By Victoria P.
Series: Achin' To Be
Rating: R -- sexual situations
Summary: Logan teaches Marie to play pool, among other things...
Notes: Thanks to Dot, Jen, Meg and Pete, for putting up with the insane amount of email this generated. Also, I have to mention that, in addition to being a pool term, the title came from the song "Bad Luck" by Social Distortion -- it just seemed so fitting.
It was a beautiful day. The school day was over and everyone was outside soaking up the sun. Everyone except Rogue.
She was hiding. She was tired of all the looks she'd been getting -- the sympathetic looks from Jean and Jubilee, the knowing looks from Ororo and Scott, and the pained looks on Kitty's and Bobby's faces. She was increasingly irritated by the tentative offers to talk, and the offers of a shoulder to cry on, and she didn't want to take out her annoyance on anyone else.
So she was in the game room, by the pool table. Since it didn't see as much action as the foosball table, it had been moved into the darker corner of the room.
She felt like she should be good at pool -- Logan's memories told her he was, but she couldn't seem to find the groove, to translate the memories into action. She racked the balls and chalked her cue and tried to sink a ball -- any ball -- on the break.
She growled at the pathetic shot, which startled her into laughing. Just having Logan back was enough to bring the traits she'd absorbed from him to the forefront of her personality. Last night, she had desperately craved a beer, even though she normally hated the taste of it, and in the gym that morning she'd practically pulverized the heavy bag -- a workout that did not go unnoticed by Scott -- trying to work off some of her anxiety.
And here she was now, playing pool, an unlit cigarette from her secret stash dangling from the corner of her mouth. She'd tried cigars and nearly choked to death; she didn't even like smoking, but the smell of tobacco and the feel of the cigarette in her mouth was usually enough to calm her down when she felt like this. She kept a pack on hand for whenever she got the urge.
In a fit of rebellion she had cuffed her jeans above her ankles that morning, and she wore her new slides without socks. What were the odds of someone touching her feet or her ankles? It was hot and everyone else got to wear shorts and tank tops while she was stuck with gloves and long sleeves and jeans.
She kept lining up shots and missing them. She was ready to break the cue stick over her knee when Logan said, "That ain't the way you do it, Marie."
Rogue hadn't heard him come in. She turned and growled at him. He laughed. "It sounds much nicer when you do it."
She blushed. "I don't think so."
"Look," he said, taking another stick off the rack, "this is what you need to do." He aimed and shot -- two-ball in the corner pocket. "You're stripes," he told her, sinking one solid-colored ball after another.
"It's fittin', I suppose," she drawled, brushing back one of the white locks that framed her face. He smiled, which made her smile.
He finally missed and it was her turn. She bent over the table, concentrating on her shot. He stood behind her, admiring the view. She's got a great ass, he thought as she jerked the stick back and then sent the cue ball flying off the table. He snorted in disbelief as he retrieved it.
"Were you even watchin' what I was doin'?" he asked. "And get that cigarette out of your mouth, Marie. You look trashy with it hangin' there like that."
She giggled. "I look like you." But she got rid of it.
"Hmph." Not hardly, he thought, noticing her bare ankles. He could tell he was really far gone, because who notices ankles? But Marie was always covered up, swathed in fabric from head to toe. Any skin she showed -- her neck above the red silk scarf she wore, for instance, or her ankles, like today -- had an unexpected erotic charge.
And she had mighty fine legs, too, he noticed. "Aren't those jeans a little tight?" he asked, thinking, 'Cause mine certainly feel tighter than they did twenty minutes ago.
She didn't dare let herself think he was checking her out. He was probably just being fatherly. She rolled her eyes at him and gestured at the table. "Are you gonna give me fashion tips or are you gonna help me?"
He glowered at her, a look that struck fear into numerous opponents during his cage fighting days, but she just laughed. "Rack 'em," he said. He wasn't even going to give himself time to think about what he was going to do, because if he thought about it, he'd have to admit it probably wasn't the smartest thing ever, that it might even be a mistake.
She removed the rack and looked at him expectantly. "C'mere," he said. She walked over and he handed her the stick. She took it and positioned herself as she had before.
And then she inhaled sharply as his warm body pressed against her from behind, and his arms came around her. He placed one hand over hers at the wider end of the stick and the other gently manipulated her fingers around the tip.
"Like this, Marie," he said, and his mouth was dangerously close to her ear. Not fatherly, after all. She sucked in another large gulp of air and tried to calm her racing heart. She knew it was futile. How could anyone be calm in his arms?
He could hear her heart beat and he knew she wanted him -- it was in her scent. She smelled of ginger, and lust tinged with fear. The amazing thing, he thought, is that it's not me she's afraid of. She's scared of what might happen to me if I touch her skin. And god knows, I'm crazy enough to do it.
"You have to be loose," he continued after a few tension-filled seconds, "but firm. You want control of the stick, but you don't want to hold on tight. You've gotta let it slide -- smooth and easy -- through your fingers." He demonstrated, gently sliding the pool cue back and forth. His own breathing was a little ragged now. Dammit, he told himself, you're old enough to be her father. And she has a boyfriend -- a kid her own age who really likes her and probably makes her feel wanted and normal. This can't be good.
Rogue could barely focus on what he was saying. Blood was pounding in her ears and the deliciously tense feeling of desire was radiating through her body. She licked her lips. "Like this?" she asked, in a voice so husky she barely recognized it as her own, as she moved the stick the way he had. He grunted. She took that as a yes.
He was trying not to look at her lips, trying to ignore the heat of her body beneath his. This is crazy, he thought, inhaling her scent, imprinting it on his memory. He'd know her anytime, anywhere -- he'd be able to recognize the woman he loved, even if they stripped his mind again. He closed his eyes and sought to control the feelings surging through his body.
She shifted slightly, bringing herself flush against him. "Marie," he growled warningly.
She gave him another of those devastating smiles that never failed to rock his world and said, her voice trembling slightly, "Logan?"
Growling low in his throat, his hands moved to her hips. Pulling her body against his, he buried his face in her neck, protected by her hair and the red silk scarf she wore casually slung around it.
He pressed his lips to her throat, moistening the silk with his breath and his tongue. She gasped and again said, "Logan," but this time it wasn't a question. She dropped the pool cue, which clattered to the floor, unnoticed, and turned slowly to face him. His hands slid around to the small of her back and she put her arms around him as he continued to nuzzle at the sensitive spot on her neck. He could smell the metal of his dogtags, warmed by skin he'd never be able to touch.
I'm going to die if he stops, she thought, moving her gloved hands through his hair.
He lifted her, sliding her body against his, and set her on the edge of the table, standing between her knees. "Marie," he whispered, and there was a question in his hazel eyes. She held his gaze for what seemed like an eternity, hoping all her desire, all her love, was visible to him.
"Please," she responded finally, helplessly, praying he wouldn't come to his senses and stop.
He groaned and ran a hand up her leg, starting just above her exposed ankle. "So beautiful," he murmured as his lips found the hollow of her throat where her pulse beat wildly through the silk. She was his, he knew, and nothing -- not the huge age gap, not the boyfriend, not even her damn untouchable skin -- was going to keep them from being together for as long as he had breath in his body.
She ran her hands over his shoulders and back and gasped when his hands moved up and over her breasts, teasing first one nipple and then the other. Then his mouth followed and through her bra and t-shirt she could feel the warmth of his tongue and the sharp ache in her belly as he pulled the sensitive bud into his mouth. She made little moaning sounds in the back of her throat, which only aroused him more. He loved that he could do this to her.
Her legs moved, seemingly of their own volition, to wrap around him and bring him even closer, so their bodies were touching. She could feel his erection through the layers of denim that separated them and she wished there didn't have to be material between them at all times. Her hands had somehow made their way inside his shirt to caress his skin, which felt warm even through her gloves. She was thrilled by his response. He moved his mouth to her other breast.
He growled softly and, close as they were, she could feel it rumble through him. It excited her even more. She began rocking her hips against him in a rhythm he immediately matched, his hands sliding down to settle on her curves, gently controlling their joined motion.
He lifted his head from her breast and saw her eyes glazed with passion. He leaned in and pressed his lips softly to her open mouth. She gasped again, and enjoyed the new sensation for a second.
Then the inevitable rushing feeling began. She could suddenly sense everything -- the scent of her need mingled with his, the smell of the chalk, the sounds they were both making -- and she'd never felt more alive, more exhilarated. And then she was frightened and angry as she realized what was happening and she pulled away.
"No," she cried, pushing him away forcefully and sliding down off the table. He staggered back, disoriented, weakened by even that slight contact. Horror had replaced desire on her face and she said, louder this time, "No!" She ran from the room, hand over her mouth, stumbling in her new shoes.
"Marie," he called after her. She didn't turn around. He was torn between going after her and wrecking the game room. "Think, Logan," he mumbled to himself, struggling for control. Of course, if he'd been thinking clearly in the first place, he'd never have done what he did. But thinking had never been his strong suit. Act, react, ask questions later. He'd lived that way for the past seventeen years and it had been good enough. Three days with Marie wasn't going to change him that quickly.
He picked up the abandoned pool cue and ruthlessly ran the table -- solids, stripes, they all fell easily into the chosen pockets. He was left with the eight ball -- an easy shot -- right side center pocket. It went in, followed by the cue ball.
He leaned on the table, roaring in frustration, and his claws extended instinctively. He shredded the felt and cut deep gouges into the table without even thinking about it, and his lack of control made him even angrier. He broke the pool cue in half, then in quarters. He flung the pieces on the floor and stalked from the room. He needed to talk to her, but first he needed to calm down. He was angry with himself for pushing her, for losing control, and, most of all, for being selfish.
Lighting a cigar, he made his way out to the garage, got on his bike and sped away.
End