[Reviews - 13]
-
Table of Contents [Report This]
Microsoft Word Chapter or Story |
Printer Chapter or Story |
ePub eBook Chapter or Story |

Has been viewed 1346 times

- Text Size +




Chapter 6 – Hard Packets

The party had gone on without a hitch even from Logan's jaundiced viewpoint. Bit boring as usual, listening his team mates recount the same adventures year after year, but as usual there were new pairs of ears listening.

It wasn't half bad, lazing on someone else's couch for a change with 'Ro on his lap with the added benefit of watching Drake trying to decide which punch bowl had gotten spiked this year. Bobby always got it wrong, probably on purpose, and was taking over the storytelling with a glow on his cheeks. A few hours and Iceman would be fit to be rescued from the big chandelier in the hallway, trying to freeze himself a slide to ride back to safety but getting distracted by the hanging crystals.

Rogue was already asleep – he could pick up her tiny snores and Gambit's monologue with the fireplace just over the music from the stereo. The kids were slowly and sneakily pushing the volume upwards, their auditory nerves beginning to numb with alcohol after they'd taken stock on just which punchbowl Bobby had chosen.

There was supposed to be no alcohol served to minors but spiking the punch was just as much a tradition as holding the party on the Eve, and Logan figured the stuff was rather potent by now – he knew for certain that someone else in addition to himself and Remy had taken up bringing a well-hidden hip flask to the party. The thrice-spiked punch was bringing a bit of life into the gaggle of teens by the stereo, but Kendall wasn't among them – the girl must've taken after her little brother to keep an eye on the boy.

“... an' I t'ink it's best you be 'onest wit' 'er, knowing de girl in question,” Gumbo was saying quietly to the fireplace. “What's de worst dat can 'appen?”

“I end up diced and fried”, someone said almost imperceptibly and Logan had to suppress a surprised growl. That damn brain-scattering boy! No wonder Remy seemed to be talking to himself, that young Petty had probably sent his scent and image out to play in the snow... which raised the question: what the hell was he doing here? If that kid had counterfeited that signature in the absentee notification for the holiday residence roster... This time he really did growl.

“Something wrong?” 'Ro was giving him her full attention, half-way Storm already as the result of years of short notices. She set her wine glass down with a businesslike clink and tensed on his lap, probably busy taking stock of just how many of their X-men were sober enough for quick action.

Logan was about to give a negative answer when the owner of the voice unfolded himself from the floor, his image and scent returning like someone had twanged a rubber string. It made Logan's hackles rise, his overly keen senses thoroughly confused.

“I fuckin' hate when he does that,” he ground out quietly enough for only Ororo to hear. “That Petty boy.”

“Oh, Stephen? Isn't he supposed to be staying with his father over the holidays?” Great, now she was concerned and was starting to stand up. He stopped her with a hand on her shoulder, spotting the look on the boy's face. Like a beaten dog. He liked that even less than the boy's powers messing with his brain. Gumbo was talking to the kid again, calmly.

“... an' it's good dat you came 'ome. I'll call your Father an' you'll both cool off tonight. Ev'rythin' will be better by de morning,” Remy said, then added with a grin, “Who knows? Maybe y' even get diced.”

“Ah,” Ororo said quietly and settled back into his lap but Logan could tell she was still worried. Damn. He rubbed his fingertips in a soothing circle on the center of her back until her posture and breathing relaxed. The music was kicked up a notch again as a wave of girlish giggles rose from the group of teens beside the stereo.

“Want to take a little break, Logan?” She sounded tired.

“Thought ya'd never ask, 'Ro. My ears are ready ta bleed,” he grumbled and got up after her, suddenly cold without her body heat against him. She slipped her arm around him and his palm found its way to rest on the small of her back as they made their way out into the hallway, the previously open door swinging shut behind them soundlessly on well-oiled hinges. Something caught his eye, something green...

Mistletoe, tucked neatly into the garland of mixed greenery hung on the door. Logan saw his own grin reflected in the metal of his extending claw in the split second his hand stilled before he cut the festive sprig loose with surgical precision.

“Was wonderin' where Drake had hid it this year,” he said with satisfaction as he picked up the mistletoe, conveniently soaked in vodka to hide the scent from questing noses. “Finder's keepers, but if he thinks I'll play doorstop...” He held the rank sprig up between them and gave it a shake. “C'mere, darlin'. Let's make sure we keep our winning streak runnin' straight an' true.”

“Should I get you a stepladder?” she murmured but closed the small distance between them anyway to be kissed, her lips pliant and tangy with the remnants of the Shiraz she'd been sipping. He could taste the tannins on her tongue mingling with the residue of the wine, cinder, figs, plums and sun-toasted spices adding to the taste of her. 'Ro's mouth tasted always like summer rain and black tea, mellow and sweet on his tongue as it met with hers.

Her appreciative hum of pleasure vibrated against his lips as his hand came to hold her firmly against his chest, the hand with the mistletoe cradling the back of her head. He backed her against the wall by the door, planting his hand hard by her head as he broke the kiss. A rumbling growl rose from the pit of his stomach as he watched her glazed eyes close and her throat work as she swallowed slowly. The heady scent of her arousal was heating up his nostrils, a mixture of pheromones and burnt cinnamon. Logan closed his eyes, too, as he nuzzled the base of her throat - and then there was the jingle-jangle of reverberating steel in his ears.

Driven deep into the dark wood of the staircase banister was one of the steak knives from the dining room's formal set of tableware, ringing like merry bell - and pinning the sprig of mistletoe six feet above the hallway's floor.

Clever 'Roro, he thought and returned his attention to the obviously self-satisfied goddess before him, his eyes narrowing.

“Busy hands ya got, darlin',” he murmured and yanked her right hand to his eye level by the slender wrist. He could hear her pulse quickening as he kept a firm grip on her hand as he turned it this way and that, giving it a careful once-over and brushing his lips against her wrist. “Better make sure ya don't tire yourself out, wavin' 'em about like that.” He found her left hand tucked behind her back and drew it out, too, pinning her hands to her sides.

“Now where were we?” he mused and took a look at the mistletoe, then drew her to stand under it. “Waste not, especially since ya went to the trouble of pilferin' that handy knife an' all. Ya sure that stealin' things doesn't go on the naughty list?” He gave her wrists a sharp tug as he bit into her shoulder, half daring her to make a sound or struggle. Ororo whimpered and shifted her weight but her head lolled back, exposing her slender throat to him.

“Only if it's done selfishly,” she said, her voice already a little ragged. “And it's the season of giving...”

“... so how 'bout I give ya yer hands back, eh?” He pretended to consider as his teeth worried at the thin skin covering her jugular. “In exchange for a little somethin', maybe.”

“Now what would that be, Logan?” It was hard to tell the tone of her voice when her throat was strained like that. She shuddered deliciously when he licked his way up from her clavicle to the base of her jaw.

“You an' me on the balcony, a little party away from the party. Old times' sake.”

“Done,” she said, and then her hands were fisted in his hair and tugging at his clothes as he claimed her mouth again. They were both vaguely aware of a scurry of footsteps passing them and the kitchen door slamming somewhere in the darkened dining room. The sound of the living room's door clicking back shut barely registered as he scooped her up in his arms and carried her up the stairs, the sounds of the party booming softly in the background. No one was around to hear them laughing liker co-conspirators.

The door of Ororo's old bedroom made the same tell-tale creak than it had almost twenty years ago, the hinges positively wailing as a she kicked it shut when he set her down, her hands already busy with the back zipper of her strapless black Betsey Johnson dress. It hugged her curves like it had been painted on and while having two kids had changed her body, the hourglass shape of her had only increased to pin-up girl proportions. Talk about dangerous curves...

“Leave it on,” Logan said huskily, running his thumbs over the edge of the silky fabric where her breasts strained against the confines of the bodice. They heaved hypnotically in time of her breathing. “Y'look lethal in that thing. Christ, 'Ro...”

Her shoes hit the floor with a double-thunk as he crushed her against his chest, her hands grabbing his ass for balance. He ran one hand up her smooth thigh, guiding it to raise up to rest on his hip, his questing fingers finding the edge of the lacy scrap of her underwear and snapping it against her skin. He didn't need to touch her to know that she was ready for him, the whimper escaping her lips as he claimed her mouth in a bruising kiss making it as clear as her scent enveloping him like rising smoke. Hickory and burnt cinnamon...

“Balcony. Now,” he said and gave her mouth a final peck before giving her ass a hard squeeze and that was all the hint she needed, hopping up to wrap her legs around his waist as he maneuvered them towards the glass doors of the balcony. His brain registered distantly the scent of pure oxygen and the doors flew open, letting the crisp night air into the attic as they careened outside.

He'd almost gotten used to the Poltergeist crap she did when no-one was looking. Almost.

Ororo's back came to rest against the cool wall, the temperature difference lost to her when his fingers found her slick lips, delving into her mercilessly and curling against the spot that made her feel ready to explode. She writhed, torn between shying away from the sensory overload and wanting more, her shoulders burning against the friction of the wall and her thighs pressing into his jutting hipbones.

“Ngh,” she said eloquently and cracked one eye open to give him an imperious glare. Logan, being a man well versed in both self-preservation and Ororo-speak understood it for the demand it was, removed his fingers from her core and yanked her underwear aside. A moment later the wide head of his cock was rubbing against her wetness and she pushed down on his shoulders to shift herself for a better angle, allowing him better to press into her.

His teeth closed in a gentle hold on her throat, the question always there, and as always she gave it without hesitation, tilting her head back, signaling her yielding and consent better than a thousand words might have. The hold of his teeth tightened, squeezing her airway as he slowly pushed all the way home, only letting go when he was fully sheathed in her, her whimpering filling his ears.

They stayed like that for a moment, their breaths hanging in the air in lazy clouds of white drifting towards the heavens. Then Logan buried his face in her chest, nipping the tender flesh of her left breast as he rocked his hips, driving her quite literally up the wall, her heels digging into his lower back.

He was drawing moans from her, thrusting deep and hard into her with a steady rhythm, hitting the sweetest spots available like this until there was nothing but a single vowel left of his name on her lips, her back arching and her hand reaching for the stars in the sky. The powdery snow that had gathered on the balcony floor blew around and around his ankles, waltzed by a languorous breeze.

He'd gone beyond words, too, but it was all the same - he wasn't much of a talker when seeing to his lady. His breath came in ragged grunts as he picked up a pace neither of them could stand for long, slamming into her with small bright explosions of light peppering the inside of his eyelids.

The friction was simply too much, there was too much heat between them and still never quite enough. He could never drive deep enough into her, never hear his fill of her pleasured cries, never get enough even when too much became just right. He was near his breaking point and so was she, winding tighter and tighter around his achingly hard cock as he pounded into her as her breath hitched in her throat, coming out in strained whimpers.

Logan fought for control and slowed down, not yet ready to end this little tryst. The wind licking his ankles howled as the goddess in his arms gave a cry that could have, should have scattered the sky.

He gave a roar around his bite on her flesh, he wasn't sure where and didn't give a shit either as her legs around his waist flexed and pulled him deeper into her wetness, squeezing him with desperate strength.

For a brief moment the air stood still as they came apart together, and then the glass doors of the balcony flapped open and closed like those of a saloon, rocked by a gust of wind that almost knocked Logan off his feet. Or would've, if they had still been on the floor of the balcony.

“Love ya,” he murmured against her cleavage when he had caught his breath, laying a kiss over her heart where the evidence of his bite shone dull red on her chocolate skin.

“I love you too,” Ororo said, her hands combing through his hair gently. “Merry Christmas, Logan.”

“Yeah,” he said and risked a glance downwards. “Uh, darlin'...”

“Oh, all right,” she sighed and his boots touched down on the cool stone. He lifted her upwards to pull out of her and set her down on her feet to put himself back to rights.
Logan watched with amusement as she tugged the hem of her skirt down over her hips with a little shimmy. Chuckling, he gathered her in his arms, giving her ass a playful swat. “Merry Christmas, 'Ro”, he said and kissed her again, this time gently and patiently.

“Now, what do you say about a shower as long as we are walking down Memory Lane? My treat,” she said and took his hand, leading him back into the attic, calling up a soft monsoon in the en suite bathroom.

“Only if ya promise ta drop the soap, babe.”

She chuckled, and they both startled as a lightning bolt arced across the cloudless sky. Logan leveled a questing look at her.

“Oops,” Ororo said sheepishly.

“Huh,” he grunted. “The wine makin' ya slip a bit?”

“You could say that”, she murmured as she squirmed to remove her soaked panties, watching him toss his shirt over his head as he strutted towards the bathroom. His jeans followed suit just as he stepped under the warm downpour.

The sound of almost silently jingling keys was lost to Logan, cloaked under the sound of the dress' zipper opening and the whisper silken cloth pooling on the floor.

Ororo plucked the garage keys out of the back of her bra and grinned to herself. Wine making me slip, indeed... She spared a white-eyed glance towards the balcony doors and the happily humming air that bubbled like a lava lamp in her vision. Oh, Kennie, Kennie, Kennie! She laughed under her breath as she swung into the bathroom after her husband.


Later...

Kendall was traipsing on clouds when she made her way back to the boathouse – literally. They had danced and danced until Uncle Remy had kicked them out, telling her that her parents had already collected her little brother and headed home. There had been some more kisses under that conveniently installed mistletoe and then Stephen had put a small package in her hand, insisting that she opened it only when she got home.

Kendall was itching to tear the package open when she nudged her bedroom window open and landed unceremoniously on her bed, her hands already busy shredding the wrapping paper to reveal a small lacquer box.

Curiously she flipped the top open and picked up a silver necklace with a triangular white thing that looked deceptively like a guitar pick. Shark tooth, she realised and smiled, putting the necklace on. There was a note in the box and she smoothed it out carefully. It was a simple Christmas card with Santa and a short “Merry X-mas from Stephen” scrawled on the other side – nothing too fancy, but she wasn't exactly expecting a sonnet from a guy who'd had trouble composing a grocery shopping list.

Kendall flopped on her back, watching shadows play across the ceiling. She touched her fingertips to her lips and smiled – something new and volatile was bubbling inside her, making her feel weightless and restless.

She nearly jumped out of her skin as a paper plane flew in through her open bedroom window, making a lazy spiral above her head and diving down to land in the middle of her eyebrows. What the hell?

Kendall grabbed the plane and found it surprisingly heavy, made of what looked like one of the pages of that old girlie calendar in the garage. She unfolded it carefully, snickering. Someone had given a mustache to Miss October and drawn tassels on her breasts with a black marker.

She held the page up with trembling fingers. Over the single day her father hadn't crossed over lay a Post-It note filled with neat copperplate script.

Merry Christmas, my kestrel!
I hope you enjoy your gift - best not to say anything about this to your father. He doesn't know that he promised the bike to you yet, and truth might hit him a bit too hard. Don't worry – he'll live, and so will you.
Love, Mother
PS: Nice light show tonight. Make sure you cover your tracks.

Kendall unfolded the neatly creased last fold of heavy paper and her eyes found a pair of keys with the tag reading “6” attached to them. Two different keys to deadbolt locks, a key to obviously something motored and a fob were on the same ring with the tag.

The keys glittered silver and jingled merrily like tiny bells as she picked them up to inspect the metal keychain charm. It read, 'Triumph'.





A/N: If you want to take a gander at what Ororo's lethal little dress might look like, lookie here.

Also, if you need to freshen your memory on what a Triumph Bonneville looks like, head this way.





You must login () to review.