Her hair was dripping as she left the bathroom, a cloud of steam following in her wake. She’d dragged it all up into a ponytail, except for the white streak she kept tucked behind her ear, the end hanging down over her shoulder, water dribbling to the top of her tightly clamped towel tied just above her the swell of her chest.
Logan arched a thick eyebrow as he watched her move from his perch on the motel bed they were renting on their impromptu road trip across Canada, his legs crossed at the ankle, the stub of a cigar stuck between his teeth. He gave a snort, smoke leaving through his nose. “You temptin’ fate, Marie?”
Her lips curled at the corners as she looked at him over her shoulder. “You fightin’ it, sug?” she drawled.
His lips curled as he shoved himself up from the bed, circling around to her, his heavy boots clomping.
She didn’t shy away from his touch, instead turning into it even as she eyed his hand as it crept closer, fully aware of what her skin could do, even with his healing ability.
He traced the white streak of her hair; the edge of his thumb just barely brushing the shell of her ear, the tip of his forefinger dragging down her neck, rough and tickling her soft, sensitive skin. The pressure of his fingers caused the water still soaking her hair to splash and drip quicker down her skin. Her breath caught in her throat as she looked up at him and Logan felt it hard in the gut, more than aware of just how much she’d grown up in the decade since he’d found her hiding in his truck.
“Always did fight too much,” he growled, one of his hands settling on the small of her back, over her scratchy white towel.
Rogue flattened against him, her hands splayed over his hard, broad chest, safe thanks to his plaid shirt. “I think this is one you can forfeit…” She slowly dragged her leg up his side, hitching it around his waist. “You’ve already won.”
He plucked his cigar from his mouth and stabbed it out in a nearby ashtray, watching as smoke curled up from it as he asked her, “You sure you know what you’re gettin’ into?”
“If ah knew it’d only take me in a towel to turn your head, ah’d a done this years ago…” She gripped his shirt in her fist and stared up at him from beneath long, wet, spiked eyelashes. “Are you sure?”
Hauling her up easily by her waist, he growled, “Never been more sure, darlin’.”
He proved it when he dropped her down on the bed and played chicken with her mutation, letting his hands linger on her skin until the pull started to drain. They would break out her gloves and gauzy scarves later, for now, for as long as possible, Logan wanted her to feel the rough skin of his hands on her bare, damp skin.
In this particular fight, they were both winners.