Title: Never Leave
Author: Diebin
Email: diebin@hotmail.com
Fandom: X-Men (movie)
Rating: STRONG R
Series: Compass Points #10 (1-9 posted at: http://www.geocities.com/mistressdiebin/compasspoints)
Setting: 2 years post movie
Pairing: Rogue/Logan
Disclaimer: I don't own 'em!
Warning: This fic is kinda a strong R. Don't read if you get ofended by that, or if you're one of those Non-R/L shippers. Cuz ya just won't like it. :-)
Thanks to: My Padawan Secretary Deb, who gave me a read through, my big Sis Caeryn, who gave me a read through, my babydoll Shana, who gave me about 10 read throughs, and everyone who's been so good to me in feedback. :-)

A few weeks ago Kitty and Jubes and Linna and I were sitting around and talking after we'd turned the lights out. It was before Logan had come back--before I learned I'd have the chance to touch. Linna had just come back from a date--some new boy she'd hooked up with a few weeks ago--and she was trying to give us all the details.

We all knew she was doing it for my sake. When the four of us first moved in together, they never wanted to talk about their dates and their boys and their kisses--they thought it would hurt me to hear about what I couldn't have.

But by that point I'd gotten used to the fact that I'd never get kissed--and I wanted to hear about it. Maybe I'd never get to touch someone, but I'd be damned if I went to my grave not even trying to learn what it was like.

It took them a while to get used to it--of all my friends here, those three are the most protective of my feelings. They didn't think I was serious, at first--but it didn't take long for them to loosen up.

All three had tried to describe a kiss to me--a real, serious kiss. I remember kissing Cody--it wasn't much of one, but it had felt good. Jubes said when you got kissed--like really, seriously kissed--the world could spin away and you'd be floating.

That's what she'd said. Floating.

Floating doesn't even come close to what it's like to kiss Logan. I'm floating, all right. Floating through fire. Maybe my skin is turned inside out, and that's why he can touch me. I feel like my nerves are on the outside--every brush of his hands against me feels so good I could scream from it.

And he's brushing his hands all over me. Standing outside his door, trying to decide if I could come in--I'd been afraid that I'd be too nervous or embarrassed to do anything. Certainly being half dressed in front of others is something new to me. Jubes is a wonder at shopping, but even with her skills it's hard to find something that I can wear without getting myself in trouble.

She found me a sheer, sexy nightgown--but it still covered me from neck to ankles, with sleeves that ended just above my gloves. I usually even wear a scarf to bed--habits are hard to break sometimes. But wearing it to bed and wearing it in front of Logan, whose chest starts heaving as he stares down at me--so intent that I'm sure he can see right through it--

It doesn't even compare.

The scarf was loose, and it didn't take Logan long to get it off. I almost though I'd die right then--his eyes burning into mine as his fingers unwrapped it from around my neck.

Calluses. I'd noticed them that first night when he held my hand. It's a whole different thing when he's running them along my skin, brushing my collarbone and my neck and sliding them up to caress behind my ears.

That I'm being touched is enough. That it's him touching me . . .

"Logan . . ." I think that's all I've said since he swept me into his room--but I can't help moaning it again as his fingers brush down to the first few button at the top of my nightgown. He's breathing so heavily, his entire face a tight, concentrated mask as he slides the shoulder of my gown off of my shoulder.

I want to touch him--but he is so intent. One large hand catches the fingers I raise towards him with a near growl, pressing my arm back to the bed firmly as he flicks his other wrist casually.

He has half the buttons on my nightgown undone before I realize that's what he's doing.

I shiver as the eyes above me darken again. I've seen the look enough in other people, directed at other people. I know what it is. It's the way Scott looks at Jean when they've just come back from a dangerous mission, and they're both scared and hurt and amazed that they're still alive and desperate to hold someone they love . . .

His mouth falls down to my shoulder, his hands pinning mine to the bed at my side. It's hard to sit still--impossible really--but he's so much stronger than I am . . . and I really don't want it to stop.

I didn't know how hot mouths are. His lips are surprisingly soft, brushing against the upper swell of my breast before sliding open, and it's soft and hot and good . . . so good . . .

Everything gets swallowed up in heat as his mouth opens, and he pulls my nightgown farther and his mouth follows, and I'm surprised to find out how rough his tongue is. Soft and rough and hot and wet . . . god I can't think of enough ways to describe it--and I'm surprised I can still think . . .

And then I can't think, because his tongue is still moving down, and he's nibbling and suckling and from the tightening in my chest and stomach I know that something is building. Something I need to press towards--something I need like air and water . . . and his touch. His touch is more important than anything. I'd walk through fire for it now.

"Marie . . . sit up." His voice is low and husky, as addictive as the rest of him. Half in a daze I push myself up, staring down at my flushed skin where my nightgown hangs off my body. My skin is pale, nearly white. His is dark where his hand is splayed against my stomach, his fingers spread wide.

"I love you." I don't know where it comes from or how, but the words tumble over my lips as I tilt my head back, staring up at him.

He makes a strangled sound, rising to his knees and sinking his hands into my hair, sliding his lips across my own and forcing my mouth to open under his. I can feel him trembling--shaking against me as he kisses me hard and deep and breathless.

When I feel his chest trembling against mine, the hair on his body rasping against me as my nightgown lay about my hips . . . it's only then I realize that he's not in control as he seems. He's shaking and trying to hold back .. . and I'm still drowning under the weight of sensation.

I shudder to think what it would be like if the Wolverine got out. I'd fly to pieces in his arms. I'm afraid how much I want it.

Gods, he must be in my head, because he growls and his hands tighten on my head as his mouth slides off of mine. "Don't even think things like that, Marie," he hisses, his hands sliding down my body and starting to pull the gown from my hips. "Don't think it--don't say it--don't tempt me--"

My mouth falls open as his hand slides down my back and under the fabric, his fingers dancing along the skin of my hips, sliding down to lift me up as my nightgown puddles to the bed.

Logan pushes me back into the bed, sliding down on top of me. He's still wearing the baggy sweat pants, but his bare chest slides against mine, and all I can think off is how strange it is to feel something against my skin that isn't my clothing, something that feels warm and hard and a little but furry--

I can move my hands now, and I do--up and over his shoulders and down, dragging my nails across his chest because I love the way he hisses and shivers and presses his mouth against my neck.

I'm not embarrassed anymore. His ragged breathing as his hands slide over my skin restlessly proves I have power over him. Me. Marie. I have power over the Wolverine. And I want to use it--want to make him feel like I do. I just don't know how.

"You have no idea." He speaks the words against my forehead, and I can feel his gasping breath hot on my skin. "You don't, do you. You don't know what you're doing to me."

And then his hand is on mine, and he's dragging my fingers down his body and we both moan as our twined fingers brush against burning heat, and his body lurches forward into my hand--and I understand something I never did before--something I never thought I'd understand.

His mouth falls to mine again, his hands sliding back up to clutch at my head, but I don't move my hand, the wonder at the feeling of his flesh stirring against me, even through clothing, something I can't bear to let go of. And the more I touch and feel, the more passionate his kiss becomes, until I lose concentration on anything but the heat above my mouth and the heat below my fingers, and I don't want anything to ever change.

It does change though--and he only makes it better. His fingers slide down my body again, dragging over my hip before sliding over to rest softly between my legs, long fingers pressing and rubbing against the plain cotton underwear I'd put on--and for a split second I wish I'd worn silk for him, but it's only a second because then it starts to feel good--really good.

I don't even recognize the noises I'm making now. I've never felt like this or sounded like this--I've never felt my body doing things I wasn't telling it to. Logan breaks the kiss and stares down at me, and I feel one leg slide over mine, feel his knee bending and hooking around mine, feel a jolt go through my body as he pulls my leg towards him.

For a crazy moment I can only think of my grandmother. She was crazy--insane. Every time she saw me she used to tell me to keep my knees together like a good girl, then she'd cackle and say how little fun that was.

Logan is edging my legs apart, his hand is moving against me slowly, almost like he's exploring or looking for something--but I don't care anymore as long as it doesn't stop. I don't care how self-conscious I feel--I slide one hand down to his, wrapping my fingers around his wrist and pressing my hips up to him.

The sound he makes--the low groan that is so close to a growl that I can feel his hand shaking as his arm shakes as his chest rumbles, everything moving with the same rhythm as my hips as I throw back my head and wrap my other arm around his shoulder to keep myself from floating somewhere.

He half pulls away, but before I can react the touch is back, his hand sliding down my abdomen and his skin on mine--and the touch is the same but the feeling is so new and different and good that I can't stop the ragged scream that tears from my throat, a scream that he swallows as he latches onto my lips again.

I had his memories for almost a year--but I never realized how good he kisses. Like he's trying to pull me out through my lips and fall into me and touch every part of my mouth until I can't imagine the world without his tongue stroking me.

The way his body is pressing into me brings other memories to the surface. I'm no blushing virgin--even if it's never been my body gettin' touched. Logan hadn't exactly been chaste in the years he could remember--and I got a head full of every women he'd ever touched.

I hated them. Every single one.

Concentrating on the memories is hard, but the idea that I know exactly what this man wants and likes and needs--it gives me something to focus on as I grope after the instincts he had left behind in me.

And image flashes through my head, riding on another burst of pleasure as his fingers get slide against me. I can see the picture as if I'm in his head--a woman with long dark hair laughing at him as she leans forward to nip at his chin and neck and lower, trailing down his body. I can feel his reaction too--the burst of animal pleasure and the growling rumble and the way his body tightens as she kisses him.

Something inside me that I never knew I had growls at the thought of my man with another woman. Craning my neck around, I imitate the woman of the memory, latching onto a spot just where his neck meets his shoulder, knowing how it will feel because I know him.

His breath hitches, and I cling to him desperately as his attentions increase, his hand pressing more insistently as he moans slightly in my ear. I love the sound of his voice, love that I can make him feel like this, love that I am touching him.

Something else comes to my attention as his leg tightens around my own. I can feel the firm, hard heat pressed tightly against my hip, and I am overcome with the urge to touch, to feel and see and discover. Sliding my hand down his body, I brush shy fingers over him, my hand tightening as he finds someplace that makes my body arch with bolts of fire. I can't imagine anything as good as this, anything better than this--

He growls as my fingers tighten and then I find myself flipped over onto my side, and feel his hands running down my legs as he strips my underwear off and moves away--and then I can feel him--all of him--stretched out behind me, and he's taken off the rest of his clothing because I can feel skin--and something else, something firm that hurts as it presses hard into my back .. . and I know. I know he can't hold on much longer.

His hands rub along me again--caressing and soothing and just touching--and his face burrows into my hair as he breathes in deeply. "Should we stop?"

Stop. Gods not, I don't want it to stop--ever--and in spite of myself my body stiffens. His hands soothe me quickly, his lips pressing into my neck. "We're going so fast, Marie--we don't need to go so fast--" Oh he's a sweet liar. I know he's desperate, I know it would half kill him to stop.

"Please?" That can't be my voice--but it is. "Please, Logan--I've waited so long . . ." I can almost feel the tears starting--I've wanted to know for so long what it would be like, to be touched, to be normal . . . to just be a woman. A woman with a man.

"Shhhh, Marie--no--" His hands cradle me and I'm on my back again, his lips on my cheeks as the first tear spills over. "Marie, I just--it will hurt some, and I don't want the first time we--we do--"

He's stuttering. Logan, older than the hills, roughened street tough man--he's stuttering. Over me. If I hadn't loved him before, this would have been the killing blow.

"I know." I place a finger over his lip, trying to stop the words I know are coming. "Just--please, Logan. Please."

I'm on my back and I shiver as he eases his body over mine, adjusting my legs carefully and propping himself up on his elbows so that his face is just inches from mine. "Just relax," he whispers, leaning down to kiss me deeply.

I try--but I tense, and it hurts. More than I thought, and I try to hide the wince because I don't want him to stop. I slide my hands into his hair and hold his head down, kissing him desperately, not wanting him to pull back and see the pain in my eyes. I concentrate on the feeling of his lips on mine, of his beard on my face, of his chest against mine . . .

The pain dulls, and I feel him, feel him on me and around me and . . . and inside me and it's the most amazing thing. It's strange, and awkward, and it hurts still--but it's him. It's Logan.

And then he's moving, slowly, his eyes clenched shut and I stare at the bunching muscles of his chest and shoulders as I cling to him, my breathing getting frantic. I don't know what I'm looking for, or how to find it--but I close my eyes and ride with him because he's Logan, and I trust him.

And I love him.

When he's groaning above me, and I'm thrashing helplessly under him, and everything is bright and trembling--I feel something inside me snap and I fly, words that make no sense tumbling from my lips as I try to tell him how much it means to me. To be touched, to be loved--to feel what I thought I'd never feel . . .

And then he's with me, entwined in heart and mind and body and I can feel him inside me like the days after I'd touched him the first time--can feel him and can hold him like he's holding me, and all I can see is light and love.

And his voice, whispering in my ear, "I'll never leave you again."