past 14 months that he'd been cut off from. There was certainly a lot that had happened to him, and he knew he didn't know where to begin to explain it all to her.

"I did, y'know," he spoke up after a minute or so of silence. "Think I'd never met a woman like you. I thought it the moment I first looked up into your eyes that night in the bar. And later," he continued, giving a half-smile at the memory, "when you handed my ass t'me in that hotel room… I was pretty certain I'd never meet a woman like you again."

It was an honest, almost whimsical thought – enough at least, to once more soften her demeanour. She looked down into her plate and smiled, saying: "Well, you got the drop on me too, Cajun, so we're square. For a long time after, I thought it was unfair that the fates or whoever had sent you my way. The last thing I'd thought I'd needed was someone to come along and worm his way into my life, ferreting out all my secrets."

He quietly noted that her accent was hidden once more, a sign that somehow spoke volumes.

"Oh? And when did you change your mind 'bout that?" he asked her softly.

"I dunno." She shrugged with false insouciance. "But it might've been the night we went to La Princesse."

"Oh really?" He raised an eyebrow at her, wanting her to talk more about it; but instead she'd dropped her eyes again and was stabbing her fork into her salad.

"Uh huh." She flicked a glance up at him with a flash of a smile, before biting into a cherry tomato. He didn't know how she did it, but she did it. She made even the most innocuous of gestures seem indescribably sexy. Was it just him? He didn't think so.

"It wasn't what came after," she continued after a few moments. "It was what came before." He gave her a quizzical look, and she explained: "You came into my room to wake me up. I woke up and you were there. Right next to me." This time she held his eyes, her gaze steadfast. "I knew what you wanted," she almost whispered. "I knew what you were thinking. I wouldn't've said no to you. I think you knew that. But you still backed off anyway." She picked up a piece of rocket and popped it into her mouth, chewing thoughtfully. "No one had ever backed off before," she finished quietly.

The admission seemed to shame her, and she dropped her eyes again.

It made him realise something.

He didn't know a damn thing about her sexual past, but one thing he did know was that she was the kind of woman who was used to taking control in the bedroom. He'd wondered about that then, and he wondered about it now. Getting her to slow down, to relax, to just enjoy herself, had been a thing in itself. It'd made him curious about her experiences with men, about how she approached sexual relationships. There was a clue in her statement… but he didn't think it was true. He knew that Cody at least had never forced anything on her, and he figured that was where her point lay. Like Cody, he'd never taken advantage of her.

"I dunno," he returned casually, wanting to bring levity back to the conversation. "I remember afterwards ya seemed pretty certain I'd taken advantage of you that night."

She waved a hand dismissively.

"I was angry with you when I said that. Truth is, we both took advantage of each other. I was lonely and needful as all hell – and so were you."

He laughed.

"You make it sound like we were desperate."

"Weren't we?"

"Pretty sure we woulda had no trouble gettin' laid elsewhere if we'd both really wanted it."

"That ain't exactly what I meant," she replied slyly, the accent edging back into her voice. "We were both desperate for each other. I don't think I ever met a man I wanted so damn much."

Well, this was a hell of a confession. It was the kind of thing that made him want to prod her again and again for more, but he reined in the urge with an effort.

"Then I guess you're right, chere," he said easily. "We're square. 'Cos I don't think I ever met a woman I wanted so damn much, and that ain't changed." She seemed flushed, tense that she had said too much, and so he ploughed right on off-handly: "Speakin' of La Princesse, I booked us a table there tonight. So when we're done here, we're gon' go shoppin', and you're gon' buy yourself somethin' nice. On me, of course," he concluded with his most winning smile.

"Ha!" Her laugh was sarcastic. "You wanna tempt fate again, sugar?"

"Non." He shrugged. "I just wanna take you there without bus'ness interferin' in the background. Pleasant as our last visit was, I'd prefer it if we went without me worryin' that you're gonna drop some bombshell from my past. Or that you start channelling Ophelia Sarkissian again." He visibly shuddered. "'Cos sure – I don't mind mixin' a bit of bus'ness wit' pleasure… But this time, I really want it t'be all pleasure, chere. Now that it can be."

She gave a light laugh, her humour back in place.

"Don't worry," she replied. "The only kinda 'business' that can interrupt us right now is Raven – and I've warned her away from us under pain of death."

-oOo-

There was one thing he knew Anna loved, and that was haute couture.

He remembered her guest room, the one he'd spent several nights in, a space occupied by closets-full of fine designer clothes and boxes of unworn shoes. The time he'd spent casing out the place had only enlightened him as to her gorgeously expensive taste. He'd spent an hour or so rigging her neural scanner to read his brainwaves, hacking into the black box and uploading his data to the drive. It had just so happened that the box was in the back of the closet in the guest room, and there he'd sat, in among a rack of silky, satiny, lacy dresses that had smelled of her and made it increasingly difficult to concentrate.

He'd gone to bed thinking about it that night.

About her, in pretty, perfumed dresses, wearing them just for him. That little red number she'd worn at La Princesse had honestly been like a wet dream come true.

He was trying hard not to think it about it, now, with Anna walking along the racks of fancy dresses, running her fingers over the soft, sumptuous fabrics. She looked so completely in her element that, for a second, he was happy to watch her, to admire her. Even now, dressed down in cotton harem pants and blouse, her hair drawn up in an unruly ponytail, he found her strikingly, ridiculously, beautiful. He'd spent more than a few nights the past several months reconstructing her in his memory, and now that he didn't need to resort to that anymore… well, he was kind of getting the feeling like he might be waking up again any moment now.

He walked up to her, resting his hand on the small of her back, almost as if to satisfy himself that she was real.

"Anna," he murmured. "I'm gonna head up t'the men's section. I'll meet ya back down here, okay?"

"Okay," she said, absently tucking a lock of white hair behind her ear and fixing him a blissful smile. It was an invitation and he took it, leaning over to kiss her on the lips – such a simple action that most couples would take for granted, and that yet seemed so hard-won for the two of them. She kissed him back and for a couple of seconds it was like nothing between them had ever been complicated.

"I won't be long," he promised her when they'd pulled apart, and when she nodded, he left.

One thing he'd learned through years of spycraft and highfalutin heists – looking the part was always an essential aspect of getting the job done. Most things worth stealing were in the most exclusive places; and most of the people worth marking were the rich, the famous, the powerful. When you were young and beautiful and looked the part, it was easy to fit in. He guessed the same kind of people and places were where Anna had also acquired her expensive tastes.

He picked out an outfit for himself, allowed the tailor to hum and hah over the best combinations and make a few adjustments. He was as happy to impress Anna as he figured she'd be him. After he'd paid he headed back to the women's section, feeling pretty sure she still wouldn't be finished. Finding her nowhere in sight, he headed to the fitting rooms, which were apparently empty.

"Anna?" he called.

"Here," her voice emanated from the one closed stall. "I'm just trying some things on. You done?"

"Uh huh."

"I'm nearly done too. But there's something I want to show you. Won't be a sec…"

"Okay."

There was a white leather couch up against the wall, and he took a seat. While he was waiting, he took a moment to check his messages. Jake was complaining about having a mountain of resumes from potential secretaries to deal with, with no input to be had from him – "Sucks t'be you, Jake, I'm on vacation", he'd muttered to himself, promptly deleting the message – and Katherine had sent him a single thumbs up, which told him that he'd already been the topic of some sort of conversation between her and Anna.

He grinned at that, amused that Katherine – whom he hadn't even had a single conversation with outside of business – felt entitled to let him know that she approved of his treatment of her friend.

"Okay, I'm done now," Anna suddenly broke into his train of thoughts. She opened the door of her cubicle and stepped out under the white lights, striking a perfectly unstudied pose.

He stared.

The dress was a skin-tight, barely-there black number that left little to the imagination. The wide, square-shaped scoop of the neckline left most of her shoulders bare; the hemline hardly reached mid-thigh, revealing long, bare, streamlined legs that any man would ache to get wrapped up in. Her hair was loose and fluffed out, soft curls licking the curve of her shoulders.

"So?" she asked. "Whaddya think?"

He tried to answer, but nothing came out. His mouth was dry.

"Yeah, I guess it ain't appropriate for dinner," she drawled decidedly. "I'll take it off."

She turned to head back into the booth.

"Anna," he finally managed to get out.

She turned expectantly.

"C'mere."

She jerked him a conspiratorial little smile, and pretty much sashayed on over; he leaned back in the seat and slung his arms casually over the top of the sofa, waiting to see what was on her mind. He was only half-surprised when she came right into his space, resting a knee between his legs, almost as if she was about to straddle his thigh, daring him not to touch her. He didn't. Not yet, anyway.

"Y'don't like?" she asked him in a near-whisper, and he looked her up and down, smiled, said:

"Oh, I more than like. But I think you know that, don't ya, chere."

She grinned and leaned in a little closer towards him, whispered:

"Yeah, I guess I do."

For a few glorious pulses of time he looked up at her and she looked down on him, and he struggled with a desire that threatened to chew him up and spit him out. If he touched her, he didn't think he could stop till he had her, right here, right now. But then, he'd spent his entire life upping the ante, meeting unequal challenges just so he could charm and fake his way into winning. He'd never won with her though. Not quite. Still… …

He reached out and placed his hand on the inside of her thigh, right above the knee.

"You are such a cocktease, chere," he murmured huskily up at her.

"Gawd," she drawled back voluptuously. "I do hope so. The past few weeks I've been doin' nothin' but gettin' worked up on the memory of you and now…"

The words were cut off on a gasp as he slid his hand all the way up the length of her thigh, right up to the line of her panties.

"Now there's a thought," he said thickly. "You, gettin' worked up on memories of me. Care to elaborate?"

"Oh, I'm fairly sure your dirty little mind can figure out a few things," she purred; and he laughed softly.

"I can think of plenty. Plenty of the kind of mem'ries I wish we'd taken the time t'record, the last time we were together."

He let his thumb wander slightly, watching her eyelids flutter and her lips part and her body shudder pleasurably and… …

"Have you decided what you want, Miss—Oh! I'm sorry!"

A fitting assistant had entered, to her credit immediately cottoning onto what was going on. Anna jerked backwards, but didn't back away – although he was amused to see she was blushing furiously.

"Um… Yeah, I think I've found something," she said in a voice that was still shaky with desire. He tried not to smile and let his hand slide back down the inside of her thigh, slow enough to make it clear he wasn't in the least ashamed at being caught red-handed.

"All right," the assistant said quickly, already retreating back from where she'd come from. "I'll just be outside." And she disappeared.

Remy caressed Anna's knee longingly.

"Hm. Smooth," he remarked playfully.

"Shut up," she huffed at him, still flushed from lust and embarrassment.

"You started it. Maybe I should join you in that cubicle and we can finish it."

The furtive look she darted at the doorway told him she was more than just a little tempted. So he was kind of disappointed when she suddenly backed away, saying firmly:

"I think maybe this dress needs to go back on the rack."

She pushed away and had almost got back to the fitting booth when he called to her.

"Anna?"

"What?"

"You're gettin' that dress."

She swivelled round, hand on hip, shooting him a look that was like a hunting grade calibre bullet.

"I ain't wearin' this out to a two-bit honky tonk bordello, let alone La Princesse."

He laughed.

"Chere, you ain't wearin' dat out in public. Ask de nice lady t'bag it up for you. We find other uses for it. Private ones."

She rolled her eyes at him and snapped the door shut behind her, making an almost-convincing show of complete and utter disdain, one he wasn't taken in by in the least. He settled back into the couch with a smug little grin on his face. If Anna was going to do her darndest to seduce him, then he was more than happy to play the part and be thoroughly seduced.

-oOo-

Here they were, back again. At La Princesse, at the exact same table, under the exact same star-speckled sky. Except this time, he hoped, without the lies and the subterfuge. Without the grinding knowledge that somewhere down the line, either one of them could betray the other… that any trust or quarter given might be a fatal mistake, a matter of life and death.

The last time they'd been here, she'd been a client, a colleague, a mark… a conquest in the making. And he'd been… well. A tool. A means to an end. A potential enemy. Her betrayer.

Now they were here on equal terms, as lovers. At least, he hoped so. He wasn't good at making things 'official', if such a thing existed. Back in London, Lila was the one who'd made those kinds of decisions, 'relationship' decisions. She'd been the one to ask him whether they were 'official' yet; the one to suggest they move in together. The questions had confused him in ways he'd been embarrassed to admit. The last time he'd ever been 'official' with anyone was Belle, and that had been because the circumstances had forced them to either make or break the relationship. Everything in-between Belle and Lila had been casual flings and one-night stands. So he'd let Lila make the decisions for him because he hadn't really known how else to navigate them. It'd felt right at the time… But here and now, with Anna… he realised he hadn't really learned anything from Lila's masterful handling of their relationship at all. He hadn't even been the one to break it off between them, even when he'd clearly known it was over. He'd simply waited for her to say they were done.

He wanted to start something with Anna, but… he realised he wasn't sure how.

She was sitting across from him, just so distractingly, deliciously beautiful right now that the thought of not starting something with her was almost painful to him.

She was dressed in an off-the-shoulder, bottle green satin sheath dress that was elaborately encased in an intricate trelliswork of lace, her hair half up on one side, completely down on the other, café-au-lait curls tumbling down her right shoulder. The colour of the dress brought out the green of her eyes, forcing him to realise that for some reason she hardly ever wore that particular shade.

They'd talked, bantered, flirted hard over the course of their meal, but there was something about her tonight that bothered him. She seemed a little tense, a little self-conscious, a little preoccupied. He couldn't quite put his finger on it, but he knew it was there, beneath the smiles and the laughter and the come-hither looks. In fact she'd been like this on and off since the very moment they'd reconnected barely 24 hours ago, and… It made him doubly uncomfortable to realise that he didn't know how to broach it with her either.

"What are you thinking?" she suddenly asked him, breaking his train of thought. He shook himself, answered:

"Nothin'." He paused, laughed, and corrected himself, saying: "Actually, that ain't true. I'm thinkin' about you."

"Original," she noted sardonically. "And boring."

"Chere," he answered sincerely. "Thinkin' about you is anythin' but borin'."

"Pfft." She picked up her wineglass. "You know all the lines."

He watched her drink and said helplessly: "You know I know all the lines. That's why I don't bother sayin' them t'you unless they're true."

She set down her glass and smiled cynically.

"Oh, Remy. You and I both know that you spent a helluva lotta time tellin' lies to me the last time we tangoed."

"Non," he replied calmly. "I spent a lotta time hidin' the truth from you. There's a difference."

She visibly stiffened at the words; and for a few moments she toyed agitatedly with the stem of her wineglass, before raising her eyes to his once more like she was ready to call him out.

"Remy… I don't know how to say this, so I just will." She took in a breath, held his gaze, asked: "Do you… Is there someone else back in England?"

He was genuinely floored by the question. It was the last thing he'd suspected she'd ever ask.

"Well, there was," he answered honestly. "Until a few weeks ago. You actually timed this pretty good, chere. Any earlier, and things coulda been awkward… …"

He trailed off, seeing the tension almost palpably ooze out of her.

"Okay," she said, almost to herself, clearly relieved. "'Cos I wasn't sure whether you were already seeing someone back in London, and all this was just… y'know…" she waved her hand absently, "…a fling or a hookup or something."

He cocked his head to one side, regarding her questioningly.

"Ya think I woulda asked you to come back to London wit' me if this was just some fling?" he asked quietly. Her eyes met his again; she stopped playing with the wineglass.

"There've been men who asked me to go back with them to whether they came from," she replied soberly. "To play at being their mistress, or their… bit on the side." She pushed a lock of hair back behind her ear, as if the admission made her self-conscious, her gaze suddenly wandering everywhere but in his direction. "I always said no. I was never… interested… in being 'the other woman'. In being a plaything."

Her eyes were on his again, just the little hint of the wildcat back in them again, that unabashed defiance.

"For you though… I would've considered it."

She drank, deeply, quickly.

A stolen memory hit him then.

A memory of her standing next to him, lying there in Raven's medbay, her hands curled around his, and this indescribable feeling flooding her, flooding him, this love – her love. For him. She knew he knew it. She knew it was useless for her to hide it from him, that it put her at a disadvantage. But this confession… it was a kind of tacit acknowledgement. Of just how vulnerable he made her, of the things she'd be willing do for his sake.

The power she'd handed to him in that moment was titillating, intoxicating in the most venal way. He was conscious of what it meant, that it implied some kind of test… And it made him hunger for her all the more.

"Would you?" he asked with studied nonchalance, and she replied immediately, and with a fiery-eyed fierceness:

"Yes."

She was doing things to him right now. He suddenly needed a smoke, bad.

"I meant what I said, this morning," she continued seriously. "About home, about taking it with us. Yesterday, I wasn't sure, but… seeing you again… being with you again… … If someone asked me to let it all go again, to watch you walk away…" She lowered her voice to a threadbare whisper, "I don't think I could do it. I might have ended up regretting it, but I would have gone with you, if you'd asked me to come with you, and there was someone else waiting for you back home."

He was consciously breathing. He was aware of each breath, surging through his lungs.

"I wouldn't have asked you to make that kind of decision… …"

"No?" She laughed almost bitterly. "Tell me you could leave this country now without me."

And there was the leveller. She knew him and his wants, his desires, just as well as he knew hers.

"If there was someone else right now," he replied in a low voice. "There wouldn't be once I got back home. I hope you know that."

She said nothing, just looked at him as if she didn't quite believe him, and yet again it made him wonder about the men who'd come before him. The men she'd had to forget the one she couldn't have back. Cody.

He stood.

"I need a smoke," he said. "Come with?"

They went out onto the balcony, just like they'd done before – standing just outside the light thrown out by the restaurant, two silhouettes standing side by side in the darkness. He lit up a cigarette and she watched him, the movement of his fingers, going through this ritual he'd performed a million times before.

"You want one?" he asked her, seeing the intentness of her gaze.

She shook her head.

"No. You just have… nice hands."

"Oh." He laughed. "For a minute there, I thought you were goin' all Ophelia Sarkissian on me again."

She quirked a half-smile, amused.

"Oh, Lady Sarkissian thought a lot of things about your hands. She found you… delightful."

She settled on the word as if it was the only one that accurately expressed the sentiment. For his part, he didn't much care what Lady Sarkissian or anyone else thought.

"And what do you think?"

She paused, seemingly taken aback by the question.

"I think you're... beautiful," she replied sincerely.

He looked aside, a smile flickering across his lips, uncertain how to meet her earnestness.

"I think you've changed a lot since I last saw you," she added, unprompted. "And I think that kinda scares me, but… I still think you're beautiful. And you still touch me in places I never knew." It was her turn to look aside, frowning as she looked out over the city. "When I left you back in Raven's medbay, I knew that when and if I ever saw you again, you'd be different. I'd be different. That scared me. I guess it still does. But I had to go. I'm... sorry if it hurt you."

"Hey, it's okay." He reached out and brushed a few stray locks of hair tenderly from her shoulder. "We both changed each other. I don't think that'll stop. I hope it won't, anyway."

And she looked up at him with a shy smile.

"I hope it won't either," she whispered; and she swivelled, grabbed the lapels of his jacket, and pulled him down into a kiss.

-oOo-

This time yesterday, he hadn't had a moment to think.

They'd both been so damn greedy for one another, nothing had seemed as important as fitting as closely together as they physically could, in as many ways as humanly possible. It had been some of the best sex of his life; and while the idea of more of the same hadn't in any way cooled yet, there were things she'd said today and things she'd done that made him feel like he should approach her differently.

She had a lot riding on this – that was clear. So did he, but… she'd purposely made herself vulnerable to him. He still didn't really know what had happened to her the last few months, and somehow that seemed important, but it didn't feel right to bring up the subject with her yet. He didn't think she was ready.

So, they'd stood by the door of her hotel room and kissed, deep… slow. They had time. For once, they had it.

"When's our flight?" she'd asked him in a murmur, somewhere between kisses.

"Evenin' after tomorrow," he'd answered, taking the moment to slip the coat off her shoulders. "Why?"

"Hmmm, just tryin' to figure out how much time we have left…"

He dropped his lips to her bare shoulder, laughed huskily.

"Oh, chere… we'll have plenty of time for dis back in London…"

"I'm assumin' you'll haveta work…"

"I'm sure I can fit you inta my busy schedule."

He kissed his way up the line of her neck and behind her ear, making her gasp and fall silent. He'd been itching to get her out of that goddamn dress all evening, and he wasn't going to let anything derail that plan right now, not even cute and sexy banter with her.

"Yeah, but I'm gonna leave ya high and dry in Heathrow, remember?" she persisted, teasing him. He raked his teeth along that same soft spot behind her ear, said gruffly: "Like fuck you are."

"There's a whole world out there," she whispered. "How d'you know the Rogue won't be tempted by it again?"

There was a laugh in her voice that was specially designed to get under his skin – and it was kind of working. With a half-frustrated, half-playful growl, he shoved her up against the door and pushed his body against hers.

"If the Rogue wants convincin', I got ways," he said hotly.

"Uh huh?"

He put his hands on her thighs and slid them slightly under the hemline of her dress.

"Uh huh," he said.

The simple words were loaded, and he dropped slowly to his knees, working the dress up towards her waist as he went down. Black lace. She was wearing black lace underwear, and goddamn, if she wasn't the most mouth-watering thing he'd ever encountered in his sordid life, if he wasn't going to eat up every last delectable inch of her.

He looked up at her, shooting her a wolfish grin, not breaking eye contact as he leaned in a little and warmed her with his breath. Her teeth almost instinctively caught on her lower lip, just as quickly letting it go again when he stopped. Slipping his hands back behind her knees and caressing her there lightly, he moved forward and tasted her through the lace.

Her hips bucked to meet him instinctively, the breath driven from her mouth as though completely unwillingly. Although her palms were pressed against the door, he knew there were things she wanted to do with them, and he tormented her just long enough for them to twitch in his direction… before pulling quickly away.

The sound that left her mouth was pure frustration.

"Ugh!—And you call me a fucking cocktease you dick!" she blasted out all in one breath.

He laughed softly, sexily. He loved winding her up like this. He didn't think there was anyone else who could.

"Oh, I'm jes' primin' you for a very delicious payback for what you pulled back in de boutique, beb."

He raised his eyes to hers again and teased the fancy panties, inch by painful inch, down her long, long legs.

"Seem t'remember you tellin' me we'd get bored of the sex within two weeks," he murmured suggestively. "Y'think we're even close to that yet, hmm?"

"Pfft," she retorted in a surly tone – as if the flush on her cheeks wasn't giving her away. "At the rate we're goin', I give us a week."

He grinned and lifted her right leg up and over his left shoulder.

"Hmm. Then I guess we'll haveta think of new and excitin' ways t'keep this interestin'." He turned his head slightly and kissed that spot inside her thigh that he already knew was one of her erogenous zones. "I'm gon' have fun experimentin'."

He licked that same spot, slow and voluptuous, seeing her glance darken and glaze over.

"Stop talkin' like you don't know we'll have run out of positions by next Tuesday," she muttered almost deliriously as he kissed his way up the inside of her thigh.

"Stop talkin' as if this thing here b'tween us ain't real, and I might consider it," he answered sincerely. "Assumin' what you're sayin' is even the truth." He was right there, and he lingered a moment, added pointedly, "Which it ain't," before ending the conversation the only way he knew it was going to be ended.

It worked. The only protest he got from her was a long, soft moan, the kind that sent his heart racing and his blood boiling. Within seconds her fingers were fisting in at the roots of his hair, her body moving to the rhythm of his tongue, completely unashamed about the fact that he was giving her pleasure and that she wanted more of it. He'd known from the moment he'd laid eyes on her that this woman was fire, but damn… there were definitely times when she proved to him that here was a femme who probably needed to come with her own health and safety hazard warning. Sure, he knew objectively it was the kind of thing most men would find intimidating; but he would've been lying if he'd said he didn't find it anything but all kinds of hot. He was more than willing to spend his time pleasing her if it was what she wanted.

He kissed and licked and sucked her until she was a quivering mess; and he didn't stop until it was over, until he'd wrung every last ounce of orgasm out of her, and she was literally sobbing with pleasure.

"Is the Rogue still tempted t' walk away?" he asked her silkily, as he finally got back to his feet and pressed her up against the door with his body, knowing she'd otherwise collapse like a heap of jello on the floor.

"Ugh," she muttered with disgusted admiration, putting her head in his shoulder and still clinging to him for purchase. "You are too damn good with that insufferable mouth of yours."

"I'll take that as a no," he laughed. "So what you think, huh? Looks like I'm good wit' my hands and my mouth… you figure there's any other part of my body I can use t'convince you t'stay wit' me, beb?"

She lifted her head and glared at him, her cheeks all flushed and her lips all plumped up with that orgasmic afterglow, and God, she was beautiful, in ways that were paradoxically both sublime and profane, dirty and divine. It was impossible, he thought, for him to ever stop wanting her.

She grabbed his head between her hands, pulled him in as close as she could.

"Oh I definitely think," she whispered fervently, "that there's a body part we might've missed."

Having kissed him passionately, she took him by both hands and pulled him impatiently towards the bed. And he – not for the first or last time – was only too happy to follow.

-oOo-