I smell her presence nearby, as pungent as the sweet aroma of a ripened fruit. I can feel myself being pulled to where she is, feeling much like a moth drawn to a flame.

I knock on the door, the only barrier separating my spitfire Rogue and me. I wait . and wait . and wait. but there is no answer. So I knock on the door again, my impatience to see her growing by each passing second.

I hear a faint, "Come in!" and I enter the room slowly. The room is dark, save for one tiny candle on a table by the window. I glance around the room and see that she is not in it, but my sense of smell allows me to know that she is somewhere in the room.

The bathroom door is cracked open a bit, and a faint scent of apples and spice wafts through the air and fills my senses. Again, I am drawn to that door that is cracked ever so slightly, and I have to resist every primal urge to barge right through it. Instead, I settle on knocking on the frame, alerting her to my presence.

She knows it's me. It's our ritual that we perform after a particularly stressful day saving the world. We come home and bask in the relief that neither of us is hurt and that we are very much together.

I didn't need to knock for her to know it's me, and she doesn't need to respond to let me know that I am welcome. I slowly open the door, an unconscious breath held in my lungs, as the scene is unfolded before me.

The room is masked in a dark glow, much like the bedroom, but it has more candles of all sizes lit, spread across on each vacant spot that it could fit. I am alert to every movement and sound, my senses heightened at the mere knowledge that she is in this very room.

My breath is released in a silent woosh as I finally allow myself the luxury of watching her, lying in the tub, her hair of white and auburn pulled into a mass of curls on top of her head. She has her eyes closed and as soon as I set one foot into the bathroom, her strawberry lips curl into the slightest hint of a smile. She knows I am watching, she knows what watching her does to me, and she loves every second of it. I'll never let her know that I love the chase of her sweet torture as well.

As I cross the tiny bathroom to kneel at the side of the tub, her eyes flutter open and capture mine. This alluring creature knows what she does to me and I don't mind one bit. I break the intense gaze, and look to where the sponge lays. It still remains in the same spot as the last time I was here. It feels as if ages had past since I myself was last here, but that knowledge fades away as I know that I am here now and that's all that matters.

I pick up the sponge, and return my gaze to Rogue. My eyes scan her body, and roam over the sight of her elegant neck speckled with drops of sweat and moisture, but my eyes are immediately fixed on the point below that, to the tops of her beautiful breasts glistening with the soapy suds and water that hide the rest of her body from me. I envy those little boys, those soapy suds, because they cling to her in ways that I never could.

She is like the forbidden fruit and I am like Adam, always allowed to look, but never allowed to touch.

A low growl emerges from the depths of my body at the need I have to be connected with her.

I dip the sponge in my hand into the bubbly water, and I soak it through. I squeeze a little to ring out most of the water and I start from the bottom to the top. She knows the routine, as she lifts one lengthy leg out of the tub, to rest her foot against the wall opposite her. It takes every inch of control to resist touching, and only the fact that I'd be a vegetable if I felt her the tiniest bit keeps me from doing the thing I want most . barely.

Slowly, I take the sponge and I run it gently up the outside of her legs, first from the calves, up to her outer thighs. She moves her leg outward, so that I can sweep the sponge along the inside of her inner ones, so close to that hidden core where I long to go where no man has gone before.

All the while, my eyes never break contact with hers. I have memorized each and every inch of her body because she is the map that I was meant to navigate.

I pay the same reverence to her other leg, taking care not to touch her milky skin. I move up to her arms, which she lovingly holds up for me, making sure that I skim over each crevice, each finger that she extends to me. I always save my favorite part for last, her breasts. Yes it's so disgustingly male of me, but she has the most beautiful breasts these wolfish eyes have ever set their sight on.

She sits up slightly to allow me the viewing pleasure of seeing them in the buff, free of the soapy suds that once clung to them. My body is hypnotized by this vision and my hand obeys the command to run its course over her. I watch as each rosy nipple hardens as the cold settles on it, and I also know that my very presence has caused these little buds to rise proudly and salute me. I smile as I run the sponge over those hardened nipples, and I see her eyes close tightly as a shudder runs through her. My ego says that it's nice to have this kind of reaction.

I take care to take as much time as I need to brush past each and every curve her breasts gives me, making sure that I have swept over and under. After I finish with this act, she gently lowers herself back against the tiled wall, and turns her face to look at me once again. I can see all the longing and love that she holds in her eyes, because I know all too well that my eyes reflect the same expression.

I use the sponge to touch the side of her neck, where I gently slide it up and down, in a tender caress. She moves her face ever so slightly to rest against the sponge and my hand. This is my mock imitation of cradling her face, but in some ways is more intimate than anything I've ever experienced my entire life.

Our eyes stay locked, and the connection crackles in the air between us. I realize that it doesn't matter that this will be as close as I'll ever get to touch her silk like skin. I know we are more intimate than most lovers would ever hope to be. No words between us are ever needed. I am content to sit by her side, basking in the feeling of being with her, even if it means having this sponge serve as the barrier between us for the rest of eternity.

As I watch her, my love for her swells greatly. Who knew that the wild Wolverine could be tamed?

Yes, as I sit here, making love to her with my hands, she is my forbidden fruit, and I am her Adam, always allowed to look, but never allowed to touch, and I realize, that it doesn't matter. She is the reason for my existence, and I am hers, and that's what does.