15: Red like wine
Logan wasn't a man who lived by a lot of rules, but he did have some. Stay in control. Keep the Wolverine on his leash. And stay the fuck away from emotional entanglements.
He'd broken most of them before, he had to admit. But never quite like this, he thought, as she stared up at him. And never all at once.
The Wolverine was snarling and snapping, howling with excitement at the proximity to his mate, and what she was doing to him. And it would be him, Logan knew. She was asking for total submission, complete abandon. She was asking for the animal she had never seen, and he was one breath away from giving that to her.
It was a long, dark hiss, that breath. Words, while he could.
“Mine!” he insisted, as her chocolate eyes drank him in, and a smile lurked in the curve of her lips, even as they teased the head of his cock. “My mate,” he groaned, straining against the handcuffs, wanting to gather her close to him and breathe the commitment into her hair. The glow in her eyes told him it was enough, and he threw his head back and fell into wildness.
Sensation … the world fractured into a million new colours, and twice as many scents. Her slick mouth, clever fingers. Fire, burning him from inside. Power and glory as she hollowed her cheeks and swirled her tongue and scraped her teeth along him. Out, out now, touch her, touch his mate. Helpless. Feel. Feel her. Feel her mouth. Teeth. Taste her!
Wolverine snapped at the air, desperate to bend forward to her, and her laughter roared in his ears, but she straightened and gasped as he plunged his tongue into her mouth, capturing hers and tasting, tasting, tasting, her and him and them together and he was howling as she slid back down again, raking her nails down his chest as she went. So good. Sucking again. Suck. Suck. Good. Don't stop. Coming. Coming now. So good it hurt. Still sucking, tongue cleaning him like she would a cub. A cub!
He roared, and the claws sprang free, and the puny steel was gone. Hard, again, and she smelt good, but not good enough. He would make her smell better. Warm in his arms, right. This den smelt wrong, but he would fill it with their scent and it would be theirs. Nowhere! Nowhere soft and warm to rut, but she was warm inside and now, he needed to be inside her now.
“Wolverine!” She wanted, too. She needed. There! Hard and cold, but flat, and she scrambled backwards and was holding out her arms to him, begging. First time. Soft. Their first time. Wolverine and Rogue.
He crawled over her, and took scent in all the woman places. Her ear, and her throat. Deliciousness under her arm. Waist. Belly button. So soft, her groin. And here. Here was best. The smell, the smell, the smell.
Want boiled his blood, and need ate him whole. Inside. Feel, taste, touch her inside. Fill her with his seed, his cub. Again. Harder. Again. More. She was clutching him, claiming him, pulling him in, and he was gone. Blackness. Nothingness. Hers.
The Wolverine collapsed on top of his mate, rolling them together on their sides, and tucking her head into his shoulder. Oblivion claimed them.
*
Starbucks, Jean thought sourly. The things she did for anonymity. She collected her mocha latte from the counter, and perched on a stool at the window, staring back into the room. Inputted the long string of digits into her phone, then listened as it rang. How long did it take a call take to bounce around the globe? She had barely thought the question when a cheery receptionist answered.
“White & Partners. How may I direct your call?”
“Miss White, please.”
The line clicked and Jean knew she was being recorded. Panic rose, but she pushed it away. They were both good at this. Trust the system.
“Jane White speaking.”
“Hello Jane, it's Rhiannon.” Skip over the vowels, and roll through the consonants, she reminded herself. She needed to point them far, far away, and deep in the government files was a mention of an Irish girl who had run with the Brotherhood for a while. She had died, Jean knew, but perhaps the listeners wouldn't. It hurt, being reminded they weren't free.
“Rhiannon, love. Great to hear from you. How's the mountain climbing business?” Jean blanked for a moment. Dear Mystique. Always had to throw it out there, take it one step further.
Mountains. Rhiannon was from Wicklow, she remembered. A tiny town, the highest in Ireland, they said.
“Ah sure, and it's foine. I took a group up old Lug yesterday, and we had the most brilliant time, even though it was a nice, saft day.” Take that and run with it, Miss White.
The chuckle on the end of the phone was real, she could tell, full of wicked glee she remembered so well. Nostalgia would get them no where, and she would do well to remember it, Jean told herself.
“Good. Great to hear its all working out. There's nothing like a good business plan, is there?”
“Yes, everything's working out really well. I've had a few new clients I'm a bit worried about though. Thought I should seek a legal opinion on what to do if things turn nasty.”
“I have a gentleman who has climbed with us before, several times, and was always satisfied with the service. But now, he seems to be having a personality clash with one of my younger climbers, and neither of them are enjoying the trips.”
“Have either demanded their money back?” Rhiannon's erstwhile lawyer was on the case. You had to hand it to Mystique, Jean grudgingly allowed – she knew how to set up a good cover.
“No, but it's making the trips unpleasant for everyone. And I don't think the peace will last much longer. And …” she stopped, not wanting to admit her suspicions to Mystique, because that would mean admitting them to herself.
But they needed to know. They all needed to know.
“I'm not sure everything's as it seems. I wonder if they know each other outside of our climbing trips, and what we are seeing isn't the whole story.”
Miss White clucked sympathetically, with absolutely no surprise. Jean's heart sank.
“Mmmm. Wouldn't be the first couple to drag their personal issues into another setting. Some people just can't leave the past behind.”
“But why would they pretend they don't know each other?” Jean blurted out, then froze when she realised she had abandoned her script. Any sign of weakness, and Mystique would swoop like vulture to carrion.
“I simply can't say, dear. Their business is their own – you need to stay focused on your job. It's only a problem for you if they are upsetting the other customers, really.”
Keep your nose out of their business, Jean translated.
“Perhaps you're right,” she gritted out. “I'll keep you posted,” Jean said, and then pushed the red button, wishing it was that easy to wipe Mystique out of her life.
*
Warmth. Satisfaction. His woman. Reality filtered back gently, but he fought it at first, curling himself around her more tightly, and ignoring the chill of cooling sweat on his skin. Fucking uncomfortable bed, he realised, as sleep left left him. Desk, in fact, Logan noted with surprise as he lifted himself on one elbow to take in his surroundings.
A chair upended on the floor, half a handcuff hanging off it. Files and random stationary scattered halfway across the room, a pair of jeans neatly carved open. A t-shirt, mostly whole, and half a bra. Everywhere he looked, the marks of his claws.
He stilled, terrified. Wolverine.
Logan closed his eyes, then opened them slowly as he eased himself away from her. He needed to see. The mass of her hair hid the elegant lines of her spine, but it fell away to frame the rounded swell her ass, like a curtain parting on the truth. Some bastard had gripped her hard, there, a black imprint of a thumb that had gouged deep into that sweet flesh (holding her still, he remembered, as he reared over her, plunging, as she convulsed in a wordless scream). A tracery of bloodspots decorated her back, and dread paralysed him until he forced the memory from Wolverine(“claws, your claws” she had begged, but this was no time for that nasty human metal so he had dug his fingernails into her back and dragged them down, and even her blood on his tongue seemed to shout how much she wanted this, wanted him.)
The Wolverine had been careful with her, or at least, as careful as she wanted him to be, Logan conceded. But just like a wolf had to howl at the moon, and the wolverine had to fight back … there were some things instinct always demanded. He held his breath as he lifted her hair away from the nape of her neck, and his heart sank like a stone.
A mess of blood, and bruising, and teethmarks. One one side, the ridge of muscle between neck and shoulder seemed to be lacking some flesh, the ragged wound oozing blood even now. It would scar, he realised. She would bear that mark for the rest of her life. He fought the rush of satisfaction, hated it, but he felt the triumph and ownership and pride swell and fester until it threatened to explode from his throat in a roar.
“Rogue,” he whispered, instead. Lowered his lips to her neck, and licked gently around the abused flesh. “Mine. Whoever you are. Whoever you become. Always mine.”
She lifted her head, then, warm chocolate eyes catching his. A smile, glowing with Marie's warmth and openness, but sure and knowing. Adult. She stretched luxuriously, and her long, throaty groan made him instantly hard.
“Morning, sugar. Or is it afternoon?” She sat up, scooting backwards into the warmth of his body, and tipping her head up to feather her lips along his jawbone. He saw the minute she slipped out of that sleepy reverie, wincing as the movement pulled at the raw flesh.
“What the …?” He grabbed her hand clear as she went to touch it, and groped desperately for something to say. How to explain him, and them, and this barbarous thing he had inflicted on her. Shame welled up, and he willed himself to say something – anything – before he turned and fled from the room. Somewhere inside, the Wolverine was jeering. Coward, he said. She is worth a million of you.
He was right, of course. He owed her this.
“I lost it. He … I … marked you.”
She glanced up at him, uncomprehending, and giggled. “S'ok, sugar. I can wear a scarf – could be fun.”
He snapped back, not able to wait for the horror, the shock that was sure to come.
“It's not a fuckin' love bite, kid. You're gonna need a dressing, not a scarf.”
Her hand drifted up to the wound, and she probed the jagged edges of the bite. He stilled, wondering how his heart could continue to beat. Somewhere inside, the Wolverine was quiet, waiting. He felt a strange compassion for the beast, so expectant and hopeful. Poor bastard.
He felt her shoulder hitch, and the breath move out of her chest in a long, sad sigh. She nestled her body into his even more deeply for a moment, then pulled away, sliding off the desk and turning to face him.
“I could do that. I could put Neosporin on it, and cover it up, and pretend I got bit by a big old dog. Or, I could say 'fuck that' and leave it uncovered, and let everyone see the marks of your teeth, on my skin. Show 'em that maybe someone out there wants to touch me, goes crazy for touchin' me.”
He began to breathe again.
She moved closer, then, her lips whispering over his in a kiss that felt like a benediction. She breathed him in, and something in him released. Only her. Only this woman could understand his wildness and desperation. One day, she might even be able to forgive it.
“I feel like wearing a fucking bikini, Logan. Let them see every bruise, every scratch. Show 'em that I belong to you. But we've got ourselves in a hole here, and we can't just up and do that. Too many questions and they ain't gonna like the answers. So we hide it, for just a little while.”
A slow, wicked smile spread across her face, and she laughed with delight. Swooped to pick up her ruined jeans, and tugged a long swathe of dark, sinful red from the belt loops.
“How do you like wine red silk, Logan? I've been using it as a belt, but from now on, it's my favourite scarf – I'll wear it all week.” He was perplexed at the change in subject until she fluttered it down, settling it over his cock, redolent of him and her both.
She caught up both ends and wrapped them around what was becoming a fast-growing erection. “And then every night, I'll tie it around your cock. Prettiest little bow you ever saw.” He jerked as she tied it tight, a small stain appearing as he began to weep from the tip.
“And you'll see that scarf, and it'll still smell of you and taste of you, just like I do. That'll be your mark, until this can.”
She ran her hand up and down his silk-covered length twice more, to make her point – and embed it with his scent, the Wolverine added approvingly – before her hand away, leaving him aching.
He growled at her, but she just giggled, untying him with maximum contact, then taking a long moment to inhale deeply as she slid the scarf around her own neck.
“Gotta go, sugar. Combat with Scott.”
She sashayed out like a queen, long t-shirt posing as a minidress, ruined underwear and jeans in a bundle under her arm. The long length of red silk fluttered about her like a banner – it would be the first thing anyone noticed, Logan realised. He wondered what she would say if someone pointed out the stain, but realised it didn't matter. She wouldn't be washing it, regardless.
It was a good colour, he mused. Red, like wine. Red, like blood. Red, like his lover's devotion. He was pretty fucking sure it was his new favourite colour.
*
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Author's Chapter Notes:
Still earning that NC-17 rating, kids. They'll be done soon ...
Chapter End Notes:
Reviews are pink, for joy. Yellow, for contemplation. But mostly purple, for inspiration.