I'm dizzy with the effort of keeping my breathing slow and quiet. The blood rushing in my ears makes it difficult to hear what's happening below. Another giggle. The soft rasp of fabric against sweaty, heated skin. The sound of heavy boots on dry, dirty pavement. I can see them now. The Wolverine's pulled the girl under the second floor fire escape on the far side of the alley. She keeps trying to move deeper into the shadows but he only laughs and pulls her back into the single shaft of moonlight that touches the bottom of the alley.
My breath catches. They both look otherworldly in the moonlight. Her features are hidden, but her pale skin has a fey, luminous quality - well, what little I can see of it from behind the Wolverine's broad back, anyway. And, God, the Wolverine... He looks like some kind of beautifully terrifying demon breathed to life. His shirts are already off and his heavy ropes of muscles are easily discernable. The moonlight has thrown them into vivid relief and I half expect him to sprout wings and take to the air like some dark creature returning to the night.
Power seems to radiate from him. I can feel it from here and I shiver, thinking what it must be like for her. Close enough to smell him. To feel his body heat. To taste his mouth. To lick the salt from his skin. He's used his bulk to back her against the bricks and pin her there. His head is bent to her throat, licking and sucking as his large hands work to get up under her clothes.
She's wheedling; wanting to give in to him, but wanting him to at least give her the privacy the shadows will afford them. Good luck with that, sugar. I understand what she's feeling though. It isn't sex in a grimy alley or even submitting to a man like the Wolverine that has the power to make us feel dirty, it's the man himself. Women are such strange creatures. We're as capable of revelling in carnality as men are, we'll even act the tart and love every minute of it, but only if we know we have the respect and consideration of the man we're fucking.
Even as I'm envious of the girl below, my heart hurts for her because I know the Wolverine won't ever give her what she wants. He'll move on soon. Another bar. Another girl. Sometimes I wonder if he is even capable of sincere intimacy with a woman or if it's always a game to him. For all his intelligence, he lives very much on the surface, at least where women are concerned. He allows them to touch his body, but never his heart - and without that, I don't think respect is possible. It's not that I think he's incapable of feeling finer emotions. I suspect one or two good friends have wormed their way into his heart over the years, but I'd guess very few women ever have.
Still, I know his intensity coupled with his ability to speak so convincingly will no doubt sway her mind and weaken her resolve. She's young. And drunk. And God knows she's certainly no match for a man like him, especially not with his hands and mouth robbing her of all coherent thought.
I wince as I see her make one last attempt to slip into the shadows. "C'mon, Wolverine, please-"
My heart jumps to my throat. She's playing with fire. He's on the edge and she's dangerously close to pushing him over. This time when he speaks there is no amusement in his voice. "Stay in the fuckin' light, baby. Stay where I can see ya."
Typical Wolverine. He likes to watch. He's not alone in that. I can't see his face from here, but I can tell by his voice that his eyes are spitting hazel fire at her. Before she can say anything he's leaning into her, grinding her into the bricks with his heavy body and devouring her neck with teeth and tongue. God, watching him is such a guilty pleasure, but I can't resist any more than the girl in the alley below.
He's in control of us both.
I exhale a shaky breath as I watch him mark her with his teeth and yet I can't help but feel my anticipation grow as his words register. If they stay in the light... Well, he'll be able to see her and I'll be able to see him. For an instant, I have the desire to raise my arms like a pagan and thank the moon for the shaft of light illuminating this moment of base intimacy.
My fanciful urge is forgotten when a grunt from below recaptures my attention. He's getting rougher with her as his excitement mounts. She pushes at him at first, a token protest only, but soon her hands have slipped around to the small of his back. They're fluttering and pulling at him, sliding into the back of his pants to grab warm handfuls of that incredible body. I envy her even more as he starts playing with her, teasing and rubbing. When he's got her panting for him and making little keening noises in her throat, he pulls back so he can see what he's brought her to.
I can tell he's pleased. A masculine noise of approval rumbles deep in his throat and for a long moment he simply stands there, head cocked, watching her. My breath catches as his weight shifts and his body moves just enough so I that can see her. No wonder he's pleased. God, she looks like a rabbit run to ground, chest heaving, eyes wide, looking like she might bolt at any second, but I know she won't. He knows she won't. In that moment, I feel a connection with her, a sisterhood born of the knowledge that we are both woman held captive by this one man, by his sheer physicality. By the raw power he wears like a second skin.
I gain a bit of much-needed mental distance as he shifts again, blocking my view, but my mouth goes dry as he reaches between them and opens that damned buckle. He grabs her and presses her crudely against the thick bulge at the front of his jeans, rumbling in amusement when she whimpers. I know what's coming next. He might be reckless enough to go for a quick fuck in some dark alley, but he's not stupid enough to get caught with his pants pushed down around his knees. Even now, in full rut, he is still vigilant and I wonder if there's ever a time he feels truly safe or if he's on guard every moment of every day. He's older than most of the others by a good decade and now I know why.
No wonder he's such a hard man. How tiring that must be. Physically. Mentally. Emotionally. I almost feel sorry for him until a voice from below reminds me he likes the life he's chosen, that he enjoys wielding that power over us lesser mortals.
"Show me, baby... Ah, fuck, that's nice. Now, touch 'em." I still can't see her, but I don't really care. It's not the girl who interests me. "Harder. Do it like I would."
It makes me want to pinch my own nipples sharply like he's ordering her to do. He's growling the commands low and deep, but not threateningly. The Wolverine doesn't have to threaten to get what he wants. Actually, he's surprisingly soft spoken for such a hard man. He doesn't raise his voice. He doesn't need to. It's the casual way he uses violence that's so shocking... and to be perfectly honest, it's that contrast that makes him so compelling.
"Oh!" She must have complied. I'm envious.
I can tell she wants to hide, to press deeper into the shadows or to press herself against his wide chest so she doesn't feel so exposed, but she knows better than to defy a direct order. He makes her wait for the next one, drawing out both his pleasure and her discomfort. "Panties off. Now." There's a gasp from her but he only chuckles as he casually flicks at the hem of her short skirt.
"Jesus, baby. I'll buy you more later. Just hurry the fuck up." A scrap of white flutters to the ground and there's a squeal from her as he slides one large hand up under her skirt and pinches her butt hard. "I can fuckin' smell ya from here, honey." He moves them deeper into the shadows and now I can't see anything but the moonlight gleaming off his wide shoulders... although I can tell from the way his arm is moving and the way her breath keeps hitching that he's touching her.
"Christ, what is it about gettin' fucked out here that makes ya so goddamn wet?" His words slip into a low, dirty laugh. "Least y'won't have any trouble takin' me tonight." He steps back from her enough so that I can see them once again. His hands have moved. He's touching her mouth now. Oh, God. His fingers are wet.
I know what's coming next and I avert my eyes. I wish I was more adventurous, but I'm not. I know it's stupid and cowardly, but I've never been gutsy enough to stay for the sex, just the foreplay, just until I see one of them go for his zipper. That's my golden moment, when I know he's so focused on his pleasure that I can slip away unnoticed. Like always.
Tonight he's impatient - it's him that reaches for his zipper, not her. For a handful of heartbeats, I'm tempted to stay. There's something wild rising in my blood tonight. Maybe it's the moon. Maybe it's the Wolverine. Or worse, maybe it's something wild from inside of me. In the still night air, I can easily hear the metal teeth of his zipper releasing, followed by a hiss of pleasure from him. Both she and I move at the same time. I start to rise to my feet even as she starts to sink to her knees. The Wolverine's rough voice freezes us both.
"No." He somehow manages to bark the order while keeping his voice low and husky. "Don't fuckin' move." I get the distinct impression he's not speaking to her. A wave of heat makes my face flush. Sweat prickles under my arms and at the small of my back.
Oh God. Oh. My. God!
My heart's beating so fast that the world spins dangerously. I sink back to a sitting position, shaking hands pressed to my chest as if the added pressure will somehow slow the frantic pace of my heart.
This is stupid. Stupid! Of course he's not talking to me. He's not. I'm a nobody. A shadow. Oh, how I hate that spark of 'what if' that's refusing to be put out by logic. I try to get a handle on my rioting emotions but his next words make that all but impossible. "Just watch." He's turned his body just enough that I can see what he's doing to himself. "I wantcha t'watch me."
I've eyed the impressive bulge in his jeans more times than I care to count, but this is the first time I've ever seen what's really below that buckle and I'm thankful I'm sitting down. My legs feel like jello and I think I've stopped breathing. God, he's beautiful - beautiful and so unapologetically male.
A thought flashes through my mind like sunlight off a silver fish. He's big. Even bigger than I thought and so impossibly thick. Come on, like you haven't ever wondered? I swallow a giggle at that errant thought, but the moment quickly ceases to be funny as his big hands heft the heavy flesh between his legs, stroking and pulling, showing us how ready he is. He's wet too. Like her. Like me. It's like watching an animal prove his virility before he claims the female he's chosen. There isn't even a hint of embarrassment in the practiced motion of his hands.
The urge to get on my back and spread my legs for him is almost overwhelming, but it's as if his words have turned me to stone. I couldn't look away if I tried. From somewhere outside myself, I notice that I've wrapped my hands around the iron bars of the fire escape, no doubt to keep from touching myself. A start of defiance blooms hotly within my breast. He might have demanded my presence, but I'm not without a will of my own. I won't break.
Not tonight, anyway.
There will be other nights, but I don't want to think about that now. I shut out that little voice whispering to me what it would be like to be the girl down there in the alley with him. And the voice that sounds like my mother, telling me what a wicked, immoral girl I am for watching – for wanting to watch – what's happening below. For liking it. The thought of confessing this particular sin terrifies me, but not enough to make me leave. Not even enough to make me close my eyes.
My mother's right. I am a wicked, wicked girl.
But then again, it's my personal belief that we are all wicked little girls underneath what we show to the world. It just takes the right man to draw it out of us. Or in my case, the wrong man. The Wolverine's stroking is becoming rougher, his breathing more ragged as he works himself for us. We are on the cusp of something... malevolent. I feel it crackling through the night, like the charge that builds in dry air just before lightning strikes.
His eyes flash wildly at her, but I swear the sexy little smile pulling at one corner of his mouth is for me. "Like whatcha see?"
Oh, God, yes!
I bite my lip to keep from answering him.
He hasn't raised his voice, but there's a hard, dark edge to it now that sends shivers racing down my spine. "Do you?" I can hear the girl telling him how much she likes it, how she loves to suck him, to feel him fucking her hard and deep. Afraid what will happen if I don't answer, I nod mutely hoping it will be enough to appease him.
Like someone flipped a switch, I can see his demeanor change from playfully aggressive to the edge of true violence. The darkness I saw in him in the bar tonight has surfaced with a vengeance and I know what's about to happen below isn't going to be slow or gentle.
He's on her a moment later, roughly kicking her feet apart with his heavy boot and jerking her legs from the ground as if she weighed nothing at all. I can tell from her grunt that his first thrust has gone deep and I feel an answering ache inside of me. A hot spurt of jealousy stabs deeply in my chest. She is filled and I am hollow.
Jealous of a girl getting fucked against some dirty bricks in a dirtier alley. I'm suddenly glad I have no real family left to see how low I've sunk, but still, I am unable to tear my eyes from them. And unable to keep from imagining what it must be like to be her, stretched so tightly around him, pinned between his powerful body and the bricks that still carry the heat of the late afternoon sun.
She is entirely in shadow now, but I can see him, see the muscles of his back and arms strain and bunch as he buries himself again and again. He's through playing. I may not have had many lovers, but I know that rhythm. Her pleasure is secondary to his now. He's moving deep and fast, chasing after his own release. Watching his hips rise and fall between her white legs is all the more erotic because he's wearing jeans; they're open but not off. It forces my imagination to fill in the rest, and I'm nothing if not creative.
I mean come on. Let's be real here. What else will there ever be for me besides that?
The stark line of his dog tag divides up his beautiful back and I want to flick my tongue over the smooth flesh, especially the rough stubble on his throat. God, what is it about men's necks that makes a woman want to bite and suck? I want to taste him there. Scratch that. I want to taste him everywhere.
Hell, we're all sweating and it doesn't have a thing to do with the weather.
The girl is getting louder now and from between thrusts, I hear him grunt out to her that she's gonna get them busted if she doesn't shut her mouth. She complies immediately, probably afraid if she doesn't, he'll either stop or shut her mouth for her. Smart girl. It would be good for him either way, but she wants to finish. I know I would if I was her.
His smooth rhythm is starting to falter now as he gets close, becoming erratic as he fights the instinctive urge to go as deep as he can and hold himself there as he comes. I catch a flash of her hand as it leaves his neck to slip between their heaving bodies, ensuring that she will not be left behind when he takes his pleasure. A throaty, breathless cry escapes her lips moments later.
I feel the raw sound more than I hear it, and listening to her come makes me uncomfortable on a number of levels, but it's soon forgotten as the Wolverine's body rocks forward one last time and then stiffens sharply. He shudders hard with the first wet rush of pleasure, with the last deep thrust into her body. Oh God, he's coming. I'm watching the Wolverine come. My body throbs futilely in response as his eyes flutter shut and his jaw tightens.
It's so... primal.
With each pulse of his seed, the muscles in his back clench, pushing him deeper. Clench. Release. Clench. Release. Clench. Release. Finally, he collapses heavily against her, breathing hard.
"Jesus, baby. S'good one."
You know, I honestly don't think he meant to say that last bit out loud. With a satisfied grunt, he drops her legs and pulls out, turning to rest his back against the warm bricks. He hasn't made any effort to cover himself. His eyes are closed and the muscles in his face have gone slack. Cock still half-hard and shining wetly in the soft light, he's the very picture of male satiation. His Adam's apple bobs once as he swallows, but it's only when the girl begins to sink to her knees that he smiles. His fingers tangle in her hair, rubbing the nape of her neck slowly. There's affection there now instead of just lust.
This time, it's the Wolverine who pulls them into the deepest shadows. I'm surprised and pleased by the gesture, by the privacy he's granted his woman. What she wants to do is incredibly intimate and I'm glad he realizes that. Glad that there are some things he won't share. Glad she's touched him enough inside that he wants to keep some things just between them. I can hear him murmur quietly to her while she cleans him with her mouth. I can't make out the words, but his tone is soft. A short while later, I hear her voice too, soft like his.
Of course, I know there's more to him than the fight circuit, drinking whiskey, and picking up girls, but it's these little glimpses of the softer side of his nature that make what I feel for him so bittersweet. He's not a vicious, mindless animal. It would be so much easier to resist him if he was. He is capable of softer emotions. I see it with the younger fighters when he looks after them. He's never gentle or tender, but there is affection in the way he takes care of them; the young ones who have really taken a bad beating.
It's the same with her. Not gentle or loving, but he does show affection in his own way. I can't help but wonder what made him that way. More than anyone I've ever known, he seems like a man who needs the softness of a woman's heart.
I suppose I shouldn't be surprised. Women wouldn't be so drawn to him if he was utterly without hope. We like the idea that we might be the one to break through his tough shell, to touch the man he is inside, the man he gives us glimpses of when he whispers soft things in the shadows or when he uses the money he's won taking punches to buy a plate of food for the starving dog out back, or when he scrounges up a makeshift pillow and blanket for one of young fighters when they've taken one too many hard punches. Those softer moments are made all the more vivid, simply because they are so few and far between and they contrast so sharply with the casual way he uses violence in his everyday life.
He is not a nice man.
But he's a good man. Even lost to whatever pain keeps him snapping at the world like a wounded animal, it's there under the rage and the hurt.
I can almost feel sorry for him.
But he's chosen this life and it clearly suits him. Maybe he feels like he deserves it. Maybe he doesn't know any better. Maybe he's afraid of the good things because once you have them, you start counting on them and they can slip away so easily. God, I know more than a little about that.
When they emerge from the shadows, the Wolverine's eyes are glittering and she's delicately wiping her mouth on the back of her hand and smiling at him. He flashes her a feral grin and tucks himself away, scratching lazily at the dark tangle of hair at his groin before doing up his jeans and rebuckling his belt.
With shaking hands, I pull a new cigarette from the pack and decide to go ahead and light it. I know he knows I'm here. He's known all along, it seems. Seeing the flame from my lighter flare briefly, followed by the faint glow of the tobacco as I inhale, isn't going to tell him something he doesn't already know. Screw him. I'm wet and frustrated and I damn well need this smoke, hiding place be damned.
Below me, the girl's grabbing up his shirts and jacket from where he'd tossed them over the top of a stack of wooden pallets. Still drunk and not quite in complete control of her balance, she knocks over the nearby trash bin as she pulls his clothes free. There's a horrible racket as the metal can crashes over on its side. Before either of them can react, there's a fierce clattering at the door of the bar as my uncle jangles the chain I've locked up with. He can't get the door open, but the Wolverine doesn't know that.
Instantly at the ready, his eyes dart from the bar's door to the exact place where I've hidden myself away. I hope to Christ the tip of my cigarette isn't shaking. I can feel his eyes burning into me, assessing the situation and wondering what I'll do.
The clattering comes again, followed by my uncle's bellow. "Fucking cats. Piss off, already!"
Below me, the girl giggled softly and then shook her 'tail' as she made a rather realistic meow. The Wolverine's defensive posture relaxed slightly and he grabbed her playfully from behind, covering her like a tom would.
"Such a sweet little pussy." He laughed at his own crude joke and then turned on a dime, becoming rough once again. His mouth was at her ear but his eyes were still on me. "That the way y'like it, darlin'? From behind, like an animal?" He licked her neck and growled low and deep, still not once looking away from where I was hidden. "That's the way I fuckin' like it."
Both of us knew his words weren't directed at her.
That time my cigarette did shake and I swear the bastard winked and then mouthed the words: Next time.
Good luck with that, cowboy.
I took a deep steadying drag and blew a stream of smoke into the air in answer. The Wolverine only chuckled indulgently as he lit up a cigar and disappeared into the shadows; the lion returning triumphant and satiated after a night of good hunting. I chose to say nothing.
After all, he has his pride.
And I have mine.
Feedback is love. :)
Author's note: Lots of interesting comments on this one. Thanks, guys! Occasionally I get the urge to write a darker, more feral Logan than I usually do. I'm sure this won't be my last look at Wolverine's grittier side. Heh.
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