“You can comb Princess Poppy Girl’s hair, and there’s even a barrette and necklace, just for you!” Dimples flashed from cherubic, rosy cheeks, delight evident as she ran the brush lightly through the seven-inch doll’s shiny polyester locks. The cameras rolled as she sold it, nailing the script with little effort.
“I love you, Princess Poppy!” She tilted her face just so, nuzzling the doll’s diminutive cheek with her own. “Now YOU can be a Princess, too!”
“Aaaaaand…CUT! Print it!” Piotr rose and stretched, flexing his back from the uncomfortable position in the miserable excuse for a club chair. He ambled over to the monitors and reviewed the footage, his face slowly lighting up as the scene came to life.
The set construction was impeccable. Their little diva lay stomach-down on a patchwork quilt, surrounded by a bedroom of cotton candy perfection, presumably “daydreaming” about visiting “Poppyland” and gallivanting with Princess Poppy and her friends, all similarly garbed in dresses that looked like pastel-hued meringue puffs. The landscape of “Poppyland” was filmed over a green screen and was reminiscent of how the land of Oz looked in Technicolor, only with millions of pixels rendering the petals of each frilly flower. The CGI took nearly half their budget, but Piotr and Sage were ecstatic with the results.
“That’s lunch, people,” Douglas cheered, giving Piotr a high five as he passed the monitors. Sage grinned at their new whiz kid as he made himself comfortable at the console, editing the footage to adjust lighting without the added nuisance of reshooting it. Douglas was a child prodigy and graduated from high school at fifteen. His parents urged him to take time abroad before starting college. MIT enticed him back with a full scholarship and a dorm two years later, and his future looked bright. Piotr knew he was lucky to work in an up and coming advertising agency, but didn’t delude himself that it wasn’t small potatoes for someone with Douglas’ skill. Goodbye, tiny, nondescript cubicle decorated with action figures. Hello, Disney.
“Come here, Luna. Let’s get out of that pretty dress and get back into your play clothes,” her mother encouraged, stooping down and holding her arms wide. Luna Maximoff swooped into them and gave her mother a smacking kiss on the cheek. Piotr felt a lump rise up in his throat. She was so much like Illyana, hurling herself at him as he walked in through his mother’s front door that it made him ache.
Sage’s voice at his elbow drew him from his reverie. “She’s precious.”
“She’s absolutely brilliant,” he sighed, resting a hand on his hip and scrubbing at the back of his neck. Luna took her mother’s hand and skipped alongside her back to the wardrobe room. Crystal Maximoff paused and waved back to them before they rounded the corner. The child’s future beauty was guaranteed, the potential obvious by looking at her mother, a porcelain-skinned strawberry blonde with tourmaline blue eyes and a petite figure that didn’t look like she’d had a child. There was pride in her bearing. She brought Luna to rehearsals and shoots alone.
Piotr headed toward the nearby coffee cart and poured a cup of the tasteless brew, sugaring it liberally before taking a gulp. He grimaced at it; Sage grinned at him.
“You look like you just drank sour milk,” she remarked.
“This is ridiculous. This isn’t coffee, this is horse piss squeezed through a dirty sock. I need something to cleanse my tongue with.”
“How about lunch, then?”
“Sure, let’s see if Monet has the takeout menu from that place down the street, we can order…”
“I was thinking more about going out for it. Actually, eating out,” she informed him pleasantly.
“…in.” Piotr looked up from his day planner, pen mid-scribble. “Wait. What?”
“Lunch. Out. Us.”
“Oh.”
“Interested?” Sage’s face held no guile. No eyelash-batting, no pouts. Just…Sage. And something like anticipation in the depths of those eyes.
Just Sage. And him. Lunch.
His lips moved of their own accord.
“Yes.”
“Okay.” She ducked her face for a moment, then peered back up at him. She raised her finger as if remembering something. “Jacket. I…I need my jacket. Be right back.” She turned and darted off, worried that he’d be long gone in a puff of smoke when she got back, praying it wasn’t a fluke.
“Sure.” His eyes followed her as she went to retrieve it. Since she wasn’t pinning him with her gaze, he took a moment to drink his fill. When she disappeared into the bank of cubicles down the hall, Piotr was still thirsty.
He couldn’t remember when he’d first truly noticed her, only that he wanted the number of that truck. Piotr was a creative man by nature, with an artist’s imagination and eye for beauty. Over the past few weeks, she’d eased her way into his daydreams, suddenly populating their friendly chats with contemplative silence and awkward pauses. God, it was awkward. Why couldn’t it ever be simple?
“Ready?” She was garbed in a snugly belted black leather jacket that looked made for her.
“Ready.” There went his mouth again. He peered down at his day planner as though it could give him the answers. He came up blank. He clapped it shut and shoved it into his satchel.
Piotr held open the door, feeling an odd little current run through him as she inadvertently brushed against him. A light scent of shampoo and cologne with notes of ginger and musk reached his nose.
“What did you have in mind? To eat?” Piotr wanted to kick himself. What did she have in mind, indeed? Hello, redundant.
“No salad. I need something I can sink my teeth into,” she announced. “No rabbit food.”
“Keep talking.” Piotr was already pressing the button for the walk light, unconsciously nudging them toward a strip of cafes. He shrugged further into his fleece-lined jacket and fell into step with Sage, allowing her to walk along the side of the pavement closest to the shop windows.
“I’m thinking something with some meat in it.” Piotr cleared his throat.
Mind out of the gutter, Rasputin.
“Sandwich or pasta?”
“Ooh. I didn’t even think about pasta,” she admitted. She nodded to a pasta café down the next block. “That one?”
“Lead the way,” he beckoned. A strong breeze whipped through the street, pushing them back, pinkening their cheeks and disrupting her carefully coiled hair. By the time they made it inside, loose tendrils were drifting into her eyes. She blew them up impatiently, making Piotr chuckle.
“You don’t do that often enough,” she informed him.
“Do what?”
“Laugh.” She stroked her hair from her eyes, beating Piotr’s instinct to do just that. His hand stilled at his side before she noticed.
“Pot calling the kettle,” he hummed innocently, nodding at the waiter who handed them their menus. They ordered their drinks and took extra time deciding what to eat. Sage nursed a Sprite, drawing up strawfuls of soda by covering the tope of the tube with her index finger, letting it sluice back into the glass, stirring up the fizz.
“This is nice. We don’t get out of the office enough. I forget what daylight looks like.”
“Use some of your PTO,” Piotr suggested easily.
“Easier said than done. I only take it when I absolutely can’t not take it.”
“Workaholic,” he accused slyly, a hint of mischief quirking up the corner of his mouth, making him look surprisingly boyish.
“Now who’s the pot?” Piotr shook his head before downing half of his root beer in two swallows.
“I hate coming back to heaps of work piled on my desk. So I avoid using up my leave.”
“Does it make a difference?”
“Sure. The piles stay a little smaller.” He broke a sesame seed breadstick in two and handed her half. “Slightly smaller,” he amended.
“Bullshit.”
“Okay. Bullshit.” He crunched the stick savagely, wishing he could come up with something better than talking shop. She beat him to it.
“When’s Lila singing again?”
“Her concert schedule’s on her MySpace page.”
“MySpace…gads. Tool of the Devil.”
“Works, though. She’s practically overbooked. Search for her under “Cat’s Laughing.” That’s her band and her user handle.”
“That’s different.” She nibbled the breadstick absently before chipping off the remaining sesame seeds onto her appetizer plate. Her movements were meticulous; Piotr liked watching her hands.
They were nice hands. A lot of things about her were nice. Like that sweater: Snug, lightweight, and the color matched her eyes. A hint of cleavage flirted with him from the deep boat neck.
“I’d like to hear her sing again, sometime.”
“Mmmmm.” His voice was noncommittal, even though he silently agreed.
“It was nice of you, letting me know about that concert at Harry’s.”
“Any time.”
“Piotr?”
“Yes?”
“Would you go with me next time, maybe?”
“Why not? We might run into each other if we-“
“Piotr. I said would you go with me,” she pointed out.
“Go with…oh.”
Color crept into his cheeks before he could stop it. His lips ran on autopilot again.
“On a date.”
“Well…if you want to call it that.”
“You. Me. Going to a concert. That…sounds an awful lot like a date.”
“Er…I guess it does. Wow.” Her eyes darted away, and she drew in a shaky breath, making Piotr finally realize how awkward this was for her. Fuzzy tingles inched up his nape with the revelation: Sage was nervous.
The worst he could say was no.
Except that WOULD be the worst thing. Ever.
“You’re asking me on a date,” he repeated, looking at her as though she had spoken to him in Sanskrit.
“Yes, Piotr. I’m asking you. On a date. With me.” More mental kicking ensued. She wanted to sink into the floor.
Silence. Unwelcome, contemplative, excruciating silence.
Sage schooled her face into serene lines as she watched him absorb the impact. Her own words seemed to echo through the gaping divide between them, though they were separated by the narrow table and basket of breadsticks. Piotr gripped the menu in front of him like a makeshift shield while Sage stirred her soda.
Sage’s pulse flickered in her throat as she fought to maintain her nonchalant smile. Her mind screamed at her.
There’s still time to take it back. Double-dog dare. Take-backs. Do-over. That didn’t really count. Fingers crossed behind my back. Just joshing you, silly goose. Date? No. I was just asking you to borrow your rake. Sorry, wasn’t speaking clearly…
He licked his lips “ those chiseled, pale pink lips with that beautiful notch in the top one “ and prepared some semblance of a speech. Her pulse beat in her chest like a manic butterfly’s wings.
“Don’t,” she yelped.
“Sage ““
“I know. Don’t.”
“But-“
“Uh-uh.” She made lip-zipping motions and held out her palms in surrender. “It was stupid. I didn’t say it. I didn’t say anything. Oh, look. Food. Here’s the food.”
“But you-“
“I’m famished,” she interrupted again. Anything to put off the rejection, stifle it. Gag it. They could be just plain old Sage and Piotr. Buddies. People who could talk at the water cooler. Even if one of those people was enormous, divine and made her want to snuggle into him like a winter coat. There were times when silence was a buffer. When words just didn’t work. Didn’t fit. Wouldn’t make sense or make a bad situation better.
Then, there were times when silence was a curse. When it yawned open like a canyon. The less he said, the more she buried herself.
“You’re probably busy,” she rationalized. “Forget I mentioned it. I bet you have plenty on your plate.” She paid attention to her own plate, tearing apart a warm roll and dragging a tuft of it through the pesto cream sauce.
“Okay.” He prodded his salmon with his fork, watching it flake and release a plume of succulent steam before he spread his napkin over his lap. He wasn’t sure of what else to say that would wipe that look of worry from her face, so he settled with “Okay.”
They ate, both of them occasionally smiling politely and asking “how is it?” Sage mentally counted the money in her wallet, knowing she had the money for her own entrée, so they could make an easy escape from the café and back to their usual status as associates once the meal ended. Acquaintances.
Just friends.
Shit.
Piotr worked his way through his meal slowly, mulling her words. She was studiously trying not to stare at him too much.
He hated that.
His fork clattered onto his plate, and he chucked his napkin onto the table, eyeing her squarely. “Sage?”
“Yes, Piotr?”
“Why? Why…this? Why ask me, and then why take it back?”
“It was stupid, I’m sorry. I should have just-“
“Should have what?”
“It was silly. We work together. I like it when we talk. Things were fine, and I feel like I just messed them up. I just got the wrong idea, is all.” She stabbed her fork into her tortellini and rolled it through her sauce. “We’ll just let it go.”
“Just let it go.”
“Why not?” He couldn’t tell her why not. Part of him was steadfastly agreeing with her. It would be insanity, the two of them going out on a date. A real one. With small talk, hand-holding, “getting to know each other,” sharing embarrassing stories and meaningful glances.
Except…didn’t they sort of do that now? He corrected himself. They did that. Just not without the “dance of uncertainty” outside her front door, deciding on whether to venture a kiss, or to just settle for a half-hug. No, he reasoned. A date meant a kiss. A kiss meant crossing that line and starting over. Getting back into the game. Answering questions like “So, what are you thinking?” and compromising his solitude.
There was also nothing “small” about talks with Sage. She was sympathetic and didn’t pry too deep when his sister passed away, or when Laynia flew back to Russia. Her wit was quick, sometimes even parted his hair. She was sweet. Tranquil. Undemanding. Funny.
She deserved more, he reminded himself, than what he could give. Or what he wouldn’t give. And there went his mouth on autopilot again.
“You can’t take it back,” he insisted.
“Excuse me?”
“You can’t. It’s out there. You asked me out, and then didn’t give me a chance to even consider it before you tell me to forget it. That’s not fair, is it?”
“Piotr-“
“Nyet. Hush. I’m not finished,” he interrupted this time. “Sage. Be honest with me. Do you want to go out with me?”
She wrapped her mouth around the words. “Piotr…”
“Do you want to go out with me on a date?”
“I…Piotr, really ““
“Do you?”
“Yes.” It was staccato and she was bursting with it. “Yes. Are you happy now? Yes. Yes, yes, yes, I want to go out with you. I like you. A lot. I know you’re still on the rebound from being with someone for a long time, but there you go.” It came out in a rush.
“Sage, how long have you felt this way?”
“Months,” she admitted, tucking the pocket of tortellini between her lips to stall having to say anything else. Piotr’s fingers tunneled helplessly through his hair.
“Holy shit,” he muttered. She swallowed and drained the last vestiges of soda from her glass. Her lips were rosy from the ice chips; she sucked a droplet from her upper lip and sighed.
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.” His eyes darkened, and he leaned in, reaching for her wrist just as she laid down her fork. Long, strong fingers caught her in a gentle grip that pulsed with warmth, and his thumb feathered her skin. “Don’t ever be sorry. I’m not.” All of the moisture evaporated from his mouth as their eyes locked. “What do you think I have on my plate? I live a quiet life, Sage. I come home to an empty apartment. I have no commitments. I’m lucky enough to have friends that I can talk to, and parents that are still on this earth, even though it hurts to go home, knowing that Illyana isn’t there anymore. That I can’t watch her grow up.” That tore strips out of him. Sage watched him swallow over that lump of grief and began kicking herself again. She’d give anything to just cross over to his side of the table and throw herself into this lap so she could embrace him, maybe even kiss his pain away.
Yet here she was, heart slamming in her chest at his touch, just with him holding her wrist captive in the crowded restaurant.
“I won’t lie and tell you that I don’t find you attractive,” he admitted quietly, loosening his grip and shifting her hand until it rested in his palm. “Mind you, I wish that I didn’t. I enjoy spending time with you, Sage, but I feel as though it would be unfair to try to go any further than this. I have so little to offer you.” That was when he felt her pulse thrumming and her entire body stiffen a moment, before she relaxed. She knew it was appropriate, even preferable to pull away, but he wouldn’t let her go. The caress of his thumb over her knuckles was at odds with the necessary, yet cruel words coming from his mouth.
“You’re the one saying no. It would seem that you don’t want what I have to offer, Piotr, not the other way around. That’s usually how it works.” She still couldn’t pull away. His touch felt too good; she hungered for it.
“I don’t want you to think I can offer you a relationship.”
“You made that clear. I understand.”
“I don’t think you do.” His thumb traced the edges of her fingernails, gently probing the one on her index finger. “I want to go out with you more than just about anything I can think of, but I won’t lead you into thinking we can build a relationship out of it that will lead to anything more than either of us saying ‘It was fun while it lasted. Here’s your toothbrush, give me back my key.’ You don’t strike me as someone who would settle for that. You deserve more.”
“You’re right,” she nodded, her voice slightly choked. “I can’t settle for that. I can’t afford to settle for maybes and could-have-beens. It hurts too much. This is rare,” she admitted, finally extracting her hand from his addictive warmth.
“What?” He panicked when he saw her reaching for her purse on the seat on the floor beside her and threading her arms through her leather jacket.
“I usually just feel like shit after I break up with someone,” she said blandly. “I don’t normally start a relationship that goes nowhere, waste a man’s time, and break up all in the course of one lunch. It’s been enlightening, Piotr.” She dug into her purse and extracted a small wad of bills, tucking them under her plate and scooting her chair back from the table in a rush.
“Sage! WAIT!”
“No. See you back at work, Piotr,” she sparked, shooting him a wave and turning on her heel. She was elegant despite radiating frustration and hurt in her posture, yanking the belt of her jacket closed with jerky, sharp motions as she flew out the door. Piotr sat there flummoxed and alone, not having a clue what had just happened.
“Damn it,” he muttered. The waiter eyed the conspicuously empty chair and half-finished plates knowingly before setting down the bill.
~0~
He was right. Sage had settled for that before. And the cost was too high to do it again. The near-stomping of her Vivienne Westwood black leather boots filled her ears, nearly drowning out the blare of traffic in the street. The wind chafed her hot cheeks as she continued to lecture herself all the way back to the agency.
She invited him out. Then she just left him there. It was official. She was ready for the loony bin.
It wasn’t just her own life she was playing games with, embarking on anything resembling a fling. She couldn’t rely on anyone but herself, and Aliyah didn’t have anyone to rely on but her. Lucas had seen to that, blast his eyes.
All she could remember was the incredulous look on Peter’s face as she ran out of the café, concern and confusion etched around his eyes and mouth. She wouldn’t do that again. He didn’t need her baggage, or the backbreaking responsibilities she had to face everyday. That, or reminders of what he’d already lost, staring him in the face everyday.
She made her way back to her cubicle with no preamble, shooting off brief hellos on her way in. She hung her jacket on the plastic peg and flung herself into her rolling chair, immediately checking email and voice mail, even though she had barely been gone an hour. She turned on her media player and shoved in a disc that usually soothed her, tugging on her earphones in an attempt to look busy.
It didn’t work.
“Sage?” The voice was accompanied by a small knock on the frame of her cubicle wall. She smothered a sigh, then continued typing.
“I know you’re listening,” the voice insisted gruffly. She felt his presence drift closer, taking up space in her makeshift office. He swam into her line of peripheral vision as he leaned back against her desk. “Please talk to me,” he inquired on a low rumble.
“We don’t have to talk about it. I think we both said enough, Piotr. I took you away from your day. I won’t keep you.” She hadn’t stopped staring ahead at the computer screen.
A large, warm hand enclosed hers, stopping her mouse. Awareness of how close he was thudded through her veins. His masculine scent, coupled with the scent of being outdoors, and the faint hint of “traffic” that lingered on his coat filled her nostrils. He hadn’t even gone back to his own desk yet. She stared down at his hand before meeting his gaze again.
Ohhhh, how it hurt. She hated that her actions and words put that look on his face. That magnificent, familiar face.
“Did I deserve that? You running off?” Shame hung in the air. She hung her head and shook it, stirring the tendrils of hair that drifted down from her bun.
“No. You didn’t,” she admitted. “You were right. I can’t just have a fling. That’s not something I can just meet you halfway on, Piotr. I’m not going to lay my expectations at your feet on this and wait for you to make up your mind, when I know that you have.”
“What do you think I have decided?”
“About me? That I’m asking too much. About us? That we’re just friends,” she said, her voice impossibly low. The cubicles had ears.
Piotr heaved a gusty sigh, stared at her as if he wanted to say something more, then released her. His footsteps were nearly silent, unnerving for someone so large as he left her.
~0~
Across town:
Ororo wiped her hands on the back of her worn jeans and stood up, digging her knuckles into her lower back to work out a kink. Her joints popped as she bent this way and that, stretching this way and that to restore her equilibrium. Spotless floor boards shone up at her as she wiped away a smudge of sweat-streaked grime from her cheek. She slowly turned and surveyed the nearly bare space. She’d carted six bags of trash to the curb and swept out every corner of every closet and underneath every stick of furniture.
Ororo agreed to let him move his things on his own, giving him twenty-four hours before she changed the locks.
He retaliated by breaking everything. Ororo swore in the back of her mind, in gruesome hindsight, that she’d never send a man packing again unless she had the police waiting on the front porch.
She came home to what looked like a crime scene, choking back a small cry of rage. Tears dripped down her cheeks, landing in the corner of her mouth as she stumbled forward through the rubble. Her floor mat was kicked aside in a heap, littered with broken glass. Ceramic and polymer picture frames were laying in fragments, and a pair of wooden kokopeli figures were both splintered, broken in half. It grew worse the further she walked through the house.
Upstairs, her CD collection lay scattered in a pile, various discs and cases cracked or snapped in two. The bathroom reeked of her perfume, the bottle laying broken in the sink. Two of her fine gold chains had broken clasps, the links pulled apart and bent.
Her clothes were mostly intact, but she was trembling too much to take any solace in it. The biggest offense was the photographs. Not just the ones of her and Pietro together “ she’d planned on sending the ones of him by himself to his father’s house, so at least someone could enjoy them “ but other photos of Ororo with Lorna, Jean and Anna. Pictures of her mom and dad, particularly one of her father before his health had declined, seated in his favorite chair beside the Christmas tree. Tears blurred her vision as she pawed through the shards of glass, scooping up the photo and hating the white streaks where the glossy finish had torn through.
Ororo called her lawyer the next day to file a restraining order while she waited for the locksmith. Her lawyer was an unassuming looking brunette named Jennifer with a finger-crushing handshake. Once she had his copy of the injunction couriered to his brokerage, the threatening, pleading phone calls evaporated. He emailed her at work, and she managed to block him and talked with her network administrator about tracking his IP address. The front desk in the reception lounge was given a copy of his photo and a standing order not to let him in.
Some of the photos she managed to salvage with spray adhesive; some had to be recreated with her scanner and laser printer, but the glossy photo stock was a worthwhile investment. Anna came to the rescue with her collection of discs and burned copies of most of her favorite music before she could miss it.
A week had gone by before she called Logan. She nursed the knot on her forehead until it no longer resembled a goose egg, knowing it would cause more trouble then it was worth if he saw what Pietro made her do. The sudden lack of knick-knacks she could explain. Pietro’s departure made that easy.
Logan picked up his phone on the second ring. “H’lo?”
“Hey.” Ororo heard the crack of his smile and the soundtrack from CSI in the background.
“Hey, darlin’. Whatcha up to?”
“Cleaning house. Taking a breather.” In more ways than one.
“Eh. That second thing sounds pretty good. Need any help?” She heard a hint of indolence and mischief in his voice and shivered.
“I’m open to suggestions.” Ororo continued to knead her back one-handed as she paced the living room, which felt so empty that it seemed to echo.
“I come over.”
“Mm-hm.”
“I come in.”
“Mm-hm.”
“I close and lock up the front door.”
“Mmmmm.”
“I tell ya hello and kiss ya.”
“Keep talking.” She warmed to his suggestions like hot cocoa and wool socks.
“We get nekkid. We bang a few holes in the walls. I take ya upstairs and we don’t come back down til the cops come knockin’ on the front door. An’ I rub yer feet. Not necessarily in that order.” Ororo lightly fanned herself and grinned into the phone.
Dang.
“Guess you might get into trouble if you just drove over nekkid, so I don’t have to waste any time with your clothes?” Her voice was smoky as she threw his own words back at him.
“Yeah.”
“Darn it. Ah well, no need to dress up for me. Just wear something that will look good lying in a puddled heap in the corner when you get here.”
“Bye,” he barked quickly.
“Bye,” she trilled, clicking off and cradling the phone handset.
Twenty minutes found Ororo loosening the ponytail holder in her hair and throwing a bag of popcorn into the microwave. Curls of anticipation rose in her stomach, and the rush of giddiness at seeing him again found her doing an impromptu “Snoopy Dance” in her kitchen. Just for a moment, mind you…
She knew Anna and Lorna would be laughing their asses off right about now if they were on hand to see this. The hum of the microwave muffled the sound of an engine pulling up outside; she was just pouring the popcorn into a bowl when a sharp knock on the front door made her yelp and do a quick “hair check” in her patio door pane. She nearly tripped over her own feet rushing to answer the door.
“Hm. Check you out, ya look about ready ta drop,” he drawled lazily, those hazel eyes crinkling at the sight of her in worn jeans and a sweatshirt with an embroidered patch of Goofy on it.
“Come in,” she nagged breathlessly, yanking him over the threshold by the arm, slamming the door on a quick swish, and practically knocking him over as she kissed him so hard he grunted. They stumbled together against the back of the door, and Logan’s hands were already searching for the hem of her shirt, seeking out warm flesh and molding to her curves. Her lips were insatiable; Logan chuckled between breaths.
“Miss me, darlin’?” Her low moan was his only reply. Ororo didn’t give a damn if the popcorn got cold. “Awright. Missed you too, baby.” His laughter gave way to arousal as she slinked against him, shucking off his jacket and letting it slide to the floor. “Damn,” he gasped. His voice gradually drifted off as he returned her greeting with groans of approval, letting his hands roam and caress. He smelled the hint of sweat, mingled with her shampoo and the unmistakable scent of lemon Pledge lingering in the room, not to mention the popcorn. Logan couldn’t remember offhand what her house had looked like when he’d shown up last, only that it felt different, somehow. Charged with a different energy, almost like a whirlwind had swept through the entire space.
Ororo surprised him by pulling away first. “I’m grungy.”
Logan shrugged, his eyes dark with interrupted desire. “Ya look fine ta me.”
“I look like Hope Digging Potatoes. I should have freshened up before I called, but I wanted to see you.” Her hair was more tousled now from Logan running his fingers through it and sweeping tendrils of it from her face. She had on no makeup, and her face glowed from her efforts. His eyes scanned her face at their leisure, suddenly narrowing as he scowled at something on her forehead.
“What the hell happened?” His forefinger lightly skimmed the shrinking bump there that replaced her previous gash from the night of her fainting spell.
“Nothing. Just bumped my head.”
“On what?”
Pietro’s hard-ass head. “It was just an accident.” The lie sounded hollow to her own ears. “It’s no big deal,” she amended. His eyes held a strange light as they flickered over the offending lump, before he cupped her face, drawing it down to his lips. Ororo felt the change in him as he embraced her this time, rocking her protectively against him.
“Want anything?”
“Yup.” He tucked her hand into his and began leading her toward the back of the house, flicking on the hall light. Ororo smothered a giggle.
“Drink? Popcorn?”
“Nope.”
“Am I getting warm?”
“Ya will be if I have anything ta say about it.” He turned to her, kissed her again, and stooped down, leaning his shoulder into her midsection. Up she went, over his shoulder, doubled over like a sack of potatoes as he carried her up the stairs.
“Logan!” she practically squealed.
“The only thing I want ya get me is you, nekkid, like ya promised.” He paused at the top of the stairwell, turning around while she continued to wriggle against him. His wide palm caressed the smooth curve of her backside through the worn, velvety denim and she moaned and pointed the way to the bathroom. “Aha!” he grinned, striding to the door and turning on the wall switch. Ororo’s house surprised him. The walls were unusually bare; his ex-girlfriends all seemed to have a love of knick-knacks and framed art prints and other kitschy collectibles cluttering every inch of available space on every wall. Her home still offered a comfortable space, but he expected there to be more evidence that it had recently been occupied by two people.
Her bathroom counter was impeccable, save for the hairbrush, her toothbrush cup, and a jar of cold cream tucked neatly in one corner by the mirror. Logan lowered her to the floor, setting her on a turquoise blue bath mat and letting her body slide against his on the way down. His hands groped her bottom, grinding her against him until she began to writhe wantonly, rocking her mouth over his. He tasted so good, felt so right beneath her hands. His kisses became more heated and demanding as their clothing began to drop. He cradled her from behind as she ran the shower and tugged her aside as he tested it first. “Hop in,” he murmured huskily, urging her in with the press of his hand on the small of her back. She stepped back into the spray, tugging off her ponytail holder and wetting her hair as he got in.
He was beautiful. A deep, broad chest and rippling shoulders tapered down to a waist that was firm and free of flab. His abdomen was a perfect six-pack, complete with a happy trail of black hair that teased his navel. A fine mat of dark hair covered his pecs. His flesh was slightly tanned; Ororo could tell that his year-round skin tone was a ruddy olive. Tapered, muscular thighs and calves surprised her; he didn’t have the underdeveloped calves of someone who only lifted weights instead of throwing in regular cardio workouts. She drank her fill of him, with her eyes, fingertips and lips, beckoning him to her. They took turns washing each other’s hair, and Logan used that as an opportunity to knead the last of the tension from her neck.
She was beautiful. Startlingly blue eyes fringed with long, wet, curling lashes roamed over him and drifted shut as his mouth traced the contours of her cheekbones and the hollow of her throat. Her caramel skin was flushed and rosy from the heat of the shower. Her body was sculpted and toned, with breasts that begged him to cup them in his palms. Her wasp waist led to flaring, feminine hips and legs that he longed to have wrapped around him. He teased the tiny dip of her navel with his fingertip before he touched her, stroking her until she grew damp inside. Plump, kiss-swollen lips gasped his name and begged him not to stop. Their bodies fused with shared need. They stumbled backward again, nearly freezing when Ororo’s backside hit the shower knob and accidentally nudged the dial to cold.
Logan enveloped Ororo in a thick bath sheet before letting her rub his back dry with another. “We gotta work on another item on the list,” he huffed, tugging her down the hall.
“We covered nekkid,” she reminded him.
“Nuh-uh. We’re still workin’ on that one.”
“Still can’t sell you on that popcorn, huh?”
“Hell, no!” She conceded and tugged him into her bedroom, bracing herself for his reaction.
It was neat as a pin. Almost too neat. No overflowing laundry hamper. No personal effects like aftershave or sports paraphernalia. Logan helped her to shed her towel, unwrapping her like a present and easing her back onto the bed.
“Was startin’ ta wonder if ya’d ever call me,” he accused, nipping her bottom lip.
“Had too much to do,” she reasoned. The press of his body was overwhelming and addictive, feeding all of her senses. She thrilled to the ticklish hair on his chest caressing her, making her nipples peak. He sucked the first morsel into his mouth, and she squirmed and bucked against him.
“God,” she breathed. “Logan, please.”
“Couldn’t wait t’do this, thought I was gonna bust as soon as ya answered that damned door,” he mumbled, unable to make up his mind which of her breasts he liked more. Ororo thrilled to the feelings rising up in her chest. Being desired and covetously stroked, possessed so thoroughly was addictive. His lips scorched her, trailing a path down her belly, gradually nuzzling the downy curls at the apex of her thighs.
“Oh, my God, you’re…oh. OH. He swirled his tongue over her sensitive flesh, making her buck again and cry out. His fingers probed her intimately and patiently, discovering each new texture. She felt the earliest tremors of fulfillment beginning deep in her womb. She couldn’t stop the impulse to ride his face with each thrust of his hand and tongue. She was greedy. So was he.
Logan was as good as his word. The headboard slammed into the wall, knocking loudly and creating dings in the plaster. Ororo’s nails dug into his back convulsively. Her voice became strangled and hoarse from calling his name, but the sound of it stroked him and spurred him on.
“Ro,” he panted into her hair. His breath came out in harsh gusts as he neared climax, steaming her ear as he nipped it. Tingles swept across her flesh, bringing with them so much pleasure that she couldn’t think. He bucked, arching his back and bellowing his release into the room as his orgasm claimed him, draining him in ragged torrents. The rhythmic, shuddering flex of her muscles around him pushed him over the edge.
They lay sated and glowing, half-swaddled by the covers and stroking each other as if they could not get enough.
“You promised me cops on the front porch,” she murmured. Logan snickered.
“I ain’t gonna give ‘em a free show.” One strong, warm hand drifted up, sweeping aside the spill of long hair from the nape of her hair and massaging her neck.
“You’re forgiven,” she sighed.
“Ororo?”
“Hmmm?”
“…why’s it so damned bare in here?”
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