“I’ll just—can I just use your bathroom to get ready?” Her voice shook, and Logan could smell her nervousness, cloyingly strong. She was shaking, and it couldn’t all be from the cold.
Logan dropped his keys on the nightstand and threw his jacket over the foot of the bed. “Sure, darlin’,” he said, trying to keep his own voice steady. “You go on ahead and take your time.”
She carried her bag in with her and shut the door, and Logan set about making things the way he wanted.
He turned off the overhead light and turned on the lamp, dimming it with a pillowcase thrown over the shade, since he figured that would make her more comfortable. He’d still be able to see everything thanks to his mutation.
And he did want to see everything. Wanted to see her pale skin, to watch her body sway with the music. He just . . . he wanted her to want to dance for him. He wanted her to like it and not smell scared.
But he’d settle for this.
The radio was already set on some kind of instrumental jazz, and he figured that would be nice, so he just turned it up a little. Next, the desk chair was settled against the wall opposite the room’s full-length mirror. He wanted her to dance in front of it, so he could see all of her at once. He swallowed thickly, taking a generous swig of bourbon before setting both bottles down next to his chair.
The shower came on, and his stomach started twisting into knots. He chuckled at his own nerves. Get it together, pansy. For God’s sake, she was just a professional, a stripper, just like anybody else he’d brought back to a hotel room. There was nothing different or special about this girl, he kept telling himself. Not one damn thing.
He took another swig of bourbon.
And another.
He wasn’t sure how much time passed as he slid off his shoes, then his socks, his belt and his denim shirt. He settled himself in the chair and continued to drink, pacing himself to spread out the buzz. He wished he’d bought one more bottle, but that might frighten her. He’d already been drinking most of the night, and she didn’t know he was a fucked up, half-animal mutant who couldn’t keep alcohol on his blood.
The shower went off. Logan half-listened as she dried her hair and curled it. Makeup compacts clicked open and shut.
He let his mind wander, let himself believe that she was the type of girl he’d first envisioned, that she was his girl, and it was his birthday or their anniversary or something. Yeah, their anniversary. She was getting ready for him, he thought, fixing her makeup and her hair just the way he liked. She knew he was waiting, eager to see her, and she was teasing him, taking her sweet time.
He nearly laughed at himself. No one would ever suspect the Wolverine to fantasize about such tame, sappy things.
He heard her rummaging around in her bag again, and wondered if it would be weird to ask—oh, he would never see her again anyway. He’d just ask, “Darlin’?”
She dropped something; he heard it clank against the tiles, followed by a rush of fear in her scent. “I’m—I’m sorry,” she called. “I’m hurrying.”
No, that wasn’t—she was supposed to be taking her time. She wasn’t supposed to be scared. He took another gulp of bourbon. “Don’t rush, baby. You’re fine. I just—I just wanted to ask you . . . don’t wear any perfume, okay? Or, y’know, hairspray or stuff. Just don’t worry about all of that stuff, alright?”
She stopped moving. “Oh. Okay,” she said. “If you want, sure. Um, do you—would you prefer—I have black or kind of dark green. F-for lingerie, I mean. They’re both, um, silk, with garters. Whichever you like.”
The thought of her in a garter belt and stockings made him draw a shaky breath. He took another drink. “Surprise me.”
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