A draft across Ororo’s tush drew her from a languorous sleep. Drafty butt, she fretted. It happened every time…
Logan’s house was old but well-insulated, and he was surrounded closely by his neighbors. When Ororo admitted that she hated sleeping cold, he merely kissed the tip of her nose and padded naked to the window to close it all the way. The gesture made her feel giddy. Logan was one of those men who always got hot easily. She was growing accustomed to his quirks.
It felt like he had a built-in heater. Their bodies fit together easily through slumber and several changes in position during the night.
If Logan had one itsy bitsy, teeny tiny flaw, it was that he was a Covers Kicker. One moment she was comfortably bundled with the quilt pulled up to her chin, and the next she was shivering with goosebumps dotting her skin. Brrrrrrrr…
Her front “ breasts, belly, knees, shins and her ankles, tangled with his “ was all toasty warm, plastered against his broad back.
Meanwhile, the covers had disappeared over the foot of the bed. To gather, or not to gather, that was the question.
Her front was warm and yummy. Logan felt so solid and relaxed in her arms and was sawing logs.
On the other hand, she could freeze ice cubes on her fanny.
She tried to remove her arm from around his waist, but he captured it and clamped it more firmly around him before she slid it two inches. A hearty snort escaped him. She smothered a giggle. He was so damned cute…
Okaaaaaaaayyy…
She tried again, vainly, this time disengaging herself and trying to ease and slide her way down the bed. Creak. Creak. Creeeeeaakk. It was impossible to do it quietly on his bouncy, old mattress. His snores grew choppy.
She hated waking him up. Poor thing had to be exhausted.
Frankly, she’d worn him out.
She slithered. That was the only word for it. He sputtered and snorted briefly as she unbunched the covers and painstakingly unrolled them, slowly spreading them over them both.
As soon as she eased back against the pillow his arm coiled around her waist and snuggled her close. “Oof!”
“What’re ya doin’ up, darlin’?”
“I got cold,” she admitted.
“Uh-huh,” he rumbled, nuzzling her cheek.
“Sorry I woke you.”
“S’okay. Yer still cold.” Warm fingers crept over her cool skin, stroking it with languor. He didn’t even object when she ran her icy toes up his calf; if anything, he sandwiched her foot between his ankles for safe keeping.
He felt delicious. All of him, sliding over her body and cradling her.
“Lemme warm ya up.” She moaned raggedly as his erection pressed against her core.
Soon it was hot enough to kick the covers off again.
“We should eat,” Logan murmured absently, a considerable time later.
“Mmmmmmmm.”
“Hungry?”
“Mmmmmmmm,” she purred again, rubbing her cheek against him. He tweaked her nose.
“Can I take that as a yes?”
“Mmmmm-hmmmmm.”
“Yer makin’ this hard,” he complained, feathering his fingers around the crest of her shoulder.
“You’re making this too easy.” She leaned over and nipped his nipple. “Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm…”
“Ya gotta stop before…Jesus help me.”
“Don’t worry.” Kiss. “I’ll feed you.” Kiss. “I won’t leave you hungry.” Kiss kiss.
“Yer gonna leave me in a coma. Yer so damned sexy, but if we don’t get goin’, someone’s gonna post a missing person poster on my front door. I gotta open up the shop.”
“No fair,” she pouted.
“Gotta pay the rent,” he shrugged thoughtfully. He studied her face and caressed it, tracing her features with his fingertip. “Ya have this funny little mark. Right here.”
“What?”
“This little thing ya do with yer forehead. A little “ya’ve gotta be shittin’ me’ thing ya do with yer eyebrows. It’s funny.”
“Hmmm. Thanks…I think.”
“Yer welcome.” He scraped back the tangled curtain of white waves from her face. “And yer smile’s crooked. Just by a millimeter.”
“Logan!” she protested, but she beamed at him. Mischief danced in his eyes, and small thrills made her belly flip.
“Yup. There it is. And ya always bite yer lip…”
“STOP!” She tweaked him. “Why are you up here picking me to pieces?”
“M’not. Just pointin’ out a few of the things that make me think about you whenever I close my eyes. Like that sweet spot on yer neck, right behind yer ear. An’ that tiny mole on yer breast. Did ya know yer belly button’s an inny?” His stare was hazy with arousal.
“You think about me?” She smoothed one of his shaggy brows and kissed the bridge of his nose.
“Yeah. I do. C’mon, let’s get up.”
He led her into the bathroom and started the water in his tiny shower stall. She already knew where everything was in his medicine cabinet and cupboards; she rooted for his Dove shower gel and Head and Shoulders, taking them with her beneath the spray once he’d tested it.
He washed her hair, plowing his fingers through the lather and luxurious tresses. It was his favorite ritual. He loved her hair, she mused. He lapped at her throat with his velvety tongue as the foam ran in runnels down her back. Everything about him felt right.
It was the perfect fling. Three weeks and counting.
Breakfast. He liked his eggs over-easy. She liked them bone-dry.
Logan’s coffee was black, so it tasted like coffee. Ororo’s was ten shades of pale and cookie-sweet.
He left stubble in the sink when he shaved. Strands of white hair tangled in his hairbrush and gathered in his shower drain.
He was a snuggler. She was a toucher.
It worked.
She sailed into her office with a giddy smile plastered on her face.
“Gads. You’re bloody sickening, and that’s the truth,” Betsy tsked.
“Morning, Bets.”
“Could you tone it down a bit? The little bluebirds chirping around you are making a racket, I can’t hear myself think!”
“Thinking’s overrated,” Ororo pointed out as she hung up her purse. Everything was fine until her gaze landed on a yellow Post-It on her monitor.
See me. “ Val
“Ohhhhh…just shoot me.” She whisked herself from her cubicle and prayed it wasn’t anymore more complex than unclogging a three-hole punch.
Valerie’s sweet perfume tickled her nose as she approached; she mustered the impulse to sneeze. Her blonde mane was sprayed obediently into a pageboy that gleamed beneath the office’s fluorescent lights. She looked deceptively angelic.
Her smile was serpentine as she turned to greet her after listening to her last voice mail. “Hi!” she chirped.
“You asked me to see you.”
“Yes. I did.” Ororo waited for the other shoe to drop. Why did people always give you half the answer?
“What’s going on?”
“I need another week for the piece on psoriasis,” she said briskly, with the same casual ease most people used to share a cookie recipe.
“Uh, no. You don’t. Today was the deadline, Val. We’re almost ready for layout. And Piotr’s been holding it for three days already just for Remy’s column. Yours was supposed to be finished in tandem with his. What happened?”
“I was out of town,” Val reasoned.
“You didn’t have your laptop?”
“It wasn’t a working trip.” Ororo’s eyebrow flew up in the air; she felt Logan’s favorite “yer shittin’ me’ mark emerging before she could stop it.
“Every trip’s a working trip when we’re at deadline, Val.”
“I got Cassandra’s signoff. It’s going into this issue. Don’t worry.”
“I’d still like to talk to her first.” Val’s smile died a slow death.
“I can show you her email if you like.” Before Ororo could reply, she was already turning away from her and hitting ‘forward.’ With red exclamation points in the subject line. Great.
“I’m going to have to update my project log and article sheet. When you’re late, the whole issue’s late, Valerie.”
“Sometimes you have to move things around on your plate. You know that pretty well by now.” Val’s voice was smooth and dared her to argue. “I’m confident you can manage it, Ororo.” Ororo dimly heard Psycho fiddles squealing in her ears. A tiny nerve in her temple began to throb. Her smile creaked as it stretched itself over her lips.
“Can you project when you think it’ll be ready to send to the copy desk?”
“I’d like to devote my time to finishing it rather than taking the time out to guesstimate when it’ll be done. I can be more productive that way,” she said cheerfully, but her eyes didn’t smile as deeply as her mouth. “I don’t know what you’ll need to update on your project log, but it shouldn’t change much.”
Of course she didn’t know. “I’ll get to work on that. Don’t worry about a thing, Val. I need something from the mail room.” A sharpened letter opener… She was just turning on her heel when…
“Oh, good! Could you check my inbox? I’m not ready to head that way yet until I get my tea and take my herbs! You’re a doll.” Ororo nodded in flight, waving without looking back. Anything to get away.
Betsy caught her murderous look as she rounded the corner. “Late again, eh, ducks?”
“Errrrgh.”
“Right, then. Lunch at 12?”
“Only if it involves massive doses of Prozac and chocolate.”
All day long, Ororo juggled. By the end of the day her feet were killing her from random treks down the hall to Cassandra’s office and to the interns’ cubicle farm to reassign everyone’s workload and make final edits. They were still expecting camera-ready art for two full-page ads. It was killing her. By the time she hung up from her last call, she was diving into her pocketbook for Motrin.
“Turn it off,” Betsy ordered, watching her pop two pills dry. “Pack it in. Don’t make me drag you forcibly.”
“I’ve got no pride left. Cassandra swallowed it with her morning coffee.”
“Any plans with Mr. Wonderful?”
“Uh-uh. We don’t really ‘plan.’ We just hang out. It’s actually kinda nice.”
“That might change, love. Emma’s been champing at the bit to throw a house party.”
“What the heck for?”
“Why else? To show off her new boyfriend and her boyfriend’s house.”
“Wait…not the deejay!” Ororo had a vague memory of brown hair, a nice smile and laughing eyes, to say nothing of the free pitcher of sangria. “She hooked him?”
“He’s her big fish story come true. He seemed awfully nice.” The elevator floor rumbled beneath their feet. Neither one of them was in the mood to take the stairs.
“He was. I liked him.” Ororo sighed. “I just hope she’s good to him.”
“Shouldn’t matter, if he knows up front what to expect. He has eyes, Ororo. She has ‘high-maintenance’ written all over her, God love her.”
“So she gets to throw a bash and wave him in everyone’s face. Should be plenty to drink.” She didn’t add that they’d need it.
“Ulterior motives, love. Word’s out that you have a new friend. Ask him if he has a nice shirt.”
“Shit.” Dimly she wondered about Logan’s shirts. The only time she gave them any thought when she was removing them.
“Don’t be a chicken.”
“I’m not…c’mon, Bets. You know how it goes. I meet his friends, he meets my friends…that’s relationship stuff.”
“So?”
“We’re just having fun. A little fling. A roll in the hay.”
“You have to leave the stable sometime, Ororo.” She snorted and gave her a look. “Plan on coming and on bringing him. It won’t be so bad. Scott’s letting Emma host it at his place. There’ll be other men there for him to commiserate with.” Ororo reminded herself that Yukio was likely to show up; at least Logan would already have a friend there besides her.
~0~
“Alright, darlin’, this one I can at least understand by lookin’ at it,” Logan grumbled as Ororo squeezed his hand. Their footsteps sounded heavy on the polished floor boards of the DeYoung at Golden Gate Park as they gazed at a reproduction of The Procuress.
“Hard to believe anyone painted like that back in 1656,” Ororo murmured reverently. “I know it’s burlesque, but this is one of my favorites. Vermeer did some interesting work.”
“She looks like a real good-time gal,” he chuckled. Ororo elbowed him.
“She’s a working girl,” she corrected him, but she still stared at it fondly. “I just love the textures he painted in this. The ceramic, the fabric of their clothes, all of it looks real enough to touch.”
“Guards over there might take issue with it if ya tried, darlin’.” She sighed as they moved on.
“Can we stop at the gift store on the way out?”
“Whatcha gonna pick up? Paperweight?”
“Uh-uh. Postcards. I get a few every time I come here. I use them to decorate my cube at work once in a while. I also want to see if they have a copy of the print I’ve been promising myself.” Logan looked unconvinced that there was anything in the museum that was worth wanting to see in his own home, had it been him.
“It is anything we saw on the way in?”
“No. We came in through the other side of the entry. C’mon.” He looked relieved; Ororo felt unsettled. She wanted him to enjoy their day out.
He called and asked about her plans for the day. She was already dressed for a day at the park and on her way out the door. It wasn’t a question anymore of “What do you feel like doing today?” All she wanted to know was “Feel like coming with me?” It elated her when he said yes.
They passed a few vases and other sculptures he didn’t recognize earlier and some sedate paintings in oil. They paused at a large canvas with a gilt-edged frame.
“That’s the one. It just does something for me. I just stare like a deer in the headlights every time I see it.” Logan peered at the name plate: The Broken Pitcher.
“Look at her face.”
“She’s just staring you right in the eye. She looks bashful.”
“Cautious. Wary,” Ororo supplied. “There’s so much going on in her body language.” Logan made a thoughtful sound. He gave her hand a tug, and she looped it through the crook of his arm as they headed out. “I have to have it.”
“Little treat for yerself?”
“One little indulgence.”
“Ya live dangerously, ‘Ro.” He looked sly and very kissable. She could wait til they got back out to her car.
They headed back to the pier for lunch.
“Ever tried fried squid?”
“Ew.”
“I’ll take that as a no?”
“No. Never. Ever.”
“Don’t know what yer missin’,” he sang as he paid the vendor for the small basket of tidbits that resembled beer-battered onion rings. He doused them in malt vinegar and lemon juice and waved a piece beneath her lips. “One bite. Then I won’t ever ask ya ta taste anything weird again.”
“You agree it’s weird. And, uh, no.”
“Chicken. Bock, bock!” Then he bit heartily into the morsel, licking his lips.
“Don’t expect me to kiss that mouth,” she tsked as they sidled up to a wooden plank bench on the dock.
“Gonna expect more than that,” he promised, setting his food down long enough to rush at her, wrapping his arms around her. Hers were pinned as he lunged for a sloppy kiss, squid breath and all.
“YuckyuckyuckEW!!!!!!” He managed to plant a loud, damp kiss on her cheek, still holding her captive, even though she was dying to wipe her face of the offending grease.
“It’s good ta try new things,” he lectured, grinning like a demon. She attempted to swat him in disgust.
“That’s like asking me to try mud or fried snails.”
“Yeah, but people do eat snails. And mud don’t scare me all that much, in my line of work. Ain’t ya ever heard the phrase ‘ya hafta eat a pound of dirt before ya die?”
“Not for lunch. You’re demented. Leggo!”
“Only if ya promise me yer gonna try it.”
“Hmmph.” He released her and they sat together, leaning in toward each other against the cold wind. He picked up the greasy cardboard basket. “Open up and say ‘aaaah’.” He held a piece up to her lips. She sighed, scowled and took a hesitant bite. “Whaddya think? Good, huh? C’mon, tell me how ya really feel…”
“Mmm. Mm-hm. Mm-hm.” She reached for a napkin, smiling sweetly as she coughed emphatically into it and smuggled it into her lap. “Yummy.”
“Damn, yer a pill,” he snarked. He nudged her. She nudged him back, before he kissed her deeply, despite the lingering flavor of grease and the crowds filing past them on the pier.
~0~
“So have you found anything living in his apartment yet?”
“Nothing except for a neglected ficus. Why?” Yukio was lying on the upper ceramic-tiled level of the steam room with her eyes closed. Ororo was gulping water from a small bottle and watching the room turn a foggy white. The hiss nearly drowned out her words.
“Mariko used to hate his place. He didn’t cook that often, and he used to forget his leftovers when he did. All of his Tupperware had science projects tucked away in them. He was such a slob.”
“He’s not now.”
“No dirty socks on the floor? Dishes in the sink? Stinky bathroom?”
“Nope. It’s not a palace, but it’s not bad. Well, I take that back. It’s a little cluttered, but at least it doesn’t smell like sweaty feet.” Yukio shuddered in disgust.
“Ew. Ask me why I started dating women and I’ll show you the apartment of any man I was ever with that never had to make their bed as a kid. Eeccccchhh…”
“It’s a little bare.”
“Mariko said she took all of her stuff with her when she walked out.”
“He’s got a typical bachelor fridge,” Ororo mused.
“What’s in it?” Yukio sat up and poked her, gesturing for her water bottle.
“Gads. A pitcher of unsweetened iced tea, Lipton, no less, which tastes like pencil shavings smell. The heels of a loaf of wheat bread. Half a tomato. Half a withered head of lettuce in the crisper, and it ain’t crisp anymore. And a packet of those really, really paper thin slices of turkey meat, so dried out that they fold at the corners.”
“Yeek.”
“I’ve gotten into the habit of fixing dinner.”
“How often does he come over?”
“I dunno,” Ororo mumbled.
“Rooooooooooo…” Yukio scolded.
“Sometimes. It’s no biggie. I just like my place more. I think he does, too.”
“Sounds like someone’s forming a habit.”
“Pfffftt.” She waved her away dismissively as she adjusted her sloppy ponytail and wiped the sweat from her cheeks.
“You were the one who said you weren’t trying to get serious or have a real relationship.”
“We both just want to have fun. And it’s fun. We went to the DeYoung.” Yukio giggled.
“I can’t picture that.” Ororo rolled her eyes.
“The Oceanic art display wasn’t his thing. He started talking in monosyllables when we walked through the textiles.”
“You would’ve had to drag my snoring ass outta there,” Yukio agreed.
“Philistine,” Ororo shot back. “He works with flowers. He likes pretty things.”
“Wrong. Flowers don’t have to be explained. They’re just flowers. He’s pretty ‘no frills,’ Ororo.”
“He’s different,” she admitted thoughtfully.
“I never would have seen you two together, if I hadn’t, kiddo. It’s just weird. He’s not your type.”
“I don’t have a type.”
“Intellectual. Metrosexual. High-maintenance. Carefully witty and micromanaging. Compulsively organized. Compulsively neat. And someone evasive that you have to pursue, not the other way around. Did I miss anything?”
“Shit,” Ororo muttered. “Thanks a lot.”
“That’s what you have me for.”
“He doesn’t see me like that,” she boasted.
“Then he’s blinder than the rest of us. Not that we don’t love you, muffin.” Ororo made a noise like a cat coughing up a hairball. “You’re a chocolate mousse girl. He’s Jell-O pudding. The green pistachio kind with the weird brown things that might not be nuts.”
“He’s not complaining so far. I’ll do what I’ve been doing.”
“Meaning what next?”
“Oh. That.” Ororo gestured for Yukio to hand back the water. She fortified herself before garbling her answer.
“What was that?”
“Monster trucks,” she answered sheepishly.
Yukio crowed. She emitted cracks of shrieking, knee-pounding laughter that echoed off the tile and disturbed their slumbering neighbors. Ororo’s pout was sour.
“Not cute, Yukio.”
“Ahaha. Ahaha. Hoo. Do yourself a favor, sweetie.” She wiped her eyes.
“What?”
“Don’t wear anything nice.”
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