by Sare Liz, TeknoVamp@yahoo.com

Author Notes: In case you don't know, Florianopolis is a beautiful little city on the southern coast of Brazil

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What the hell was that?

There was some new smell introduced to the room that was fucking with the back of his mind. Did he know it from somewhere, maybe? More importantly, did he care?

Not really. His hunt for the past was over. He'd been from the arctic fucking circle down past Florianopolis and he'd found exactly shit, except for the fact that he'd apparently been around since dirt was created. Anyone who'd ever known anything about who he was, was dead or down a hole so deep he couldn't follow. So fuck that, man.

Fuck that. Back to Canada. Home.

Now why did that word bring images of a stately mansion? Shit no, that ain't home. Home is out there, somewhere. Everywhere. No where. But home certainly was not in Westchester.

Home is harsh and bracing like the wind, reminding you of who is in control. It isn't mellow and warm and fuzzy with little girls in satin and denim cuddling up to you when you watch TV, looking up at you with big brown eyes like you're the Second Coming.

Shit. No, it can't be. The scent is laced with so much else, his mind had to be playing tricks on him. There was the heavy musk of lust and something else, over the counter and fake but appealing even though it came from animals and flowers and chemicals too strange to identify. Besides. There were how many billion people in the world? Someone somewhere was bound to smell like her.

Yea, cause if she came in here, he'd kick her ass. Kick it right back to Westchester and maybe go back himself to rant at Xavier about the hows and whys of runnin' into her. And maybe he'd yell at Scooter too, just for fun.

She shouldn't ever have to be in a place like this again. She'd get hurt, and bad, and he wouldn't be there to save her soul. She should be at school, studying to make something of herself so she could go off and live her life, or join the cause, or whatever the fuck she wanted to do.

She sure as hell shouldn't be in a place like this.

And he shouldn't have to toy around with the shit that struts into the cage like he does, but at least there is a modicum of enjoyment in it. Ideally he should be able to find an equal to fight. Someone who doesn't go down in two blows. Okay, so maybe joining up would have that one perk. He'd get to beat the shit out of mutants like that Sabertooth. That was a good fight, and if her life hadn't been on the line, he might have enjoyed it a lot more.

Nah, in the perfect world he'd get to beat the crap out of people like Scott on a daily basis and the next day there they would be, all better for the next go round. That is, if Scott could fight. Sure he's got his eyes, but can the boy fight? Can Jean or Ororo for that matter? He never really got a chance to find out. And when they can't use their abilities, what do they do? They must be able to fight.

He idly wondered, while pummeling his opponent in the cage, if *she* could fight. It had been a while since he saw her. She was what… maybe 19 or 20 by now? Something like that. Practically all grown up. For all he knew, maybe she could fight now too.

The thought of Scott teaching her to fight was almost enough to make him laugh. Well, there was one more reason to go back eventually. Teach Marie to fight so she doesn't go off and do something stupid, like die on him.

Pushing that vaguely chilling thought to the absolute recesses of his mind, he took the proffered whiskey double and slammed it back, liking the slight burn before his body erased it. Handing it back his eyes happened to glance at the hand that was waiting.

She wore gloves.

That was his first truly clear thought of the night, not fogged in the haze of the fight, or the lust for blood, or the intense desire to feel release in the only two ways he could, popping the claws (socially unacceptable behavior, even in places like this) or coming between the thighs of someone petite and nameless (which would have to wait a few hours, at least).

She wore gloves.

He might have been struck by how completely out of place it was in the bar. He might have been struck by the slender, graceful fingers, the slim wrist as it turned to accept the glass. He might have been struck by the patience and power that hand exuded. He might have been, but he wasn't. His mind was just stuck on the fact that she wore gloves.

His instant reaction was anger. Anger that she could be here. Anger that he wanted her to be here. Anger that when push came to shove he missed her fierce and he damn well shouldn't. Anger that all the women he'd found himself rutting with since still hadn't quelled his dreams of her. Anger that he *had* the dreams. Anger that he was taking advantage of her memory. Anger that he knew twenty different ways to get around the skin issue. Anger that he wanted find out more. Anger that he could still see those big brown eyes staring up at him, her father-brother-hero-savior. And rage she wasn't his and she shouldn't be, and she couldn’t be, and she wouldn’t be.

It flashed through him like the flush of a fire, flaring through his body and leaving him burnt, crisp and ready to fly away on the wind, because it wasn't her. Of course it wasn't her. The rational part of his mind kicked in in enough time to tell him that.

The animal part had to check though. Couldn’t just look away, content to see that some women still wore gloves and not to know for sure who the hand belonged to.

So his eyes traveled, slowly, carefully up her wrist, past her forearm, savoring it until the moment when he would know for sure that it wasn't her. He was vaguely aware of the top that shimmered on the other side of her arm, vaguely aware of the eyeful of cleavage behind the expanse of bare upper arm even if that neckline wasn't nearly the turn on that the bare shoulder was. It was a trick of the eye that he saw a familiar metal chain lying on her skin so he paid it no mind, his eyes glued firmly to the top rim of her glove. And the shoulder led to the neck, slender and perfect and also clear of any impediment to his gaze.

Then of course, he saw her face. If the rage hadn't come on him all over again he might have stopped to realize that it was different than before, and it wasn't just the makeup that made her eyes glow, or the lipstick to give her lips that full, freshly kissed look. The roundness of her youthful face had slimmed to almost angular planes, set off by her white stripe pulled all to one side as she cocked her head.

As it was, he saw none of it, realizing it only later in the ring. The rage was full force, his previously burnt body snapping to attention. Every muscle was tight and ready to rip something to shreds, or to run faster than the wind, or as was the case this time, mate, and mate hard. Of all the things the animal in him wanted to do, the man would allow none of it, though it taxed his control. He snatched up her wrist before she could pull away, instead pinning her to the outside of the cage.

His voice came out guttural, almost a growl.

"What the fuck are you doing here?"

He waited for her response as she took her sweet time sizing up his face.

"Hey, Sugah…" she drawled out to him, her voice like cool stream flowing against the fire in his mind. She cocked her head a little further and he narrowed his eyes, the growl starting.

She was laughing at him, damn her. Did she have absolutely no idea what the score was? He wanted to smack her silly for doing something as stupid as hunting him down. He also wanted to fuck her right there, right against the cage, and the look she was giving off wasn't helping his control.

"Whatcha been up to?"

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. This was Marie. *Marie*. Shit, he had to get a hold of himself. It's one thing to dream about her, but he absolutely couldn’t condone himself fantasizing about her while she was in the same room with him. Not Marie. Not his Marie. Little, sweet, saved-her-from-Magneto Marie.

Shit.

Then of course, he realized that he was still clutching onto her wrist like a lifeline, keeping her close. He took a quick look at the rest of her and had to swallow the growl. She looked amazing. Hell, she looked like a centerfold wetdream and really the only thing missing was the strawberries and whipped cream.

All the more reason for her to run, and run far.

He let her go, releasing her so quickly one might imagine she would have stumbled, save that she didn't. She held that position exactly, as if to say that he didn't have to do anything to keep her close - she'd be there because she wanted to. And that just plain scared him.

"Get out," he could be heard to say. He managed to keep it gruff, not to sound pleading, and it seemed to him a miracle.

"I'll wait."

And that really wasn't what he needed to hear. And oh, shit. Now didn't he have a perfect view? Had her ass been that perfect when he left? Or had he been too preoccupied with Jean's legs? Well, he was a convert now - he's worship at the temple of Marie from now on. Shit, he'd write a fucking ode to her legs if only to feel them wrap around his waist.

A blow to the kidneys brought him back to the here and now, but he didn't even need to look back to know where to punch. His arm shot out, a dull clang of metal sounding in his sensitive ears directly before his opponent dropped to the concrete floor, like a sack of rocks.

She had his attention again, and fuck, she was almost straddling the damn bar stool, and with her back arched like that all he could think about was how fine she'd look straining over him like that, those gloved fingers squeezing into his biceps as she rode him harder, and harder, and harder, and…

Fuck.

He cracked his neck to relieve the tension and focused on her again. Hell, maybe it was all just a fucking dream. He'd had them before, the only difference was that at this point he didn't have her pinned half-naked against the cage while he ravished her, which was where the normal dream would have been by now.

He shook his head slowly. Maybe it was a dream, maybe it wasn't. Either way, maybe he could show a little self-control this time around. It'd be good for him, maybe even make the real-life Marie happy, not that she'd *ever* know the circumstances that had made the control necessary.

He turned around and fought. He tried to drag them out, taunting them, milking them for everything they could give, but in the end he only lasted three more till he had to look at her again, see if she was still there, still real.

And she wasn't there. One part of him was so intensely relieved that he could feel his muscles relax, something that rarely happened in the cage. The other part of him just *tore*. His eyes did a quick scan and he let out a breath of air he hadn't known he was holding when he found her, sitting at a booth, staring at him. He lingered just for a moment, long enough to absorb her smile before turning back, but with the promise to keep an eye on her, cause hell if that hadn't about killed him, finding her gone.

It was two fights later till some ugly motherfucker decided to try his hand with her. He could tell she wasn't interested, and it wasn't just because he was. She was sending off all the 'get the fuck away from me' signals, so why wasn't the jackass just goin'? The moment the ass laid a hand on her though, he finished the fight, KO'ing his opponent neatly with an elbow to the temple. And before he could even go two steps inside the cage she had knocked her would-be companion flat on his back.

And then took a drink.

And then looked at him.

If Logan hadn't been in love before, by God he was now. Was she *trying* to do this to him? Was this torture on purpose?

He snorted. It was time to do something about all of this. Here's to hoping she'll go home without a fight.

The champion cage fighter dispatched another in near record time, grabbed his gear and was out of the metal ring before a handful of heartbeats were up.

"Ready to talk?" Damn, why does she have to be playful here? Now? With him? Did she get tired of the little boys running around showcasing at school? Too bad. It's where she belonged, and better that he give her back than Scott come and rip her from him. He didn't think Jeannie'd take kindly to getting back her husband, piece at a time in the mail.

He grabbed her wrist again, ignoring for the moment how it felt between his fingers, and yanked her up from her position sitting at the booth until she was right in front of him, sandwiched between him and the table.

"I'm taking you home."

"That's a waste. I just got here." She reached back for her drink but he tore it out of her hands, flinging the glass behind him, not caring where it landed. Why couldn't she yell, or pout, or hell, anything but stand there and act like it had been only this morning she'd woken up next to him instead of the year or more it had been since even planted a chaste kiss on the top of her head.

"Whatever stunt this is, Marie, it stops right here. Right now. I'm tellin' you this for your own good, darlin'."

Fuck if she didn't shake her head and lean back slowly, bringing herself up onto the table. He still had her wrist in his hand and as it turns out, he was rubbing it gently, rhythmically as she answered.

"I've waited long enough, Logan." There was determination in her little sex kitten voice, and damn if she wasn't being truthful. He could smell it on her, along with the lust.

"I'm all grown up," she continued on leaning back on the one arm she could use, the one he had stretched out in front of her. All grown up - no shit.

Okay, so he was weak. Who really cared about self-control anyway? And maybe she *was* all grown up. Maybe exercising self-control would be stupid and unnecessary.

Maybe he didn't have to worry because perhaps she knew herself as well as she knew him. Maybe no one would get hurt. Maybe he wouldn't have to leave in the end.

He let her go to see what would happen. When she didn't take her hand away immediately he stepped forward, getting that much closer to her in all of her black stocking, leather, mini skirt wearing glory.

His heart stopped, then hit double time when she leaned in a little and pulled off a glove with her teeth. Since he was fairly sure she didn't mean to kill him, it meant she could… Shit. He'd been gone longer than he thought.

His eyes closed and the growl escaped when he felt her fingers down and across his cheek, but he snapped out of it when she spoke.

"All grown up."

What the fuck was he doing? What was he going to do, just pound into her right here, right on the table? Sure, in the dreams he might have, but it wasn't a dream and she deserved a hell of a lot more than that, and he was damn well going to give it to her.

"This ain't the place, Marie."

And before he knew what was going on, one of his fondest wishes - those legs wrapped around him - was half come true. A long, lean limb was wrapped securely around his thigh, holding him closer to her than he'd been a moment before.

"Now," she said, "And it's Rogue."

Well, she could call herself Sheena Queen of the Jungle and it wouldn't matter to him - he's always thought Marie was a pretty name and he was damned if he was going to call her anything else.

While he was chewing on that little bit, she'd sat up, running the still gloved hand lightly down his arm, up his thigh, once she could reach it. She went slow, seeming to savor it, but looking in his eyes, always looking into his eyes, like it was a spell that could break. A single fluid movement and she was closer to him, on the edge of the table. Once again she arched her back, except this time she was close - so damn close the only thing that separated them was the denim of his jeans and the imagery was just way too much.

He let go of the bare hand and reached for her with one hand slipping into her hair, the other resting heavily on her thigh.

He kissed her then and damn it was good. She was soft and sweet and she tasted just like he thought she might. There was no hesitation in her kiss and he had to wonder who she'd practiced on, but so long as it was just practice he didn't much care. Why? Because he was the one she'd searched out. He was the one that had her pinned to the table just now. And it would be so easy to just ease down the zipper. Her skirt was short, ungodly short, and he could smell how ready she was. All he would have to do is just ease down the zipper and he would be free to thrust into her, to finally achieve the penetration he's wanted for years. See how loud he could make her scream.

Wouldn't that just give everybody around them a thrill.

Shit.

They were still in the bar. He'd actually forgotten about that minor detail. Logan really didn't *want* to be in the bar when he made her come seven different ways from Sunday.

Pulling her up and restraining from thrusting against her just one last time, he kept her bare hand in his, tugging her along towards the door, grabbing his gear as he went.

"Let's go."

*****

…this too was written to the Vast CD I'm quickly coming to

adore…