They first began arriving two weeks after Logan moved in with me -- you either moved in with him, or vice versa, but you never moved in together, never actually lived as a couple.  That was just the way he was, and even without my gift of sight, I'd have known that by the cynical twist of his mouth, the dark secrets hiding beneath a wolfish smile and come-hither eyes.

The pictures, when they came, were all of women, all beautiful, all happy and smiling and full of light.  All except one girl, the girl he worried about more than any of the others, I knew.  She wasn't anything special, particularly; he'd seen women far more beautiful, spoken with women far more intelligent, slept with women who were far sexier than she could've ever imagined.  And yet something about her seemed to pull at him.

She was petite, slim and almost fragile, with shy, solemn brown eyes, and a sweet smile that was always faint enough to tug at you, to make you think about long lost loves and promises broken.  And he thought of her, more than I wanted him to, more than he wanted to himself, I think.

And if she hadn't been a little wisp of a thing and only seventeen, I'd have thought there was something more between them than a few days of harrowing adventure and heartache.  If she hadn't been seventeen, I'd have wondered about his hours-long telephone calls to her, I'd have thought her a threat whenever I caught him gazing at her picture with a look in his eye that was more than simple concern for her welfare.  If she hadn't been seventeen...

Unfortunately, the one thing I'd forgotten was that she wouldn't be seventeen forever.
 

The pictures, sent to him by a Charles Xavier, trickled down to a bare minimum of one or two every few months.  It bothered Logan, but I was delighted by the lack of them, by the fact that they no longer cluttered up the mailbox and covered the dining room table so he could stare at them for hours on end, scrutinizing the photographs for a hint of trouble, of unhappiness in the girl he called Marie.  If he ever found anything, he didn't say a word of it to me, nor did he make any effort to contact anyone at the mansion, aside from her, to find out if anything was wrong.  But she'd never have told him if she had a problem, that I could tell from the proud tilt of her head, the challenge in eyes that had once been so young, so innocent.
She wasn't young anymore, and perhaps that was the problem in and of itself.  She wasn't little Marie, waiting for him to return, in need of his protection.

She was no longer seventeen.
 

I didn't worry that while we were having sex he was thinking of someone else; he wasn't.  Sex was a biological urge to him, something to be done in order to continue living with some measure of peace.  So I knew he wasn't thinking of Marie when we fucked, I knew he wasn't thinking of anyone at all; I knew he was thinking of woman, of female, of the softness of a breast, and the quivering heat of an inner thigh.  It was all about fucking, because he'd never had anything else.

There did come a time, however, when my theory was put the test.  A large brown envelope had appeared in the mail that day, with the postmark of Westchester, New York displayed on the front, and when he opened it, when he saw the latest picture of Marie, he looked... stunned.  Devastated in the way only a man can be when he realizes the girl he'd thought would be a girl forever has grown up.

She was lovely as ever, her hair as dark (and as silver), her eyes as haunting, only this time, this time she had changed.  Her skin appeared finer and silkier than the surface of a glistening pearl, her cheekbones sharp as the edge of one of Logan's own blades; Marie was a woman, not perfect, perhaps, but flawed in ways that made her seem all the more beautiful.

He retreated into himself as he sometimes did, and it was only when I walked into the bathroom to tell him it was time for dinner that I began to question his true feelings for her.

He sat on the edge of the bathtub, staring at her picture as if in a trance and stroking himself through the fabric of his jeans.  He didn't seem aware of what he was doing, which made it all the worse, because I knew then it was his subconscious talking, revealing his deepest desire, and that desire was for her.  For Marie, who was no longer a girl.

For Marie, who had become a woman, and thus the biggest threat to my so-called 'relationship' with Logan.

It turned out that I was right in that regard, because he announced that evening that he was moving back to Westchester, leaving the very next week.  And if his own feelings for Marie had frightened him any less, he'd have been going alone.
 

It was interesting to live in a place that housed mutants, to listen to the youngsters chatter about setting things alight accidentally with a thought or a snap of the fingers.  Interesting to watch how the elder residents responded to such crisis, and to those outside of the mansion, though I had neither the experience nor the inclination to join the team.  I kept my eye on Logan, in a manner of speaking, when he went on missions, and watched him keep an eye on the girl who'd become a part of the team mere months before his return.

The X-Men, with all of their covert operations and determination to change the world, were intriguing, if a little naive, but  most interesting of all was Logan's connection to all of it: Marie.

We'd met on the first day we arrived back, and he'd seemed almost nervous to introduce us, as though we'd snap and hiss at each other like cats over marked territory.  We did neither, perhaps because he seemed to expect it, perhaps because it wasn't in either of us to behave that way in front of man.  Perhaps because my first thought -- and maybe hers too, judging by the flash in her dark eyes -- was that if I were a man, I'd certainly fuck her.

Perhaps because, even though I'm not male, I just might anyway.
 

It's difficult to understand attraction, to understand why some people, beautiful and smart as they are leave us cold, while others, who could be less in both regards, turn our insides to lava that flows and drips almost constantly in their presence.

Marie was the latter for me, and she was even more so for Logan, who desired her beyond his very breath, though he might not have realized it at the time.  The citrus fragrance of lemons in the air sent him into a frenzy of lust, because he remembered smelling that same fragrance on her skin from her soap, and I never knew if it was at the thought of her naked and in the shower, soaping herself up, or the mere fact that it had been so close to her precious skin that drove him wild.

Even knowing that she was untouchable didn't stop him from wanting her to distraction -- his hunger was so intense that it seeped from his pores like sweat did after mind-blowing sex.  To be honest with myself, the fact that her skin was absorptive and oh-so-dangerous only made the concept of being with her all the more intriguing to me.

I felt sure that on the days when Logan and I walked into the dining hall after being locked in our room for hours, trying to fuck her out of our systems, that she knew exactly what we'd done, and exactly why we'd done it.  On those days, her head would tip just a little to the side, and her smile would be just the slightest bit more knowing, more seductive.  And it was on one of those days that I made my decision, a decision that would change all of our lives irrevocably and forever.
 

"We need to talk," I told Marie, quietly.  "The three of us do."

She nodded her head, slowly, thoughtfully, her steady gaze encompassing me, Logan, the lust that hung like thick perfume in the air around us.

We headed, us three, into the room that Logan and I shared.  Marie sat on the bed, Logan leaned against the door, and I stood, completing the warped triangle that made up our everyday lives.
I didn't want to hold back, to say something meaningless to fill the silence, so I said, as calmly as I was able to, "I think we should have a threesome."

Logan's eyes shot to mine, and he straightened, glancing towards Marie worriedly.  He said, his voice tight, "What the hell are you tal-"

"Logan," Marie admonished softly, "Let her finish."

The shock of having her actually not dismiss the idea straight away closed his mouth, kept him quiet.

"One night," I continued, "to make our fantasies a reality.  One night with no responsibilities and no regrets."

Marie smiled, a sensual curving of lips that made my mouth water to think of what she could do with hers.  I couldn't even imagine what Logan, his wanting so much more extreme than mine, was thinking.

I cast my mind out to her, to try to discern her thoughts on the matter -- though I had a fair idea -- but she remained as closed to me as she always had.  I wondered if it was the Logan in her head that blocked me out – protecting her even if it meant allowing me to read his most private thoughts in exchange – or if it was her own mutation, forever battling against intrusion and unwilling to allow yet another where it could prevent it.

"I think," Marie said, tilting her head and eyeing me thoughtfully, "that that is the best plan I've heard in a long time."

Logan started.  He began to move towards her, then stopped and rubbed a hand over the leg of his jeans -- though that probably wasn't what he wanted to touch right then.  Finally, he walked over to the dresser and presented us both with his back.  Marie might not have known it, but I was sure the reason he'd done it was so that he could hide his reaction from us both, and yet still stare at her reflection in the mirror.  Obviously he hadn't thought she'd actually agree to it, and now that she had, was uncertain of what to do next.

"So, do we all give it the go-ahead?" I asked, turning to Logan for his assent.  He hesitated, glanced at Marie's image once more, then nodded shortly.

"One night this week," I began, already thinking of when would be a suitable evening, and asking myself how I could possibly bear to wait that long.

"Why not tonight?" Marie asked, and this time I was the one who was surprised.

"Well, don't you have to get ready or- or something?" I fumbled, taking a step to the left so that I could see Logan – and myself – in the mirror.  He had a small smile on his lips, as though already anticipating the pleasure of the night ahead, and my face held the look of a woman about to enter either heaven or hell, depending on the whims of one young girl.

She shook her head.  "I'm wearing a bodystocking beneath my clothes, and I have a scarf around my neck.  If you have condoms," she said, her gaze on Logan's back, "then we're all set."

Logan turned before I could respond, and the size of his erection beneath his jeans made us both gape.  He'd never, never, been that turned on for me, and while I knew it was irrational, as it was she we both wanted, really, I couldn't help but feel a little jealous at the proof of his attraction to her, because while I knew my own appeal – tall, slim with dark hair and blue eyes in a face a little too sharp to be pretty – that one detail made it clear that even if I'd been aesthetically perfect I wouldn't have been able to compete with Marie for his attention.

"I think," he remarked huskily, "that tonight is perfect."

And that settled the matter.
 

Marie lay between us, on her back.  The sheer material of her bodysuit made it incredibly easy to forget that she wore it at all, so easy that when my hand stroked the fullness of her breast, it was somewhat of a shock to feel thin nylon over her skin.  She arched into my touch, and when I traced a finger over her nipple, it hardened, elongated as though begging for something a little harder, a little rougher.

Logan had slipped her near-transparent scarf over her mouth, and pressed a chaste kiss to her closed lips.  They parted on a sigh, asking wordlessly for a deeper kiss, a more passionate embrace than simply his hand resting on her stomach.

I had to admire his technique as my hand massaged her breast, because whatever else he was, he was unbelievably good at kissing.  His mouth covered hers, his tongue traced her lower lip, waiting for an invitation to enter before he went any further.  Her hand sliding through his hair and pressing him closer seemed to be all the invitation he needed, because I could almost feel his tongue plunging into her mouth, exploring the hidden recesses, tasting all of her darkest secrets.  Making her want him more than she wanted the world to keep turning.

My fingers slowly plucked her nipple, then pinched, not quite hard enough to cause her pain, but enough to send pleasure to her every nerve-ending.  I smiled when she moaned against his mouth, and pressed my lips to the hard tip I'd been tormenting.  Peaches, I thought, opening my mouth over her and sucking, she tasted of sweet, ripe peaches.

I found myself wondering, as I pulled away from her and slid down her body, if she tasted of peaches everywhere.  If she was as wet, as sticky, as the juices of one.

And as my tongue swirled around her clit, I discovered that she was.
 

She lay on her side, facing me, and her fingers were currently buried between my legs, stroking leisurely, far too leisurely.  She was making me pay for the sensual torture I'd put her through time and time again, and much as I wanted to damn her for it, I was enjoying it too much to say a word.

Logan raised her leg and thrust into her from behind, eliciting a long moan of pleasure from her and a growl of satisfaction from him.  He twined one hand in her hair, tipped her head sideways so that he could kiss her, deeply, wetly, through the scarf.  Her hips rocked against his, and the gloved hand that had been on my breast twisted in his hair, pulling him closer to her.  Her hand faltered against my swollen folds, and I reached down impatiently and tugged on her wrist, pressed her further inside me.

Her fingers began moving again, began to plunge and twist in time with her hips and before long her frantic movements propelled the three of us, together, into an orgasm so explosive I don't know how we survived it.

Later on, it became apparent that we hadn't.  Not fully intact, at any rate.
 

"I have to leave," I told Logan.  "I just can't stay here anymore."

"Why?" he asked, and he seemed genuinely perplexed.  It had been three weeks since our night together, our magical night, and while Marie and I seemed to have resolved our feelings towards each other, Logan had not.

I don't know if he thought I didn't notice the way he still stared at her, still panted after her, still wanted her more than life itself, but I did.  And while I'd thought I could handle it -- hadn't I been for all these years? -- it no longer appeared that I could.  True, I didn't love him, and true again, I knew he didn't love me, and I had put up with his long-distance interest in Marie, but being with someone who would forever want somebody else, somebody that you knew, had to see every day...  Well, that was something else entirely.

"Because you still want her," I said, unable to keep the ache, the sting, from dripping off the words like some sort of vile poison.  "I've spent over three years watching you watch her from afar, but now you're with her, and it's too hard.  I thought after our," a pause, "time with her, you'd have, I don't know, released some of your lust for her.  But you haven't, and you never will."

"This is about Marie?"

And he sounded so utterly shocked that I wanted to hit him.

"Of course it's about Marie," I said, more bitterly than I'd intended.  "When doesn't your life revolve around her?"

"But you were fine with this, you suggested that the three of us-"

"Yes, yes I did.  And I'm glad, because otherwise I might never have seen what has been right before me all along."  My ego was bruised, and badly, because he wanted her more than he'd ever wanted me, because we'd both spent three cowardly years hiding from life, from what we really wanted, but... I couldn't bring myself to tell him that.  Instead, I said, "It's hard, Logan, having to admit that we're never going to be who we need to be for each other."

He opened his mouth, to disagree, I think, then realized that I was right, and that our being together was and always had been, more a case of habit, being comfortable, than any true desire or caring.

I picked up my suitcase, took one last look at him, the man I was leaving behind, and walked out the door.

I didn't look back, not even when Marie called after me, asking what was going on, why was I leaving?

Because the difficulty of the situation was, while I didn't share them completely, I understood his feelings for her, and I knew that in order for them to be happy, I had to be unselfish for perhaps the first time in my life and get out of the way.

So I left, and hoped they'd take the chance I had given them.
 

It was only when I had moved back into my house that I allowed myself to take a peek at what they'd been up to since I had left.

I sent myself, via my minds eye, back to the mansion, and found that while I'd been moving at a frantic pace, Logan and Marie had both been standing still.

Worse; they'd moved backwards.

No longer did they spend their evenings talking of the nothing he'd found about his past, or possible ways to turn off her skin, or the hockey game, or a joke one of them had heard and wanted to share.  Instead they spent their days, their nights, as far apart from each other as they could conceivably be, given that they both lived in the same place and were bound to come into contact at some point.

And yet they didn't.

They must have had some sort of sixth sense towards each other, because wherever Marie was, Logan knew not to be, and vice versa.  I could perhaps have understood it if their feelings had changed, if their lust had dissipated, their caring dissolved like a dream in the light of day, but from what I could tell, it hadn't.

If anything our night together had inflamed their desire for one another to new heights.  When she was near him, her hand scratched at her skin as though it itched, as though her blood boiled beneath it, and she was forced to run to her room, turn the shower on to the coldest temperature possible until she cooled down.

It was just as bad, if not worse, for him.  He could not bear to hear her name mentioned, it seemed, without becoming instantly, painfully hard, without needing to get as far away from her as he could.  It was either that, or fuck her, and I don't think he could do that without the barrier of another person between them.  When it was just the two of them, he felt too much, allowed himself to dream of too much.  Of a future with her?

I wish I could have seen into their heads, because it would have made comprehending their irrational behaviour so much easier.

But because of the distance I couldn't, and so I spent my time watching them when I could, and waiting for the day when their mutual passion would build to the extent that it would erupt, and hopefully consume them both.
 

The explosion took a year in coming, but the build up of emotions, of desires, came to a head at last one cool and dusky evening.

Marie stood by the door of the lounge, once again trying to avoid Logan, I think, only this time her radar was off by a mile.

He took one step inside the room, only one, then stiffened and stopped.  His nostrils flared as he caught her scent, and he bared his teeth in a snarl before turning to face her.

She smiled at him, or attempted to, but the tension between them was so strong, so intense that every particle of air that kept them apart seemed to burn, to crackle with heat, to draw them together.

He backed her up against the wall and leaned in close, breathing in the fragrance of her skin, her hair, careful as ever about touching her, about causing her distress.

When his hand cupped her breast and squeezed lightly, she whimpered, and the sound seemed to galvanize him to action.

He pulled away from her slightly, stared into her eyes, as hot and hungry as his own, and slid his gloved hand down into her jeans, beneath her panties.

Her hips moved jerkily, hands braced against the wall behind her, and the plastic rustle of Logan reaching into his back pocket and pulling out a condom was almost muffled by her sobs of orgiastic delight.  He removed his hand and she gasped her need for more as he sliced open the crotch of her jeans, rolled on the condom and sank into her.

His thrusts were quick, hard, a pistoning that didn't slow, didn't calm until they'd both come -- her with a breathy moan, him with a roar that echoed around the room like thunder.

It had been fast, rough, and because she hadn't been wearing a scarf -- why would there have been a need, without Logan? -- they hadn't kissed.  I think he was glad of that, glad because if they had, maybe it would have seemed like more than merely fucking.  Maybe it would have seemed a whole lot like love.

"I missed you," Marie whispered, her words nearly smothered by his chest.

"Which part of me?" he asked crudely, and I could tell by the expression on his face that he hated saying that to her.  Hated it, but must have felt it necessary -- to keep her away from him?

She didn't appear disturbed -- greatly -- by his question.  She replied, seriously, "All of you."

And when he pulled out of her and strode away, bothering only to zip himself up, she repeated to his retreating back, sadly,

"All of you."
 

If I'd hoped their relationship would repair itself from that point, I was sorely mistaken.

But now that the floodgates had opened, they saw no need to prevent themselves from sleeping together, from enjoying their attraction.

They may have hoped to sate it, but as the months wore on, I saw no sign of that happening, because I recognized what they didn't: their relationship went beyond mere desire into desperation, into a need so deep, so all-consuming it was almost an obsession.

At times, while watching them together, watching her body slowly rise and fall above his, watching his hands grip her hips and slam her down onto him, I couldn't help but become aroused.

My hand would drift towards my thighs, my legs would naturally splay open, and...  I was disgusted with myself for masturbating while watching them, disgusted that I watched them at all, but I couldn't help it.  If their relationship was almost an obsession, so was my interest in it.

I kept my figurative eye on them, until one day when they lay together in her bed, hips rocking together leisurely, as though they had all the time in the world.

Then he stilled and she glanced up at him inquiringly.  His hands, gloved as always, cupped the sides of her head as though she were infinitely precious and as he gazed down into her eyes, hers glistened with everything she had perhaps thought he'd never even feel, let alone one day say.

And my hand, this time, drifted towards my heart.  For that's what this was: a melding of hearts, of souls, rather than simply bodies.

I broke the connection the night, and looked back in on them only once, a year later, on their wedding day.  She looked radiant, as I've heard brides do, but Marie had always had something extra in her, particularly when Logan was near.  The world, when one was around them, was filled with something beautiful, something that shimmered and glimmered and shone.

Something that looked a lot like love.
 

~end~