Chapter Four: Caliente
My every thought is of this being true
It's getting harder not to think of you
Girl, I'm exactly where I wanna be
The only thing’s I need you here with me
If it's true don't leave me all alone out here
Wonderin' if you're ever gonna take me there
Tell me what you're feelin' cause I need to know
Girl, you gotta let me know which way to go
~Marc Anthony
“Ow.”
“You can say that again.” Kitty dropped, still in X-Men leathers, on the armchair.
“Ow.” Bobby obliged, limping to the loveseat.
“What happened?” Marie closed her SAT book, looking from one pained face to the other.
Warren bit back a smile, experimentally twitching his wings. Wolverine’s toss across the Danger Room nearly broke his right wing, but he seemed to be in one piece. Kitty’s eyes lit with concern, so he shook his head slightly with a small smile. She relaxed, rolling a sore shoulder.
Marie stroked her boyfriend’s forehead as he whimpered pitifully. Pete shook his head at them, half-carrying a battered Psylocke into the Rec Room. The duo sat gingerly on the wide sofa, completing the odd circle of mutant and normal human.
Holding up one hand, Kitty answered the former-mutant. She flatted her palm. “Silver platter.” Her free hand came up. “Ass.” Palms slapped together.
“We got owned,” Iceman offered on a groan. “I mean, completely, utterly frigging owned.”
“Hey,” Psylocke defended. “I got him good with that psi-attack.”
“Of course you did,” Colossus rubbed her shoulder. “And then he used you for a chew toy.”
“I’d be hacked off if it wasn’t so, very true.” Betsy chuckled.
Warren perched on the arm of Kitty’s chair, checking the bruise on her cheek. She blushed prettily, waving him off. He wouldn’t admit it under torture, but watching Wolverine catch the quick, phasing mutant nearly stopped his heart. The only thing their teacher held back was swipes of adamantium.
They’d held their own for all of five seconds. Then, like roaches when lights come on, they broke formation and scattered. He demoralized the assembled mutants with a feral roar. At that moment, Angel appreciated anyone who could withstand it. There was something animalistic about it, something that made lingering humanity tuck tail and run.
“How long did you last?” Marie asked, sympathy etched into her features.
“Me? Thirty seconds,” her boyfriend replied. “But I was first.”
“Kitty and Warren lasted longest,” Pete chimed in, pride in his tone. Warren felt the sting. Hadn’t he just admitted part of him hated the tall Russian?
“Yeah, they were good.” Psylocke added, nodding in agreement. “Used this neat tactic.”
Kitty flushed, glancing at him. Warren felt his own cheeks heat up. “It wasn’t that great.”
“Warren was the last mutie standing,” Kitty interrupted. “We were playing cat and mouse, kinda tag-teaming Wolvie. Then, Professor Butt-Head got hold of me and I kinda sorta freaked out.”
“Is that why you didn’t phase?” Iceman questioned curiously.
Her ponytail swung when she nodded, whacking Warren lightly on the arm. His wings twitched.
“Yup,” she sighed. “He was looking at me like he was gonna eat me. Pardon me if I wet myself.”
The assembled mutants laughed weakly.
“Warren rushed out of the fake house, flew around the side,” Colossus continued. “He managed to get Storm free…”
“But Wolverine caught me, tossed me around like a rag doll for a while.” Warren’s back flexed and he thrust out his injured wing gingerly. “Kitty, is there a twist or anything? Right along the ridge, I think.”
Aware that Marie and Betsy were staring at him with something like awe on their faces, he patiently ignored them. Kitty turned in her seat, inspecting the offered wing carefully. Warren gulped, looking over his shoulder as though searching with her to hide his sudden fluster.
“Oh, War,” she whispered a moment later. “You’ve got a little break. Right at the third ridge.”
The others all sat up immediately. Warren frowned, attempting to bend the wing forward so he could see for himself. He winced at the pain that shot through the bone-ridges and into his back. Kitty’s gentle fingers held him in place, not touching the wounded bone.
“Damn,” Warren sighed. “Better tell Storm.”
The group winced visibly. Everyone knew what would happen. If Storm decided it was Wolverine’s fault “ and she would “ the argument was likely to shatter windows. Hating that he might be cause for internal strife, Warren stood.
“Don’t bend it back,” Kitty warned. “Just pull it in a little. You might rip it more if you bring it in completely.”
She held his wing with infinite care, moving behind him easily.
“Don’t worry so much,” Warren told the others cheerfully. “Its nothing. Some of the bones are delicate, is all.”
“Be careful,” Betsy replied seriously. “You don’t want to injure it permanently.”
“We will save you both some dinner,” Colossus added with a slight smile.
With Kitty in tow, Warren headed toward Storm’s office, his wing beginning to ache as adrenaline wore off. He bit back the pain, trying to fight the urge to cradle his broken limb. Kitty shooed younger students away, helping him navigate the corridors with one angelic wing extended.
“Thanks,” he said to her when they were outside the Headmistress’ office.
“Does it hurt?” She asked, coming to face him as the wing drooped. “Poor Angel.”
“It’s all right.” He gave her a smile as Storm called for them to enter.
Kitty popped a bone in her back, grinning impishly at him. Warren paused, hand on the door, and exhaled sharply. He needed to get this over with, before his father called to badger him again.
“Hey, Kitty?” He swallowed hard when those chocolate eyes met his. “My dad’s got this charity thing in New York on Saturday. He wants me to go…I don’t supposed you’d…?”
She waited patiently, mirth dancing in her eyes, for him to go on. Warren stammered again, trying to wrap his tongue around words that used to come easily around her. Why did he have to crush on someone he liked so much? If he didn’t get it out of his system, he might lose the best friend he’d ever had. When Pete finally asked her on a date, Warren needed to be prepared.
“Just as friends, I mean. Well, I thought you might like to get dressed up and keep me from dying of boredom…”
She took pity on him, finally. “Formal? Sounds like fun. Not much notice, as tomorrow’s Saturday, but I’ll work something out.”
Warren breathed. “Thanks. I normally avoid these things, but…”
“Trying to play nice?” She grinned, nodding her head toward the door. “I got it. Don’t worry, I’ll charm your dad and keep you from death by snoring.”
Warren waited until she’d bounced down the hall, ponytail dancing in a sassy swing behind her, before he turned the knob to Storm’s office. It wouldn’t be a wasted Friday night, after all, he thought with a grin. Even if her heart was Pete’s, he could show her a good time.
That would have to be enough.
~**~
Piotr watched the exchange from a little way down the hall with a slight smile on his face. Warren was, quite obviously, deeply smitten over their vivacious Shadowcat. From the look Kitty shot at Angel over her shoulder, that feeling might end up mutual.
For all his stony silence, Piotr Rasputin was not an idiot. He knew Kitty felt something for him and tried to discourage her without letting on that he knew. Though the two were friends, he simply did not return her romantic affections. Besides, he thought as Storm’s voice rose through the solid oak door, he wasn’t a good match for her.
Warren, for all his emotional wounds, clicked with Kitten. Piotr pondered this while entering the kitchen to help with dinner. He intended to help the two along, push them gently toward one another while ensuring Kitty wouldn’t feel guilty. It might prove tricky, but nothing worthwhile happened to be easy.
Giving Psylocke a slight smile as she grabbed a water bottle, he moved toward the refrigerator.
“They’re cute.”
Piotr did not bother to feign confusion. “I know.”
“Lend him your car,” the violet-eyed telepath suggested. “I’ll lend her a dress.”
“Something decent?” He shot to his friend, raising a brow.
“Something sweet.” She headed for the hall, chuckling at him.
“You own something sweet?” Colossus raised his voice so it would carry into the corridor behind her.
Laughter drifted back to him a beat before her shout. “I’ve never worn it!”
Piotr kept right on laughing as he pulled ingredients out of the cupboards. Perhaps, with Psyclocke’s help, he would play matchmaker.
~**~
Yes, there had been an argument. Yes, they were both pissed off. No, he didn’t admit he felt guilty for hurting Angelcake to anyone save himself.
Cigar smoke trailing in his wake, Logan headed for his office below the mansion, grumbling under his breath. He did feel bad for breaking Angel’s wing. No verbal ass reaming needed. It wasn’t intentional and the toss hadn’t been that hard. Angel said it wasn’t a big deal, that some of the wing bones were notoriously fragile, but the guilt still punched Wolverine in the gut.
It was a damn good session, he thought proudly. He hadn’t expected the kids to get to Storm in the allotted time, but they had. Of course, they went all to pieces when confronted with Wolverine, but that was completely expected. They might be ready next time. He would wait until several sessions passed before taking them on again.
All in all, he told Storm the kids impressed him. They were quick, decisive, and a team. No one got left behind, no suggestion overruled outright. Bobby had serious leadership potential and, given more time to train, Angel would give the kid a run for his money.
There was the lick of guilt again.
Wolverine liked Angel. The kid was almost impossible not to like. When he first stepped into Xavier’s old office, his “I heard this was a safe place for mutants” kicked both Wolverine and Storm in the proverbial gut. That wounded boy already disappeared completely, replaced with a strong, willful young man.
For some reason, it did Logan proud to see the change. Maybe because Warren was the first student Logan knew from the instant he set foot in the school. He got to see, first hand, what a tremendous change overcame him. Even with Rogue, he’d gone off on his own several times during her first year. This time, though, he saw Angel every day, watched the pain erased by hope.
If Storm hadn’t just vocally yanked his head out his ass, he might have gone to hang out with the kid for a while, just to ensure he wasn’t hurting. It didn’t seem right to break a kid’s wing like that.
Settling into his chair behind the desk he kept somewhat neat, Logan typed up the computer code for the Danger Room’s video cameras. The monitoring system loaded quickly, allowing Logan to peek inside at what was happening now, or browse old sessions.
While looking for the recent session, he spotted Ororo logged onto the school’s closed network. She, too, was looking through the files for the Danger Room, but from a year ago. Curious, Logan opened the file she was watching, waiting for it to load on his screen.
It broke his heart to find Jean and Cyclops standing in the room. They were ready for battle, dressed in pristine X-Men uniforms. Without thinking, Logan’s fingertips grazed the computer screen, lingering over the swell of Jean’s cheek. Her deep green eyes were alight with determination.
So beautiful. Her fire red hair pulled back into a knot, all that soft skin glowing in the dim light…she’d been that beautiful the day she died.
The day he’d killed her.
He watched the duo work effortlessly, a flawless team. Reminded of his recent session with the kids, he tried to pick out similarities. They were there, he thought. The cohesion of family, the fortitude of warriors. Somehow, Logan and Storm were creating X-Men just as strong as the original.
Jean took a hit. Logan winced. She was out for the session, leaving Cyclops alone against the unknown assailant. As time dragged on, Scott battled mutants, humans, and robots, coming out on top more often than Wolverine would have given credit for. Cyclops was, he mused, the epitome of an X-Man.
That was what Storm was going for, Logan realized. She wanted all of their kids to be as trained, as bright as Scott. It seemed an admirable goal. For an hour, according to the time stamps, Cyclops went up alone against impossible odds only to come out on top.
But why was Storm watching this session? Getting ideas for their next training? Logan shook his head. Storm long ago memorized every Danger Room session known to mankind. There wasn’t anything here that she hadn’t done before.
Or…
Logan sat up, narrowing his eyes when Cyclops rolled to avoid a plasma blast. It was just Scott. No Jean. No Storm. No Beast. Scott. Something tickled the back of his mind, mingling with memories since the death of the X-Men leader.
“Holy shit.”
~**~
Ororo would have worried about Logan’s silent treatment over the last several hours if she thought about it. But in preparation for a much-anticipated date, thoughts of their resident feral took a far backseat.
The dress was an old favorite, but she’d bought new shoes. Needle thin scarlet heels proved her kryptonite, putting a nice dent in her savings. But how often did a woman in her position get a chance to indulge in Jimmy Choo?
Thin, clingy silk caressed her curves, the fitted bodice revealing swells of cleavage she hitched up with the help of Victoria’s Secret. Diaphanous gathers covered her backside, coming to a halt several inches shy of “respectable”. It floated when she turned, making the woman inside it feel feminine and wicked.
Forge wanted red, she thought with a wry twist to her mouth. Red it was. A shocking shade that succeeding in setting off her caramel skin. Forgoing hose in favor of thigh-high stockings with a trim of black lace, Ororo shifted in front of the mirror. Her legs, a personal favorite body part, looked absolutely fantastic. Painted toes of the same hue winked at her from the peep toe heels. Another little indulgence. Even if she wore boots or sensible pumps, underneath it, she knew she had sexy toes.
“Storm?”
Betsy Braddock knocked on the bedroom door as Ororo sprayed her throat with an exotic, floral fragrance.
“Come in.” She arranged the bangles on her wrist before strapping on a matching gold watch.
“Wow,” her young friend breathed after opening the bedroom door. “You look hot.”
Pleased with the compliment, Ororo turned to her friend. She did the requisite turn, delighting in the way the dress shifted and flowed around her. Ororo worked hard for the body she regularly tucked into sensible leather or businesslike suits.
The telepath whistled. “Very nice. Forge is waiting in the foyer. I’ll call ahead to the hospital, cause he’s about to have a heart seizure.”
Ororo laughed, feeling lighter than she had in weeks. “I hope not.”
“Oh,” Betsy mimed wiping away a tear. “Tell me that comment means you’ll stroll in tomorrow morning wearing what’s left of that dress.”
“I can only hope.” Ororo winked, grabbing her tiny crimson clutch. “You have my numbers, if you need anything…”
“I’ll resurrect Charles.” Betsy waggled her brows as they left Storm’s bedroom. “A dress like that needs to be ripped off. Or at least, yanked up a few inches.”
Glowing at the praise, Ororo bid her friend goodbye, knowing she would be pumped for details tomorrow over coffee. She descended the stairs quickly, hearing Forge’s unmistakable voice. He was speaking to Piotr, the younger man’s accent giving him away as she came to the second landing.
God, he looked good enough to gobble up in one bite. His Cheyenne heritage gifted him with angular features and dark, smoldering eyes. To her delight, he’d pulled on a pair of black trousers and a silk shirt, topping it off with a blazer she knew wouldn’t last. Long dark hair was tied at his nape, giving her date a roguish look.
“Looking for me?”
At the sound of her voice, both men turned to witness her entrance. Swaying her hips deliberately, Ororo molded her sexy red dress with the flair of a pro. Colossus gulped audibly, but it was the lit fire in Forge’s eyes that swelled her ego.
He reached for her hand, strong fingers grasping hers as a claim. Impossibly soft lips brushed over the ridge of her knuckles, those dark eyes intense when their gazes locked.
“You’re stunning.”
“Agreed,” Piotr mumbled before excusing himself.
Ororo let her hand fall from her date’s, taking the thin ebony wrap from Betsy. Forge draped it over her shoulder, pressing his lips innocently to the bared flesh there. Pleasure, a sizzling shock, whipped through her body, sending a telltale shiver down her spine.
Even as Betsy watched them with unabashed glee, Forge leaned up until he spoke in a husky whisper against her ear.
“How’s your Spanish?”
“Fluent, as usual,” Ororo replied in an equally soft tone.
What he whispered then was a rough, sexually explicit fantasy that would have sent lesser women to swoon or rage. Ororo allowed her mouth to curve into a seductive smile as she shifted against him.
“We’ll try that later.”
Betsy was busy fanning herself, though there was no possible way she could have heard Forge’s whisper. Her date laughed lightly, taking her elbow in a gentlemanly fashion to guide her toward the door.
“Don’t wait up,” Forge tossed to the woman over his shoulder.
“Blimey,” came the breathless reply as the door snapped shut behind them. “Where can I get one of those?”
~**~
Because a date with Ororo must be treated as an event, Forge gave into indulgence and rented a convertible. The sleek sports car navigated the freeways leading into New York City like a bat out of hell; Forge’s notoriously lead foot spiking the speedometer at ninety.
Tango catered to a particular clientele. Young, well to do, and unreserved. The couple was ushered into the nightclub by a smartly dressed doorman, then to a table on the second floor by the host. Bright lights and pulse pounding music downstairs were muted on the upper level, thanks to thousands spent on soundproofing. Here, candlelit ceramic bowls in varying shades of blue, red, and green accentuated the dim light, sparking romance and seduction.
Thick tablecloths of matching colors covered round tables of fine Mexican craftsmanship, each chair a sensual curve that spoke of carnal delights in muted tones. Forge helped Ororo into her seat, the candlelight adoring her in ways most women would only dream of.
God, she looked amazing. Had it been so long since he’d seen her? Or did she really just get more beautiful as time marched on?
Her dress, the color of sin, molded to her generous flesh like a lover’s hand. Caramel breasts winked playfully from the daring neckline and “ Lord Jesus “ those shoes made mouth-watering legs irresistible.
Signature snowy hair danced lightly in its short, choppy locks when she moved her head. Chocolate eyes regarded him coolly from beneath dark, smoky lashes. Catching himself staring, and utterly unable to cease, Forge shook his head while he took his seat.
“Stunning,” he repeated, for lack of a better word. “Absolutely stunning.”
Ororo gave him that quiet, sexy smile and his heart stuttered. “You’re wonderful for my ego.”
They lapsed into silence as a waiter appeared with a wine list. Forge discarded it without looking, ordering a ripe Merlot to start their evening off. Ororo was not a mystery to him, much to their mutual pleasure. When they were together, she often let him take the lead…until she started to feel dominating.
Oh, he hoped the dominating would come into play soon.
She watched the couples writhing together on the dance floor below, courtesy of the wall-length window that housed smoked glass. The dancing throng glided and bumped to the easy Latin beats of a talented house band, human bodies melding into an orgy of color and breath.
“Are you going to dance with me?” Ororo questioned, turning those eyes back on him.
“Hell yes,” Forge agreed, settling back in his chair. “Anything to get my hands on that dress.”
Her laughter was warm, but hinted at the pleasures he might find below. He adored Ororo Munroe. Women came and went with the inventive Forge, usually with a pat on the head and a devastating smile. Only Ororo was allowed to return, again and again. She alone held his interest in conversation and sex. Something about this woman set him on fire in the best of ways, leaving it to burn and smolder until they met again.
They were not in love by any stretch of the imagination. That particular conversation was had years ago and provided both parties with an acceptable relationship. Forge and Ororo spent time together when they chose, without promises of forever neither of them would mean. Yes, it meant more than sex, but it could not, would not be love.
Forge had to admit, he enjoyed her this way. Ororo flitted in and out of his awareness like a swift summer storm. Sometimes they kept it up regularly for weeks or months at a time. Always, though, there was an end. Parted until they met again.
Right now, he needed to get her close, pressed up against his already aching body. Ignoring the wine, he held a hand out to her. Ororo stood with limitless grace, an anticipating smile already working over her glossy lips.
A back stairway led dining patrons to and from the massive dance floor. Forge led Ororo down it, thankful he’d shed his blazer in the car before the valet took it. Ororo’s fingers squeezed his lightly when the door opened, music spilling in a beat before the throbbing lights.
The expansive room smelled of mingled perfumes, of human sweat, and raw sexuality. The bar sat at the back of the room, where it met with the kitchen upstairs. Across from it, along the far wall, sat a wide, open stage. The house band was hot tonight, blasting old Latin favorites with originals.
Couples and even trios or more, ground bodies together eagerly. Forge pulled Ororo directly into the throng, vanishing with her into the decadence. She fit her body against him instantly, swaying enticingly to the beat of drums backed up by a wailing violin.
Because of the heels on her feet, their heights were complimentary. He could stare into the fathomless pools of her dark eyes, even when they bent and swayed together. His hands found purchase on the silk-covered swells of her hips. Ororo arched her back, falling toward the floor in a sensually inviting sway. Forge’s bionic hand slid up her back, supporting her even as he dropped an open-mouthed kiss to the exposed flesh of her chest.
When she came back up sharply, his breathing came in harsh gasps. She spun out slightly, drawn back into his arms with one insistent tug. The handsome couple fit hips together, turning in a tight circle as their feet moved to the beat.
A male singer was crooning about his lover taking him back, the flowing language fitting the scene much more than clipped English. Forge lost himself in the beat, in the creature so willing in his arms. There could be nothing but her. Blood roared through his veins, answering the mating call Ororo was beating against his body.
Time meant nothing, lost in the changing beats, the smooth vocals, the writhing bodies. No one in the room existed when Ororo met his gaze with heat, with passion. She put her hands on his skin, lighting little fires everywhere she touched. God, if she didn’t stop they would end up naked on the backseat of his rental.
Sweat slicked her already heated skin as song after song seduced them. By the time they might have wanted dinner, Forge could barely remember his own name, much less where the hell they were. She leaned closer, whispering in flawless Spanish.
“Take me home. Now.”
Aflame, Forge yanked her closer, his human hand grasping her backside.
“Gracias a Dios."
~**~
They fell into his rented penthouse, already clawing at the silk between them. Ororo’s mouth was hot on his, her teeth grazing his bottom lip until he groaned. The short drive from their missed dinner nearly killed him. Like a cat in heat, Ororo continually dragged her hands over him, lips teasing at the shell of his ear until he nearly wrapped the rental around a telephone pole.
“Now,” she demanded as the door slammed shut behind them. “Bed.”
“No,” Forge shook his head, even as he dragged her to the plush carpeting. “Here. Now. God.”
All lust, they grappled together on the foyer, stopping only when they managed to knock into a wall. It barely slowed the couple down. Ororo ripped the shirt from his body, the delicate material snagging on his bionic arm.
He dragged the straps of that damn dress down, latching his mouth onto a satin-covered breast the moment it was within reach. Ororo cried out, arching toward him as though offering all the delights her flesh could provide. He took without shame, tasting the salty, fragrant flesh as the satin slipped down.
Music pounded through his head, mingling with the desire-fueled lust. Her deft hands flicked the belt buckle of his trousers open, the zip drawn down in almost the same move. Shifting so she could pull the material down, Forge fused his mouth to hers. That taste burned into his memory, her taste. It would ever remind him of this moment, when the world fell away and Ororo Munroe was his.
Impatient, he let his hands fall to her thighs, even as his tongue pried her lips apart. Groping, he hooked the flimsy silk of her panties and tugged. His mouth kissed a path down the cloth covering her body, feeling her flex and shudder beneath. Once her panties were off, her dress hiked up several inches, he settled between dark thighs and feasted.
“Jesus!” His lover bowed her back, leaning up and crying out. Her head thrashed against the carpet, heeled legs coming up to wrap about his shoulders.
Closing his eyes, giving in to the wonderfully sinful taste of her, Forge worked his lips and tongue over the hardened bud. Ororo shivered, shook, begged him for more. He obliged willingly, taking her over that first climax in seconds.
Without waiting for her to recover, he reared up. Balancing on one arm, he cupped her cheek, holding her in place for another toe-curling kiss. She gave herself up to him, opening and twitching.
He plunged inside, groaning with the pleasure into her mouth. Ororo clamped warm and wet around him, drawing him deeper, deeper. Hips met with forced again and again. He thrust against her, burying his face in the crook of her neck. Mile-long legs encircled his waist, pulling him closer. Ororo’s hands grasped his shoulders, holding on even as she gave him more.
Together, overcome with sensation, they flew off the edge.
