They met as they always did, under the trees at midnight.

She arrived first, shivering slightly in the cool air as she pressed her back up against a tree to steady her shaking legs. No matter how many times they did this--no matter how many times they came--it was always the same. That fear, the nervousness--the feelings of doubt that lasted until they had been driven from her mind by other feelings, good feelings.

It wasn't long until he was there, melting out of the woods like the animal he was. He padded forwards softly on silent feet, his eyes the intent eyes of a predator as he prowled towards her, stopping only when his hips touched hers, one large hand pressing against the tree above her head and trapping her.

He was shirtless. He was always shirtless--even when they weren't meeting late in the night. The moonlight filtered over the planes of his chest--skin pulling over tight muscles with every movement. It sent a bolt of heat to the pit of her stomach, the way he always looked without a shirt on.

"Hey, Red." She hated it when he said her name, said anything that could identify her--but he needed it. Needed to know who he was taking.

And she let him, because she needed him.

He growled in pleasure when she didn't protest, and slid a hand up to tangle in her red hair, pulling her neck back and leaving it open for him. He knew what she liked--knew it so well he could make her forgive and forget anything within the space of a few heartbeats.

His mouth was hot against her neck, hot and crazy and demanding and really, really good. He knew where to kiss and where to bite, and how long she could take the teasing before she demanded his lips other places.

Not long tonight. Strong fingers grabbed his hair and yanked his head up, and she smiled as he rumbled his approval. Then her fingers tightened again, and she pulled him in to kiss her.

It was long and fierce--like they always were. A battle which neither had any intention of losing--but someone always did. It was him tonight, as she wrapped one hand around his neck and slid the other down to grasp at the heavy heat between his legs, fingers stroking it to life as she laughed at his groans.

His hands slid down her body, the buttons of her shirt nothing more than a passing hindrance as he pulled it forcibly open, pulling back enough to admire the nearly perfect breasts that the moonlight just barely highlighted.

She just laughed again, her hand squeezing tighter, and he growled deep in his chest as instincts rose and fought to take over. His hands tightened on her hips, dragging her up the tree, pressing his body into her to hold her suspended above the ground.

He almost purred as he felt her legs wrap around his hips, her body moving languidly against him as he raised callused hands to cup and caress the flesh of her breasts.

She had a skirt on--she always had a skirt on--and he was glad as it rode up her legs revealing pale thighs and no underwear. She never wore underwear with him--just that skirt and the shirt, and they never even bothered to fully take either off.

Her fingers clawed into his bare chest as she slid them down, finding the button on his jeans and tugging at it. There was no question in her mind what she wanted--they didn't come out here for slow romantic lovemaking or extended sessions of foreplay. She wanted him, in her, now.

He smiled as he caught the look in her eyes, and one arm came up to brace her as he slid his own hand down to the zipper on his tight jeans, his large fingers brushing against her small, delicate ones as they fought with the clasp.

They were good at it thought. They were practiced, and the clasp came undone and it was only a few moments until he was sliding into her--deep into her and snarling as her head flew back so fast it hit the tree with a hollow thud.

"Oh god, oh god, oh god . . ." Slim fingers curled into his shoulders as he braced himself, thrusting his hips up and into her over and over again, the feeling of being part of this woman--this vixen--something that caught at him every time.

She made noises--lots of them. Her head tossed back and forth as her eyes closed, and the red hair that was her trademark fell over her shoulders and brushed against him as he leaned in, his hips going harder and faster as they both started to pant.

It was always like this--the insane building flying up at them so fast that they could hardly control it. Her legs tightened around him and she thrust her hips back towards his, her fingers spasming on his shoulders.

And then he was growling, one arm around her and the other braced above her head, and he listened to her cry out as she thrashed against him helplessly. She was so beautiful like this, screaming his name--and she did, at the top of her lungs, letting the whole forest know who was making her feel like this.

"Logan!"

"Jean," he whispered against her face as his hips snapped forward again, and the pleasure came rushing out of nowhere as he spent himself in her, breathing raggedly against her neck.

Scott Summers was crying.

Few people saw him cry. His wife had, and the Professor and Ororo Munroe . .. but as far as everyone else knew, he couldn't cry. Or wouldn't.

But the tears wouldn't stop as he stared down at his wife, her red hair spilling across the pillow as she moaned and twisted slightly in her sleep, the smile on her face the only indication that she wasn't in the middle of some kind of nightmare.

Well . . . the only indication to the outside world. Scott knew better--far better--far better than he wanted to know.

Jean and Scott had been together for years. His wife's telepathy had at first just given her the ability to see into his mind, but after so many years of exposure, it had grown into a comfortable bond. They could speak back and forth with ease, carry on conversations even when they were far apart--

And when his wife, who was a moderately strong projector--had a bad dream, it often woke him in the night. He had always appreciated that--even if he lacked sleep sometimes, it made it certain that he could wake her up . . . and anything to save her pain was worth it. She suffered enough without the nightmares.

It wasn't a nightmare that woke him up tonight.

He tried to stem the flow of tears--the dream was almost over and she'd wake up soon. And if he had anything to say about it--she'd never know what he had just witnessed.

She'd been faithful to him. He knew that. You can't share someone's mind and keep secrets from them--and though her little crush on Logan had annoyed him--the knowledge that she would never do something had kept him from getting to upset about it. After all--he shared her thoughts, and he trusted her.

She'd been faithful in body. That was enough.

Logan had come back a few days ago. Scott had been apprehensive at first--but it became clear within a few moments that the angry man had neither eyes nor thought for anyone but Rogue, which was most fortunate since the girl was already half in love with him. The two had closeted themselves away that first night to figure things out--and hadn't been seen since.

He'd thought it all settled. Jean had seemed happy to let the two of them find joy together as they would . . .

And then he'd woken up tonight sharing her dream--a dream that most certainly wasn't particuarly faithful. In mind or body.

It was just a dream. Just a dream. Scott told himself that as he clenched his eyes shut, dragging a deep breath in.

It was just a dream. She could dream about whatever she wanted--and he had no right to be offended. It wasn't as if she did it on purpose, to hurt him.

But he couldn't quite banish the image of his wife, pinned up against a tree and screaming Logan's name.

He felt betrayed. He felt used. He felt unwanted. It was stupid--and he knew it--but he couldn't help it as his mind kept flashing back to the dream, the sight of that . . . that bastard curled around his wife.

Jean moaned slightly, stirring in her sleep before cracking one eyelid and staring up at him.

Her cheeks flushed a little as she looked at him, her eyes guilty. "Scott?"

One thing he'd learned being married to a telepath was how to lock down emotions he didn't want read--and he did it. Fast. "Sorry, honey. Did I wake you?"

"No." Her flush deepened. "I just wasn't sleeping very well."

"Me either." Every ounce of concentration went into that shield. He wouldn't let her know that he'd seen.

Pale fingers lifted to run down his cheeks. "Were you crying, Scott?"

Scott caught the hand in his and pressed a gentle kiss to it. "Yeah, baby."

Her eyes were full of guilt. So much guilt--so much pain. "Why?"

He could have hurt her. He could have told her the truth and made her feel horrible. He could have let her suffer with him.

Scott Summers was not that kind of man.

The image of his wife with her legs and arms wrapped around Logan drifted up from memory, and he scowled. "I was having a bad dream."

It was all he'd ever tell her.