Chapter 6

I Never Said I'm the Prettiest

A despondent Marie gazed reluctantly in the cracked medicine cabinet mirror, scrutinising every inch of her ashen face. The dark circles that hugged her dull, lifeless eyes were an unwelcome addition to the provocative wardrobe she effortlessly donned for another night of unglamorous work.

Mama and Daddy D'Ancanto would be ashamed. Their pastor would excommunicate her from the church, threatening to strike her down with God's wrath. She almost smiled at the thought of being chased from the church steps while Jubilee wailed about the dangers of sex with strangers. Storm would always wear the same look of abject disappointment, and Logan, she couldn't think about his reaction. The thought of riding him again, listening to the gruffness and possessiveness, and feeling his palms roughly grope her skin propelled her mind into the stratosphere.

Her heart hammered rapidly in her chest. The knot in her stomach constricted with every erotic fantasy streaking nakedly across her mind as the need to be touched intensified. The bloated lust buckled to the emergent list expanding in her pining, fearless, horny head.

Sex.

Forever fornication.

A swift screw under the sheets.

Ride or be rode.

Another vigorous fuck in the shower cubicle.

Orgasm. Climax. Lady boner.

Fingered folds and fondled members.

Sex toys. Bondage. Vibrators.

Erotic movies and neurotic thoughts.

Handcuffs.

The glossy pages of smutty, porn-filled magazines.

Nakedness, nudeness and nudity.

Touch and taste.

Loathe, like and ultimately love.

Marie hadn't noticed the subtle changes at first. She didn't wake up one morning and decide her only goals in life bordered the often-forbidden world of sex. No one coaxed her into prostitution or waved their dick in the air until a waiver was signed. Urges developed after taking the cure, and increasingly untouched and unsatisfied, she picked up the pieces of her fractured life and sought attention elsewhere.

Bobby drifted away, the sex dried up, and Logan's offer failed to relight the dullness in her eyes. If she didn't earn an income, what would life be? With no college degree attached to her name, those unfulfilled prospects were in the same state as her homeless mutation.

The cheap and revolting taste of neat vodka helped chase away the self-loathing nature, but Logan loomed in the corner of each thought. She sampled the menu before leaving the mansion for the night. It was rushed and clumsy. But his cock, his member, his ridged, swollen length wasn't just sturdy; it brought silence to the harassment in her mind.

"More drink for me," Marie absentmindedly muttered because detaching herself meant drowning the Wolverine in vodka.

She wasn't usually a drinker, but after sleeping with Logan, something changed deep inside and needed silencing. Those urges twisted and tumultuously turned, instantly tainted as her body pleaded to be claimed and controlled. Her mind was pushed to the brink of spontaneous combustion, desperate to be reeled in by a strong, possessive, steel-like hand that caressed her folds. She blamed the taste of vodka on her naïve tongue because reckless fantasies overtook every waking thought. It had to be the vodka. It just had to be.

As the client perched on the edge of the motel bed with a shock of silver hair and piercing blue eyes, she glanced at him. Would he make her scream? No, possibly not. She struggled to picture herself gripping his solid arms and begging for more. Zero insults and no teasing words would spill from their smirking and smiling lips as they battled each other in the halls. He wouldn't hitch his eyebrow and growl at her. Anyway, the client didn't have eyebrows, which dismayed her as she poured another shot of vodka directly on her sensitive tongue.

The money is another aspect that Marie enjoyed. The pay depended on the act, and the act depended on the client. She crawled closer to Anchorage with every guy she slept with, and the tips of her fingers could almost brush against the snow-capped mountains. Her dream would be achieved even if it killed her. Yes, she would have sex on those mountains, and yes, that was a feeble attempt at a joke.

"What are you doing in there, Kitty? I'm not paying you to spend the whole time in the bathroom," an unattractive voice called from the bed.

You didn't expect her to use her own name, did you? The client's voice almost made her retch, and she clutched the sides of the porcelain sink. The vodka finally accomplished its job. Three cheers for cheap vodka. Her head swam expert strokes around her dull gaze, and she glanced up, peering into the mirror.

She could do this. She could do this. Another pep talk loomed and shunted Logan from her drunken mind. Think of the cash. Think of Anchorage. Think of sex. Don't think of Logan. No, don't think of Logan. I said don't think of Logan. Stop thinking about Logan! Maybe I should call Logan? Marie, Marie, Marie, pull yourself together and stop thinking of Logan. This is a Logan-less zone. No Logan allowed. No Logan here, but wasn't his cock sturdy and huge. Logan. Logan. Logan.

"Kitty, you haven't died, have you?" the client questioned impatiently from the bed. "That's happened before. I probably shouldn't have stabbed them so many times, but they always kept me waiting."

A bewildered Marie blinked at the reflection and frowned. No, she imagined the last sentence. Perhaps the vodka played games, and the thoughts of Logan cluttered every damp spot in her mind. Damn it, the drunkenness suddenly refused to work in her favour. The bathroom was too warm, her legs wobbled, and her vision clouded. Those caged nerves evaporated as she prepared her steps and wandered into the bedroom with a disingenuous smile.

The dangerous glint of an object almost blinded her, and she squinted against the light. Gazing up at the stars, no, that wasn't a star. It looked like a switchblade. "That's going to cost you extra," Marie murmured anxiously, fighting against the comfort of the carpet as she scooted backwards.

The client paced angrily and flicked the blade open and closed, open and closed. "You sluts are all the same!" he raged spitefully; his face contorted with promises of violence when he crouched before her.

"That's not true. I'm new to this, but my good friend likes handcuffs, and if I thought he'd happily pay, I'd charge him extra, too," she replied, searching for time to think. The panicked thoughts died momentarily, and he traced the serrated edge of the blade across her cheekbone. "That's a pretty knife you have, but can you please put it away? You're scaring me."

She hurtled far from her comfort zone at breakneck speed. The hand-to-hand fighting techniques forever lodged in her mind were lost in a haze of drunkenness. Her eyelids sagged heavily, drooping in search of a peaceful sleep.

"I really need to call my friend," she whispered drowsily. "He worries and often growls even when the pavements forever move without my permission. Do you understand? Please put the knife away and help me."

He shook his head. No phone calls, no friends and no help. "It's my knife. It doesn't need friends, and it's slaughtered many a prettier girl than you."

"I never said I'm the prettiest," she murmured softly, feeling his breath on her face as she wondered if those seven words would be her last.

The client leaned closer, and the fumbling weight of his scrawny body pinned her to the tacky carpet. The knife hovered nearer to the panicked eyes of his latest victim. "Say your prayers," he ordered with a contemptuous smile. "He will welcome you home and wash away your sins. He who watches over and protects you will save you from yourself and absolve your past immoralities. Here He comes, ushering you into the elegant light of a new existence, and you will worship Him."

Marie's panicked thoughts, prayers and pleas collided into one as she screamed into the silent night. One name tumbled in her mind as the frightened shriek plummeted from her lips and blanketed the motel grounds. Logan. Logan. Logan.

Her client's frustration boiled over, and his white-knuckled hand smothered the scream. A livid elbow collided painfully with her windpipe, and she lost sight of the knife as he throttled the life from her body. She frantically fought for air, her legs kicking wildly, and her widened eyes danced with white flecks in her diminishing vision. While the adrenaline coursed through the flustered veins, a solitary tear trickled down her face, and she readied herself for death.

Suddenly, the motel door brutally caved under the force of a brooding bystander. The client was ripped from her bruised body and tossed callously against a wall. Shouts, growls, grunts, curses and a final harrowing cry joined the lonely night as the noise of a deadly 'Snikt' lulled her into unconsciousness.

The sound of water stirred Marie from the heavy-duty duvet that swamped her half-naked body. She peered out from a tiny hole in the manmade tunnel of comfort and warmth, her brain like sludge, as she groggily searched the unfamiliar surroundings. Light flooded through a lone window, the curtains as troubled as her by the intense burning rays of the early afternoon sun. While her hungover behind realised a silk negligee still clung to her bruised skin, she reevaluated life. Where had last night gone, and why did she feel safe in an unfamiliar bed in an unidentified apartment?

The room took an open concept to another level entirely. The kitchen lived in the bedroom, or did the bedroom exist in the kitchen? A scruffy coffee-coloured leather couch faced a TV playing silent footage of a hockey rerun. Lightly scuffed mahogany floorboards dressed the floor, and the paint peeled in the corner beside a large, wilting plant that needed watering. Two substantial iron radiators clung to the gloomy walls on each side of the room, and a weighty glass ashtray sat on the teak nightstand beside the creaking bed she nested in.

Her body felt beyond bruised, like she had thrown herself into a free-for-all orgy at the Playboy Mansion. Attempting to gaze at her aching neck, her head pounded in protest, and she blamed the vodka. Something happened last night, and the memories played an annoying game of hide-and-go-fuck-yourself as she listened to the sound of the water vanish.

Marie focused on an escape plan and kicked the sheets off as she glanced at the front door. It should be labelled 'Freedom, Fresh Air and Full of Hope' in a silent pep talk because as soon as she moved, the brass bed frame and the floorboards creaked. A one-night stand is the conclusion her mind came to, and she wished to flee before the furious blushing commenced.

She slipped out of the bed and crept closer to the exit, wondering where her clothes were. One wild night with too much vodka, and she thought the world revolved around her scantily clad body. Her hand trembled as she reached for the deadbolt. "It's too fucking stiff," she complained and contemplated climbing out the window or using the ashtray as a weapon.

Suddenly, a heavy hand rested on her shoulder. She squealed and instantly regretted it because her head protested with an aching groan. Glancing over her shoulder worriedly, she sighed in relief when Logan stared back at her.

"You going somewhere?" he questioned gruffly, dressed in nothing but a fluffy black towel wrapped around his hips.

It was a glorious sight for the hungover Marie to appreciate. He looked chiselled from hallowed stone, but her holy roller roots needed to pack up and leave because she wanted to ride him before he left the church pew.

Her gaze swept joyfully from his toes to his arched eyebrow. His wet hair had already bounced back to its usual stubborn style, which always tickled her. Those holy roller roots were dead and buried as she finally focused on his face and noticed the smouldering fury.

"I guess you're not really a morning person," she announced lamely, folding her arms to stop herself from caressing his naked chest.

Logan's eyes narrowed, and he crowded her personal space. "I asked you a question," he growled, her face flushing with embarrassment as she shuffled further into the corner.

She sighed softly and hoped the almighty hangover would gain sympathy. "Can we please do this another time? My head hurts, and I can't stomach a Wolverine-style rant."

He snarled in her face as his temper frayed dangerously. "Have you any idea how fucked up you are?"

"That's not how we say good morning in the South," she muttered with a faint smile and instantly regretted the choice of words.

Maybe a double dose of oral sex would help? Offering him a blow job may melt away the frostiness because it always worked with Bobby. Then again, Logan didn't like peanut butter spread everywhere but on his toast. Now, she suffered even more nausea. Sucking off Logan wouldn't help either of them right now because he dragged her toward the bathroom like a raggedy ragdoll.

"I'll show you something that ought to wipe that smile off your face," he growled and shoved her roughly into the heat of the steam-filled bathroom.

Battling against the dense steam, she tripped over the bundle of denim vs. cotton clothes on the tiled and slippery floor. Thoughts of sensual touching temporarily healed the fractured soul of her pulsating needs as she braced her trembling hands against the sink. The ache was unbearable and plans twisted into tugging his towel away.

Logan scrubbed an aggravated hand across the bathroom mirror and angled her chin upwards. "Tell me what you see."

Her eyes widened in horror when she greeted a reflection that drifted far from the norm. Her sallow skin gave way to the angry greenish-blue bruises that decorated her throat like an off-kilter rosary.

"I'm Bruise City," she murmured in shock and gazed at him. Flashbacks loomed in her crumbling mind, and she gasped as last night's memories dislodged and tumbled into every crevice. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean for it to happen like that."

His brow furrowed, and he growled angrily. "You any idea how goddamn close your dumb ass came to dying?"

"I think… No, I don't, and that's part of the problem." She searched frantically for an answer and grasped at nothing but the hem of his towel. 'I, uh, well, you see, I, no, that's not right either. Okay, I'm just, no, that will only piss you off more. I just, I'm sorry. I'm really sorry about last night, but it's my life, and I don't answer anyone anywhere. Did I say that out loud? I'm sorry. I'm really sorry, and thanks for saving my life."

Logan snarled in response to the word salad, his upper lip curling with untapped rage. "Get your ass on the bed."

The dazzling grin that engulfed Marie's face almost tipped her fatefully sideways. He must have smelled her lust, and the light-headed excitement followed her comical and solo stampede to the comfortable bed. Ignoring the low hum of the ever-prominent hangover, she dived onto the duvet, bouncing lightly on her stomach and waiting for him. He stalked into the room at a deliberately slower pace and busied himself with a bedside drawer.

"Forget about protection, Logan, and please dump the towel," she recklessly whispered, freeing herself from the negligee and wondering why she insisted on wearing underwear too. Her fingers lightly wandered across her bare thighs, then sprinted to the clasp of the lacy bra. She planned to lure him into bed like smugglers enticed ships onto the jagged rocks. "Hey, what is this place?"

Logan scowled and bided his time. When their gazes abruptly met, he flipped Marie onto her back and cuffed one of her wrists to the brass bed frame. "Just a place I rent, and you're part of the furniture."

"You sneaky, kinky, scowling asshole," she whispered heatedly, shook her wrist, and listened to the silvery handcuff rattle. "Even your sturdy cock won't turn this around in your favour, Wolverine. Free me, or I scream."

He yanked the towel off his waist and tossed it to the floor. "You'll be screaming, alright," he promised gruffly as she gazed at his hardening member with growing interest. "And admit it, you like the cuffs."

His gaze darkened, and he made light work of her lacelike panties and bra, slicing them off her body with an ever-vigilant claw. She watched with fascination, drinking in the movements of a predator toying with his prey. No, that wasn't a reasonable or fair-minded theory. They were lustful lovers, and a welcome confirmation crept across her breasts as he tweaked her hardened nipples roughly.

Marie sank into the softness of the unmade bed when Logan impatiently mounted her. His weight crushed against her body, goosebumps prickling every inch of her eager skin as the burning heat radiated between them. Impure thoughts vaulted to the tip of her tongue, but he severed the countless instructions with an abrasive kiss. She wasn't in charge, and he muzzled those troublesome thoughts further as he pumped a teasing finger into the warmth of her folds.

The heady gratefulness slipped from her pouty lips. With the wetness coating Logan's finger, he grunted to himself and eased the heaviness of the adamantium weight. Braced for a rough ride, he nudged her legs open with a knee and gazed down at her. "I would have gone all in and knocked it out of the park with the foreplay, but you almost got your dumb ass killed last night."

"Thanks for reminding me," she murmured crossly, mourning the loss of his finger and rattling the handcuff against the bedpost in a one-woman protest against teasers teasing the Church of Desire.

The stubbornness collapsed on Marie's fraught sex, colliding with the mattress that had become her prison. The shuddering moan of anticipation increased in pitch and velocity as she watched him. "Please," she pleaded, the begging reaching a fever-laden note of despair. "Please, Logan. I promise I won't do it again. Please help me out. I won't sell my body to anyone, I promise. Please, please, please!"

His pupils dilated, and he slammed into her silken sex. Through the crease of an animalistic smirk, his husky whisper brought her back to earth. "You're keeping that promise, you hear?"

Their dishevelled bodies intertwined, and she dutifully wrapped her ashen, flowing legs around his nakedness. The biting reply died on her bruised lips. He claimed her mouth with an intense kiss, pounding the desperation away with each formidable, dominant, powerful thrust.

Her body was familiar with the stinginess of TV dinners, peanut butter and processed meat. He brought hockey sticks, cigar smoke and sirloin steak to the fuckathon as he gratified her soul and hounded them closer to the pearly gates of sated lust.

The minutes glided over their glistened skin, and she communicated through sensual groans flowing rampantly from her tongue. Logan slumped against her chest, catching his breath as he spilt his seed. He growled in approval as the fringes of pleasure slipped from her fingertips and faded away.

Her eyes narrowed in an accusatory fashion as he smirked. "But I lost my way to the climax," she uttered, reading the amusement on his face. "You did that on purpose, didn't you?"

Logan traced his thumb across her jawline. "You'll earn yourself the full performance if you keep that promise and do as you're told," he explained gruffly, instantly bucking his hips when she parted her lips to argue. She gasped frantically at the rough contact, and her free hand plunged to her thighs, but Logan caught her wrist and shook his head. "You don't touch yourself without my permission."

Marie snorted in response, her eye roll infuriating His Royal Fuckness further. Her type wasn't pulled by the skirt and ordered around. She had outgrown that stage of her life. His face was masked with a don't-push-it scowl, and her eyes widened. "You're serious, aren't you?" she asked, her arm limp in his tightening grip.

"Too right, I'm serious," he confirmed, rolling off her and climbing to his feet. "We got ourselves a deal and two promises."

She huffed at the unfairness of the situation and watched him dress. "What deal? I don't remember any deal."

He pulled on his jeans and fastened the belt in place. "You took me up on my offer, and now I'm laying down the law."

That wasn't an explanation, it was a fucking invitation to test her stubbornness. "Well, this is what I think about your law." She shimmied her legs open and plunged several fingers deep inside the warmth of her folds. "Go choke on a cigar, Wolverine."

His possessive gaze grew murkier as she played the desperate game of finding the lost orgasm. He stalked to the bed and unlocked the handcuff as their eyes locked in a battle of wills. With a rumbling growl, he dragged her off the bed.

"That taught you a lesson, didn't it?" she asked teasingly in her dulcet southern drawl.

Instead of rejoicing readily into the air, she gasped in disbelief when he twisted the handcuffs around the rung of the nearby radiator and restrained her arms behind her back. She sunk to the grazed floorboards and listened to him whisper gruffly in her ear.

"Not likely, but this will teach you a goddamn lesson." With a cut nod, he walked away, slid his feet into the waiting boots and tugged a flannel shirt on.

"This isn't funny," she said softly, staring at the dried, caked-on blood that littered his clothes. "You can let me go now. I've learnt my lesson."

"Like hell you have." Logan's hand dug deep in his jeans pocket, and he fished out a crumpled handful of twenty-dollar bills. He traipsed over to the radiator, his boots inches from her toes. "How much do I owe you?"

Marie visibly paled as she shifted awkwardly and focused on the peeling paint. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Sure, you don't," he answered brusquely, tossing the wrinkled banknotes at her feet.

For the second time in twenty-four hours, she couldn't sweet-talk herself free of the discomfort and shame that washed over the tainted pages of her past. The loathing in Logan's gaze coaxed tears from her ashamed eyes. "I'm sorry." He turned his back, grabbing his jacket off the couch. "Did you kill him?"

Unlocking the deadbolt, he paused for a moment and glanced over his shoulder. "I've got errands to run." With the slam of the door, he left Marie handcuffed to the radiator as tears bitterly swept down her cheeks and dropped onto the crumpled twenty-dollar bills.