The four generous slugs of tequila and the feminine hand in Logan's pants made it hard to think so soon after the fights had ended. The Wolverine was strong in his mind, that powerful animal instinct tangled up with his own thoughts that were only slightly more rational. He could feel the internal shift. Bloodlust to carnal lust; the sweaty downward spiral to the second half of the fight-fuck equation. His blood was up. He needed to expend that energy to come down. Sex was his preferred way to do it.
It wasn't his first time with this particular woman on her knees in front of him; a curvy brunette with long silky hair that fell down her back in shiny waves. Her eyes were wrong though, blue not brown. When she came, however, she closed her eyes, and the spill of dark hair clenched in his fingers and dragging over his sweaty skin more than made up for it.
Her name was Cheyenne. He called her honey. He called them all honey. They weren't friends. He knew her though, even outside of the sweet shuddering clench of her body. Shared a few drinks at the bar. Gave her shitty Grand Prix a jump once. He'd even done a favor for her and her toddler a time or two over the last few years. She typically repaid him with a home cooked meal rather than sex, and he appreciated that. Sex he could get anywhere.
She knew who he was and what he was, but the only real personal knowledge she had about him was how he liked to get off. That's what he liked best about her, that and she didn't follow him with hungry, needy eyes, expecting more than he had to give. No strings on either side, just a straight up exchange of pleasure. He was pretty generous with the orgasms and in return she was generally up for whatever he wanted. He liked that about her, too.
Tonight he'd floated a new idea by her as they shared a drink before the fights. A few months back, he'd spent a long night with her and her friend. Left them tangled up together in a pleasure-soaked coma afterward, so he didn't really think she'd have a problem with someone joining them, but he also knew better than to assume where a woman was involved.
As it turned out, Cheyenne didn't mind. The idea intrigued her, especially after he'd made it clear that this particular friend was pretty damn skittish and it would strictly be watching only, if she even showed up at all. In fact, he expressly forbade any effort to touch her at all. He explained, briefly, gruffly, that the shy young woman in question was not only a good friend who was a little curious and a lot reckless, but also someone he'd promised to look out for.
Logan could see the thousand questions burning in her eyes but she knew better than to ask. She left him with a wet kiss and a dirty wink instead. What the Wolverine wanted, the Wolverine got, especially in matters of the flesh. In matters of the heart, however, things were infinitely more complicated.
Which is probably why his pulse kicked up an extra notch as Marie entered the small office.
He didn't even need to raise his head. He knew her scent, the cadence of her steps and rhythm of her breathing; even her heart beat a familiar tattoo in his ears. As she moved closer, navigating the warren of crammed shelves, he bent over the dark head bobbing in his lap, put his mouth by Chey's ear and whispered to her that his friend had joined them.
Her response was to suck harder for a moment and graze his thighs lightly with her nails through the dark, blood-spattered denim before pulling back until just the tip was between her pink lips. She swirled her tongue maddeningly, but he could see the question in her eyes.
You want me to stop?
Logan shook his head, soundlessly tangling the fingers of one hand in her hair and pulling her closer, urging her to continue. Marie would be able to see them any moment now and something in him knew this had zero chance of working if the beginning was slow and awkward. He couldn't imagine a scenario where this got off the ground with stilted conversation and an awkward invitation. It wasn't the kind of thing that could be analyzed or planned. It was the kind of thing that demanded action. Just jump in and hang on for the ride.
If he could just hook her before she had a chance to throw up her usual walls and barriers, maybe she could just let it happen. Hell, she could even tell herself - after - that he'd never given her the chance to consent or protest, though that was a load of shit. It was her choice to show up in the first place. She could leave at any time, but then she was there, eyes wide with shock and he did the one thing he thought might actually keep her there.
He asked her to stay.
"Stay."
The soft word electrified the small, cramped space.
It wasn't an order. That she'd just defy outright. She was dying to start something, her scent thick with fox and spice and earth and pissed off female. He could smell her righteous anger. He didn't want to defuse that. He just wanted that fiery energy channeled in a different direction, and so he didn't order. He asked.
He'd never asked her for anything in all the years he'd known her. Never asked for anything for himself. Not once.
She used to ask him for things. A ride. A promise. To stay when all he wanted to do was get in the wind. But she'd changed. Closed up. Closed off. She hadn't asked him for anything since their frank conversation about the Cure. While she hadn't exactly asked for his blessing and he hadn't exactly given it, nothing had been the same after that.
And that rocky road had led them here, to this moment, and now he was goddamn asking because he wasn't above trading on their history for a shot at this.
Logan wasn't even exactly sure what this was, or what might happen if she stayed. In truth, he hadn't thought much beyond how to make it happen. The rest was just some pipedream too fragile and ephemeral to even imagine in detail. He only knew that he needed her to do this the way he needed air and freedom and the hunt; something vital to their continued survival.
It all hinged on if her desire was stronger than her need to get back at him. He knew she'd make him pay. What he didn't know was if she was reckless enough to take what she wanted, first.
She was wavering.
He was not.
"Stay," he asked again in response to her hesitation, feeling a hot rush of something indefinable when she finally nodded almost imperceptibly and took an unsteady step back, leaning against the wall for support.
She still hadn't looked away from his face, but for as much as he wanted to prolong that moment of erotic intimacy with Marie, he couldn't ignore the purely physical sensation of a hot mouth sucking rhythmically between his legs. When it took him deep and he felt his tip bump the back of her silky throat, he closed his eyes, grunting softly. Fuck. Fuck.
The Wolverine was much too close to the surface to be appeased with heated glances across a cramped room. He needed the physical catharsis of orgasm. So much the better if the female he truly wanted was close enough to share that moment.
He'd never been this close to Marie when he was so openly aroused. Just the scent of her then was maddening, fogging his mind with lust; a red haze that made him want to rip and tear and thrust. Howl. Beg. Possess. Anything to make her acknowledge whatever it was that bound them together.
The two sides of his nature warred with each other, but the man won. Marginally. Instead of giving into the wholly physical sensation, he forced his eyes open to find Marie drinking in what details she could glean from her position. It wasn't ideal. The office was small and cramped and the space didn't allow for anything approaching a good vantage point.
Marie was almost directly behind Cheyenne, with a view of her back and his chest and face but not much else. The wild tumble of inky hair across his lap hid everything but the rhythmic rise and fall of her head as her mouth worked him. Still, it was hard to be disappointed, or to remain detached, as intense bolts of pleasure seared along his nerves with each swirling suck. And the knowledge that Marie was voluntarily watching it happen.
It was difficult to think, but somewhere in his hazy jumble of thoughts, he was wondering how Marie felt about it. Was it better or worse that she couldn't see? The moment of introspection was snatched away a second later. A wet tongue abruptly flickered into the sensitive slit at his tip and colors exploded behind his eyes, forcing a crude grunt from him. Christ, that was good.
When he lifted his head, the Rogue had surprised him again. Her eyes weren't where he expected. Instead, she was clocking all the little details that gave away far too much. It made him feel exposed in a way that the idea of her focus purely on the mouth between his legs did not.
He should have known. The Rogue wasn't exactly known for taking prisoners. She was ruthless, and this moment between them was a much battle of wills as any bloodbath with the Brotherhood had ever been. He realized she was here, but that her walls weren't exactly down. She was as defensive as ever, with the same uncanny innate ability she'd always had to find and exploit even the smallest chink in his armor. But tonight, he couldn't fight her and his own body too. His mind was too divided, and frankly the mouth on his cock felt too good to ignore.
He burned. But he also watched. Noted where Marie's eyes lingered. What secrets she stole for herself. Where her focus was. What details she observed. How she picked up on certain things that the women who'd come writhing under him had never even noticed.
Big picture first. Get the lay of the land before you go in hot, kid. It amused him to see her using the skills he'd taught her for something like this. He'd intended that lesson for an entirely different application. It irritated him too, because fuck her. This wasn't a goddamn strategic exercise to be deconstructed like a puzzle. He wanted her to feel, not to think. But then, he rarely got what he wanted when it came to her. It pissed him off, but still, he watched her take it all in.
Rough-hewn planks, scarred and pitted under them. Heavy boots. Legs planted wide. Her eyes slid up his calves, skipping uncomfortably over the woman on her knees before settling on his hands. He caught her smirk as his fingers clenched tight on the peeling arm of the chair, but then the shuddering pleasure had his eyes squeezing shut. When he opened them again, her gaze was resting on the wild points of his hair, flattened down some now with the sweat from his exertions in the cage tonight.
She avoided his eyes and followed the hair on his head to the sweat beading at his temples, to the bristle along his jaw, and then it stopped there at the hollow of his stubbled throat. He didn't like how that made him feel. Some blend of uncertainty and the feeling that she was seeing too much.
He was breathing faster now than he had in the cage it and it had less to do with the woman on her knees and more to do with the woman watching from across the cluttered space.
Eyes dragging over his chest. Measuring the rise and fall. Could she tell his heart was damn near slamming out of his ribs? The pressure felt like an engine, crashing in his ears, keeping time with the steady, visceral throbbing between his legs.
He had no doubt she was paying attention, hearing every chuff of air Cheyenne forced from his lips, his every crude grunt and dirty groan as her head worked up and down. The silence when he swallowed hard. The husky pant of his breath. The way her presence made his hands shake.
Her eyes came to rest on his forearms, cabled tight with tension. Was she thinking about his claws? Wondering if they'd shoot out when he came? Fucking ridiculous.
That ludicrous idea almost made him laugh, but then the swirling pleasure pulled him under again. Marie should know better, having as much of him in her head as she did. Or maybe she just liked the way he looked in the chair, the casual sprawl of a man enjoying the purely physical aspect of getting his dick sucked before sex.
And why shouldn't he enjoy it? He'd fucking earned it tonight, taking punch after punch. Beating all challengers. Proving to them, to her, that there was no one better. He'd paid for this moment with pain and blood and the desperation that drove him to places like this again and again.
She wouldn't let him catch her eye now, and that pissed him off, too. Instead he found himself looking for her little details. She watched his hands the most, eyes jumping between the fingers clenched on the arm of the chair and the ones buried deep in the fall of Cheyenne's hair. She shuddered when he grunted. Her breath caught when he closed his eyes and panted, body knotted with pleasure. She seemed to particularly enjoy those moments where he struggled, hands clenched as he sweated and strained and tried like hell to keep from thrusting to orgasm in a warm, receptive mouth. He'd enjoy it, sure, but he had other plans tonight.
Marie's breathing was fast and shallow, and when he realized she wasn't as detached as he thought—that she was wetting her full pink lips every time he rocked forward pushing himself deeper into that lush, wet mouth, he was fucking done. It took the decision of when and how to come right out of his hands.
He shuddered, startled to have tipped too quickly over the edge, unable to keep from grunting with each wet pulse. Marie froze, silent, shocked into stillness by the raw carnality of such a stoic man caught in the grip of a powerful orgasm he couldn't control. Cheyenne startled too, but to her credit didn't pull away as he rode out the violent surges. When it was over, she left her forearms braced on his thighs and delicately spat a large mouthful of pearly ejaculate on the wooden floor between his spread legs.
Logan couldn't even look at Marie.
Everything was suddenly burning wildly out of control.
Up next: Scorch. The aftermath.