Disclaimer: I don't own the X-Men!

Chapter 10: Appetite.

Rogue was 20 when she and Remy met.

The night was clear out there in the balcony. She hurried her way among the several people that were drinking, talking or both, and made it to the intricate golden banister. She spotted the black limo immediately, at the corner of the street, and the woman getting on it, then the driver closing the door for her. Moments later, they took off.

"Rogue to Cyclops" she muttered, taking a quick look around and pressing the tiny communicator that was pinned to her little black dress.

"Come in, Rogue."

"W just left the building same way she arrived."

"Understood. Stay around for a short while and let us know if there's anything out of the ordinary. If not, your work there is done."

"Got it. Over and out."

She had spent over four hours following this person around the big club/venue/bar/restaurant place, with no relevant results, while, at the same time, turning down the not few guys that tried to hit on her. Now, it was around 3 am and yet another alcohol-free cocktail would suit her; she hardly ever drank any liquor at all, let alone when she was on X-Men duty. So with the small purse in one hand, she headed back inside.

Big, crystal lamps gave light to the large place, where many couches and seats of all sorts, modern and antique, were scattered. More than a bar itself, it looked like someone's big luxurious mansion solely dedicated to partying.

"Hey, gorgeous." It was a blond guy this time: "I was spotting you from the other side of the room and I said to myself…"

"No."

She gave her back to him, grabbed the glass from the bartender and walked away.

However, something was different. Something had changed, from the previous dozen of men that had delivered almost identical lines during that night. She took a large sip from the pineapple drink and let its sharp sweetness dissolve in her lips, her tongue, then gradually go down her throat and leave its flavor sparkling in her mouth.

But it wasn't the drink, what had left her all tingly. It was something in the back of her mind which had, for a second, hesitated about that no she had shot at him. Something that had tickled her into talking to him, because, why not? Maybe he was nice.

She continued strolling around, among the sofas and the bars, trying to hide from it, to get away from its grasp. But there was no use. Another gulp of fruits and syrup and she did the math: three months and twenty six days had passed. It had always showed up first thing in the morning, she had never been awake when it kicked in.

Guess there's always a first time.

One last little look around the place and she'd bounce out of there, before it was too late.

She avoided a small group of dancing people and went down the four or five steps of the shiny white stairs. Before, she had only taken a short glimpse at this part of the club, because the woman she was babysitting hadn't stepped a foot around here. It was the gambling area, with large casino style tables.

Yes, one last look around and she'd be gone.

People playing under the dim lights as she moved around, aware that with every step, she was becoming more and more a walking piece of danger. And there was a struggle in the pit of her stomach between the wish to stay under control, and the desire to just surrender to the unavoidable. The battle of herself against herself, wanting to run away from it, but also towards it, and embrace it and to hell with everything.

Just one more look.

Then, like drawn by invisible strings, her stare went to lie on him.

This man was sitting at the front of one of the crowded tables, while poker cards seemed to have life of their own in his hands. He shuffled and maneuvered the deck without even looking at it, apparently keeping everyone around entertained at the same time. Rogue approached a bit, to get a better look, trying to distinguish him better on the other side of this girl's big hair or that guy's shoulder. But they didn't exist, though; no one else did, they were just the pointless context of his fine-looking face with the right amount of stubble, his eyes that were something to die in, and his hair she was already picturing in between her fingers.

For some lucid instants, she knew she should leave. But then he started dealing the cards and with each of them, all of the shouldn'ts and wouldn'ts, and especially the can'ts and won'ts, faded away in thin air.

She reached a barstool that was located somewhat in his range of vision and what do you know?, right when she climbed up and crossed a leg over the other, those red orbits looked her way; it was just a moment, but as his eyes focused again on his cards and chips, she knew that smirk was intended for her. It made her heart jump with more intensity, melting in the certainty that she was desired.

As he made his bet and picked his cards, her gaze trailed once and again his strong jaw line, every move of his skilful hands and God bless the rolled up sleeves of his shirt that emphasized his built arms, another sip to try and cool down the heat that was about to make her burst. Did he look her way again? Did he just give her an almost imperceptible wink? Sure he did. How could he not?

She finished her drink and put the glass away, when it was announced that he had won the hand. Some applause, several snorts, two guys that stood up and stormed out. In spite of his good game, he left the table too.

There were people in the middle of the way, but still, she could almost feel the touch of his eyes on her skin, as he advanced closer and closer.

If he had looked magnetic from the distance, up close he was sex on legs.

"Care to play, chere?" he offered his hand for what she thought would be a hand shake, but instead, he placed a kiss on her knuckles. The contact of him left her floating in a current of hot shakiness.

She wanted to dare him and wrap him and tempt the hell out of him.

"If yah care to lose".

He leaned forward, resting a hand on the back of her chair so he was near, so near…

"Dunno the word." Her arms felt suddenly weak and heavy, like when you try alcohol and it starts running through your system. Except she hadn't drunk any. "Wanna go over there? Maybe we could juice it up with a little bet."

She slid her left hand from her knee up to her tight, casually, but with all the intention of driving him nuts.

"No."

He narrowed his eyes questioningly:

"'Kay, how 'bout Remy invite y' a drink?"

"No" she shook her head and there was a bit of naivety in her expression, but not in the words that followed: "We should just go somewhere else. To play."

She could have sworn his crimson pupils gleamed at the sound of this.

"Know a back door out of here" he rasped in her ear: "Shall we?"

She held on to his arm and got off the barstool.

It was heady, to walk among the people and under the different lights, the music swirling around and being with him, having formed a temporary link of two in mere minutes, apart from everyone and as a secret, a rebellion, that no one else would know. It didn't matter who he was or who she was; only the present, real and appetizing, existed.

They made it to a gloomy hallway in the back, where the noise from the partying was muffled and accompanied by nothing but the sound of their steps.

"What y' say we go to this lil' motel across the street?"

She didn't reply because something had caught her eye. She pushed a door open and entered the fanciest restroom she had ever seen, with a sort of chaise lounge in the center.

Hmmm.

There was a woman in there, though, fixing her make-up in front of a mirror.

"Get lost" Rogue told her, making the other girl frown and almost protest. Almost, because after receiving a glare and a "NOW", she promptly picked up her make-up bag and left, trying not to lose balance in her ultra high heels.

When Rogue went to lock the door from the inside, he was chuckling:

"Remy like your style, cherie." He saw her turn towards him and smile what he thought was the sexiest, cheekiest smile north or south from New Orleans. Then, she shoved him hard against the wall. "Y' like it rough, don't y'?"

"Yah bet."

It was like their mouths already knew the other. She couldn't contain a moan at the feel of his hands on her body.

"Now, tell me something, chere" he switched places and pressed her against the wall, now agonizingly kissing her neck, collarbone, shoulders: "Y' ain't a honey trap made up by my enemies, are y'?"

"Enemies?" she breathed. In between her fingers, his hair felt just like she had imagined it: "Well if Ah were Ah wouldn't tell yah, don't yah think?"

"Oui, but gotta ask anyway, 'cause y're trop belle to be true."

She closed her eyes and got lost for a while in his kiss and his touch. Good Lord, he knew what he was doing. Then, she started undoing his tie.

"What if Ah were?" she whispered, throwing the tie away: "A honey trap?"

"Then Remy die happy."

She tilted her head back and smiled widely. She liked his style too.

(…)

She placed all of her hair to a side, over her shoulder, so he could pull the back zipper of her dress all the way up.

"There, nice and tight again" he said, and with that, the dress was back in place.

"Thanks, eh… Remy, right?"

"Mais oui, what gave it away?"

"Ah just guessed."

"And your name's…?"

"Rogue."

She took a look at herself in one of the round and large mirrors; her eye make-up was mostly okay but her lipstick was all over the map. So she searched inside her purse for the burgundy and tinted her lips with it again, up close to her reflection, to her own eyes that looked both familiar and strange.

And even though this taste of satisfaction flooded her body, seeing him there in the mirror, buttoning his shirt and staring at her, made her knees feel like cotton again.

"Rogue, hein? I like it." He was rolling his sleeves up his arms, which maybe wasn't a coincidence; this guy knew how to look good. "Think we can meet again some time?"

She hadn't expected this, but thinking about it, it wasn't a bad idea at all.

"Maybe, yeah" she pulled out her cell phone: "Gimme your number."

Usually he was the one to ask for phone numbers he'd maybe or maybe not call later on. But it seemed this Rogue girl liked to take the lead. He'd let her; it was nice, for a change.

"What about yours?" he asked, after she had saved his number and slid her phone back inside the purse.

Well, no. He wouldn't have her number, that was for sure, mainly because she didn't want to mix her actual life with this. It was already enough at home with Bobby, giving her that awkward look every once in a while. Also, she didn't want no out of place calls, or having to turn him down and then call him when she… needed him. She had to keep this under the surface, which she hadn't precisely been the best at so far, getting it on with team mates or enemies during missions, but maybe, without realizing of it and without intending it, she had found exactly what she had needed all this time: a good ol' bootie call. She'd give him what he wanted, he'd give her what she wanted, and then they'd part ways. No questions, no explanations, no need to feel guilty, because this guy was obviously used to this kind of stuff. And that was worth of notice, too: guilt? She didn't feel any right then, unlike with the other guys. In fact, she felt… great.

All of this flickered in her mind as she stood there, in front of him. She'd analyze it better in the days that followed. But with the basis of it already on mind, there was only one thing left to say:

"Ah'll call yah."

Note: Well guys, there it is. All I can say now is Happy New Year! I hope that 2016 brings everybody a lot of great stuff, such as Romyness and your favorite desserts. And much more. Thanks for staying tuned to these little fics of mine, that I enjoy so much writing. Next chap, hopefully up next week!