Spin the Bottle

Summary: After the fact. What now?

Space and a minute to catch his breath. That was all Logan needed.

He flung open his bedroom door and shucked his leather jacket, followed by his flannel shirt, tossing them both onto a battered armchair.

He reached for his cigars, then paused. His clothes felt stifling and confining on his body. A shower took priority over his smokes.

The real question, though, was hot or cold?

Moments later, he was flinching and wriggling beneath the icy cold water, practically scrubbing his skin off with a brittle stump of Ivory soap. His blunt fingernails scraped over his scalp, neck and chest as if he could wash away what happened in the den.

He could still hear the Cajun’s voice in his ear, aroused and languorous. He’d enjoyed that kiss. It stood out starkly in the middle of the den, amidst the forced silence as every single one of his teammates – he was reluctant to call them his friends, at this point – clammed up and looked on in stupefaction.

Had Remy touched him?

His mind reeled.

Oh, yeah. He’d touched him.

It was a fleeting contact. Those thief’s fingers curled in the open flaps of Logan’s leather jacket, reflexively or willingly, Logan couldn’t guess, grazing his abdomen.

What the fuck had he done?


*


“I don’t know whether to be grossed out, or jealous.”

“Take your pick, Jubi,” Anna muttered as she brushed her hair.

“Of who?”

“Again, take your pick.”

“That was some kiss.” Kitty was diligently applying cold cream to her face and rubbing off her scant makeup. “I didn’t think he’d do it. Not for a minute.”

“When ain’t he surprised us, shoog?”

“But he’s so…straight. And so hands off.”

“He’s kissed Ororo. And Jean.”

“Then he needs to disinfect his mouth. Everyone’s kissed those two,” Jubi grumbled.

The game had broken up almost immediately after Logan left; Ororo decided to forgo the Jenga idea and made her own way up to bed. The rest of her friends staggered up after her once the glasses were piled in the sink and the coffee table rings had been wiped up.

Several pairs of eyes remained open in the dark, within every room of the house as they pondered what they saw.


Betsy and Warren:

“If you love me, you’ll grab a poker and gauge out my eyes. I never want to use them again after what I saw.”

“Settle down, Duckie.”


Ororo:

“I would have been perfectly happy to have traded places with him. Blasted man…what are you up to now, Logan?”


Bobby and Hank:

“This sucks. I owe him a case now.”

“Shouldn’t have made a bet if you couldn’t keep it.”

“That’s helpful advice, Hank. And by the way, keep your mouth to yourself.”

“What I can’t wrap my head around is how unphased Remy acted, like that kind of thing just happens all the time.” Then he sobered. “Maybe…it does.”

Hank considered Remy’s natural charm; whether it was actually a mutant gift or just “something he could do,” Hank was still trying to discern. He had quick hands and a smooth tongue; anything was possible with the Cajun.

“Still…Logan, fer cripes’ sake. I mean, kissing you…geez. But kissing THAT guy.”

“Stranger things have happened.” Bobby made a face in the dark.

“No. They haven’t.”


*

Jean and Scott:

“I can’t believe he did it.”

“Come to bed.” Scott spit out a foamy mouthful of toothpaste and chucked his brush into the cup.

“I mean, I really don’t believe it.”

“What’s the big deal.”

“Logan. Kissing Remy. Wow.”

“I saw. Big whoop.”

“But…kissing Remy. Wow.”

“Jean, I get it.”

“Kissing REMY!”

“Jean, will you just come to bed, for crying out loud!!!”

Scott, for one, was thrown for a loop by what he witnessed, but he had the satisfaction of feeling Jean’s errant thoughts of kissing Logan on her next turn thwarted. On the one hand, he was as shocked as everyone else. On the other hand, he squelched the urge to point his finger and yell, “In your FACE!”


*


The night, Remy decided, was still young.

Low strains of Stevie Ray Vaughan drifted through the den as Remy filled his glass with more of the tequila, despite its dubious quality.

Damn.

Would he have guessed the Wolverine would take Drake’s bet that seriously?

Nope. Not in a million years.

A kiss was just a kiss, no matter who gave it. Remy had his share, heaven knew. Desperate kisses. Greedy, hungry kisses that socked him in the gut.

Logan had been impulsive and rough, his mouth was hard and hot, and Remy couldn’t remember feeling so…floored. So off-balance. In the grand scheme of things, Logan’s message was clear: I ain’t chicken. I’m gonna kiss ya ta make everybody shut the fuck up, including you.

And yet…

Logan felt him respond. Remy knew this. And Remy went along for the ride.

That mouth. That skilled mouth left him raw, commanding his, even if he didn’t acknowledge it. Urging him – no, ordering him – to open for him.

To surrender.

At the first press of Logan’s mouth, Remy’s tongue tentatively stroked the seam of Logan’s lips, barely tickling his upper one. He immediately felt Logan’s body stiffen.

Suddenly, his domination of the moment between them was threatened. Remy was making a move of his own, and Logan would have none of it.

The impulsiveness of their encounter was over. Remy bit his tongue on his way down when Logan shoved him back on the sofa.

All he felt was bewildered.

Well, maybe slightly bereft.

Never mind. He had an erection that was slowly giving him a headache.

The tequila didn’t even burn anymore as he slammed the shot. His teeth were dangerously numb.

Remy retrieved the remote for the stereo and changed the CD in the carriage to his second favorite.

Hurt. Johnny Cash sang it best, and he fell in love with it the moment he heard it.

Remy relaxed on one of the bar stools and brooded, glad for the solitude. But he still ached…


*


Another beer called to him, despite Logan’s best effort to stay in his room. He stubbed out the well-chewed remains of his cigar and opened a window to clear the smell by the time he got back.

His bare feet creaked over the floorboards, but his ears told him that everyone slumbered heavily behind closed doors…except for Warren and Betsy, which quickened his footsteps. Some things weren’t meant for human ears, particularly not his ears. Damned enhanced senses…

The house was slightly cool; he wagered Jeannie turned on the air conditioning, with everyone getting all sweaty and liquored up. Logan enjoyed its faint chill against his bare back. His battered flannel pajama bottoms were all that he wore; those would be tossed aside once he went back upstairs. All he wanted was a cold brew.

Sure, that was all he wanted…riiiiight.

He was opening the fridge in the kitchen when he heard the music.

Low. Moody. Dark as syrup.

Johnny Cash. His favorite.

The song, whichever one it was, somehow fit. He leaned the bottle against the counter and slapped off the cap, taking a long swallow and wiping his mouth.

He could head upstairs. He had what he wanted.

Didn’t he?

Before he made up his mind, his feet took matters into their own hands and led him to the den.

From the doorway he spied the Cajun.

His usual grace was gone, or at least…different. Logan’s eyes traveled over his body, slightly slumped at the bar. He wore dark colors, true to his roots as a thief, and not far removed from his uniform. Instead of the concealing trenchcoat, Remy’s black silk shirt was cut loosely, almost like a poet shirt, minus the billowy pleats and ruffles (thank God). There was nothing to distract the eye from the planes and proportions of his lean body, particularly the coffee brown leather pants, which unfortunately, left nothing to Logan’s imagination.

Damn it.

He watched Remy run his fingers through his hair, rumpling the waves even more. It was long enough to cover his collar and rakishly cut, almost like a Calvin Klein model, except he didn’t rely on buckets of hair gel like Popsicle or Jubes.

He leaned his head back and tossed back another shot with abandon, making a sound of satisfaction. Logan was fascinated by the smooth cords of tendon working in his throat and he caught his profile in repose as he stared down into the glass.

What was wrong with him?

How many times had he been around Remy and never given it a second thought? How many lines of bullshit had he heard him spin with every broad in the house, or all of the ones hot for his ass outside of it? The kid was a charmer. A bullshit artist.

All Logan had ever cared about was whether or not they could trust him. Whether or not he had his back in the field. The kid rubbed him wrong from the moment Ororo made introductions. In Logan’s line of work, both as a soldier and an assassin, he learned to doubt a man’s intentions if they smiled too brightly or talked a big game. Remy was a smooth talker. His answers about where and when he met ‘Ro were too brief and couched too many hidden details.

So why this? Why now?

Why did Logan suddenly feel…uneasy?

Some loss of control was at work within him. He couldn’t name it. He couldn’t understand it. His body felt tense and strained. All he had to do – the solution was flashing in neon lights in his head – was walk away. Go back upstairs. Drink his beer and toss the blankets over his head.

He spoke, breaking his thrall. He nearly regretted it.

“What’re ya doin’ now, Cajun?”

“Gettin’ anotha’ bottle ready for de next game. Whaddya t’ink, mec?” Remy didn’t turn around all the way, merely peering over his shoulder at the feral loner as he abandoned his shot glass. He turned his back on him again. No other men dared turn their back on the Wolverine, but Remy was enjoying a pleasant buzz, and oddly, the low, raspy thrum of Logan’s voice.

Had he come to share Remy’s music with him? He doubted it, but indulged in that wish, anyway.

“Ya’ve had enough. Why’re ya gonna waste time down here, gettin’ sloppy on that cheap crap?”

“It’s m’own time t’waste, last time I checked.”

“Suit yerself.” Logan took up the empty couch, content to hog it while he drank his beer. He lounged just as indolently as Remy had, but he emitted a leonine yawn; Remy heard the joint in his jaw crack and noted how relaxed he looked, for a change.

He wore old pajama bottoms that should never see the light of day, made of battered blue cotton with thin white stripes. There was a small hole worn in one knee, declaring them his favorites. He was shirtless. Unlike Remy, Logan was never a clothes horse, despite the efforts of every woman in the mansion to civilize him.

They were wasting their time. Logan was raw and rough, and he’d have it no other way. His five o’clock shadow grew back within minutes of shaving his jaw smooth. His hair was unruly, always one step away from bed-head. It always grew back into those thick, coarse peaks, no matter how short he cut it, and it felt as dense as the ruff of a wolf.

It fit him.

He decided to forgo a shirt. Remy looked his fill.

Damn.

He knew why the ladies swooned over him once they were done fussing and harping how crude he was. He didn’t apologize for who he was, didn’t need anyone’s opinion, and didn’t feel he had to please anyone. If that didn’t guarantee phone numbers shoved into his pockets, then Remy was whistling Dixie. Logan’s brand of aloofness wasn’t Remy’s tool of choice.

No, once you got past the appallingly scruffy clothes and stern looks, Logan was a work of art.

Shirtless, he was ruddy and tanned. His skin held no scars, thanks to his healing factor, and it was stretched tautly over hills and ripples of muscle. A fine layer of black hair crept over his chest and tapered down over his flat stomach. A profusion of it sprinkled his arms, pronouncing him a male of the species.

He was scowling at him with arched, shaggy brows. “What the fuck are you lookin’ at?”

“Ya stole the couch.”

“Don’t have yer name on it.”

“My ass prints work just as well.” Logan’s gut clenched at the word “ass.” Remy stood from the bar, giving him an unimpeded view of his, garbed in that snug brown leather.

“Finders keepers.”

“G’wan back upstairs, den. Look like ya fell outta bed, mec.”

“Look who’s talkin’. Ya stink ta high heaven, Rem.”

“Couldn’t sleep.” Logan knew something about insomnia.

“So now yer gonna lay awake drunk in the dark, instead of just awake.”

“What’s y’own excuse?”

“Healin’ factor.”

“Non. Why ya awake?”

“Guess yer music kept me up.”

“Wasn’t playin’ it dat loud.”

“My hearin’ better than most.”

“Goody fuh you.” Remy turned back toward the bar and reached for the bottle again.

“Put it down.”

“Neh.” He was already unscrewing the cap.

“I said, put it down.”

“Non. Remy don’ feel like it.”

“Ya missed the part where I ain’t kidding.”

“Ya missed de part where Remy said no.” The kid lapsed into his habit of using third person speech, something he did when he wanted to distance himself from his audience. When he closed himself up. To some it was off-putting, even though many women he came into contact with it loved it.

“Ya’ve had enough.” He was going to be in horrible shape the next morning. Logan almost didn’t pity him. Almost. He put aside his beer, even though the bottle still had a couple of swallows left. He stalked up to the bar. “Give it here.”

“Pfft.” Logan held out his beefy hand imperiously. Remy stared at his open palm and snorted.

“Put y’hand down!”

“Did I stutter?”

“Non. Remy heard ya jus’ fine.”

Logan sighed deeply, letting his broad chest inflate, reminding Remy of a wolf flaring his ruff before baring its teeth.

In all his foolish, thrill-seeking life, he’d never feared wolves…

Logan snatched the bottle away, but not before Remy’s hand shot back out and gripped its neck.

“Leggo.”

“You leggo.”

“All I wanna see is yer ass marchin’ up those steps ta bed.”

“Ain’t nothin’ waitin’ fuh me when I get dere. And what’s dis ‘bout wantin’ t’see my ass?” Logan flushed.

Remy smirked. His red on black eyes were filled with laughter, entirely at the Wolverine’s expense.

“I’m about ta stick my foot so far up it if ya don’t leggo.” Remy shook off his hand, staggered back, and raised the bottle to his lips. He was glugging down more of the clear poison when Logan snatched it back, not caring how it spilled down Remy’s chin and spotted his fine shirt.

Then Logan felt a frisson of…something. It distracted him.

Remy’s eyes. They were so deeply focused on Logan’s face, and so rapt, that he couldn’t look away.

He heard Remy’s deep, slow breathing and smelled the liquor on his breath. He watched his pupils dilate and flicker over him as if sizing him up. Logan’s fingers loosened around the neck of the bottle.

“Sure know how ta ruin a man’s fun, dontcha?” Logan’s gaze was riveted on his mouth. Remy’s lips were broad and thin; the upper one was deeply notched. It was a wicked mouth made to grin and kiss senseless.

Remy’s voice was sleepy and hoarse, but it caressed him. Coaxed him.

“This is yer excuse fer fun?” The words felt hollow coming out of Logan’s mouth.

“Non. Ya owe Remy anotha’ game, mec. Ya didn’ let me take my turn.”

“Bullshit.”

“Ain’t like playin’ Simon Says, mec. Can’t lose at spin de bottle.” They continued their tug of war with the bottle, but Logan’s effort was half-assed at best. Remy’s fingers fumbled and grazed Logan’s knuckles, trying to peel the bottle from his grasp.

His hands were hot. The awkwardness of it was making Logan flush more deeply and getting him riled up.

“I didn’t lose. I played yer stupid game and followed yer ‘rules’ after all you babies nagged me to.”

“Remy didn’ nag, homme. Remy just asked as nicely as ya please.” Logan tingled with irritation.

Fuck. He was right.

Remy gave another sharp tug. Logan tugged back, harder. Remy braced himself and widened his stance, one leg in front of the other and yanked, taunting Logan with his smile. Logan was sober as a judge, eyes flat, hard chips. He nearly pulled Remy’s arm from the socket.

He wasn’t expecting the kid to let his momentum carry him, completely releasing his balance and landing up against Logan’s hard body.

They fumbled. Logan tried to scrape away Remy’s hands but ended up getting his own tangled in Remy’s shirt. Logan wrestled the bottle away from him, finally, and aimed it at a nearby wastebasket. It landed with a thunk inside.

“Awwww, now what’d ya go an’ do dat fo’?” He staggered against him, pressed up against his solid chest. The slippery, smooth silk was brushing up against Logan’s flesh; he could feel Remy’s own skin beneath it, radiating heat.

Logan’s nipples pebbled.

“Dat ain’t how ya play de game, mec. Remy gon’ get anotha’ bottle…”

“The hell ya are!”

“Fine, den. We can play wi’ ‘dout it.”

“What are y-MMMRRPH!” The Cajun’s eyes had been teasing, providing even more of a distraction and throwing him off-guard. Remy nimbly wove his feet around Logan’s ankles, tripped him and made him fall back onto the bar stool, his broad thighs splayed. He gained leverage, grasped Logan’s hips and ground himself against the hard bulge of his crotch, sending his enhanced sense of touch into overdrive.

He pounced. Remy attacked Logan’s open mouth mid-protest. The kiss was hot, wet and hard, nothing tentative about it.

He felt Logan’s body reacting to him, from the stiffness between his legs to Logan’s breath steaming from his nostrils. The feral’s thick fingers dug into Remy’s arms, initially with the intent to shove him away.

The music played on, singing in Remy’s blood. He knew Logan would likely kick his ass for taking liberties, but it was worth it. He took what he could, while he could get it.

His tongue probed Logan’s mouth, sweeping inside to thoroughly taste him, exploring the points of his canines. His low hum of approval was punctuated by the movement of his hips.

The kid was pumping and working his hips against him. To the rhythm of Johnny Cash?

It was heady, the feel of Remy’s body flush with his, invading his space and intoxicating him with the scent of his hair and skin. His mouth and hands betrayed him, pulling at him and jerking him closer, nipping and lapping up more of his flavors to quench his thirst…

Remy’s charm…

“Mmmph…sonofaBITCH!” Logan shoved himself back, nearly pitching himself from the stool. Without his support, Remy fell forward and hit himself on the stool’s edge on his way down. He slumped to his knees, probing his lip.

“Shit,” he hissed.

“What the fuck did ya do t’me, Rem!”

“Nuthin’, mec.”

“The hell ya didn’t!”

“Took my turn. Cheated me out of it tonight. Only fair.”

“It’s only fair if I kick yer ass fer gettin’ too familiar.”

“Ain’t doin’ anyt’in’ that didn’ ‘appen earlier tonight, Logan. ‘Cept you started it, dat time.”

“This is gonna finish it. That’s fuckin’ enough.”

“Somehow I don’ t’ink so, chere.” The use of Remy’s favorite pet name piqued Logan and narrowed his eyes. “Don’ t’ink ya’ve had enough yet, cuz ya liked it.”

His demon’s eyes flicked down below Logan’s waist. Logan himself refused to look down at the swelling bulge that seemed to drain all the blood from his head. He was hot, nearly sore, and he wanted to kill Remy in the worst way.

He was falling down drunk.

He was…

Logan’s jaw worked and his fists clenched, but his claws remained sheathed. Remy watched him from his vantage point on the floor.

“T’ink ya have de right idea, mec. ‘S too hot in here.” His long fingers crept up and unfastened the small black disc at his throat. He was making short, deliberate work of the buttons, exposing his golden flesh inches at a time.

“Fuck…quit it. Put yer clothes back on, Gumbo. Yer drunk.”

“M’hot. Gonna take ‘em off anyway, when I head upstairs.” The shirt tails were already untucked. One last button and his shirt fell open, uncovering the planes of his chest.

The kid had a perfect, rippling six-pack. Years of training himself in the martial arts and fighting in the streets honed him and whittled away any ounce of fat on his body. His body wasn’t hairless, merely neat. Sparse, chestnut hair lay smoothly over the center of his chest, tapering into a thin trail that led below his waistline.

His navel was an inny. Flat nipples hardened with the draft in the room.

Without the shroud of black silk hanging down over his body, Logan had an unimpeded view of Remy’s crotch outlined in the snug leather.

“Stop it.”

“Make me stop it. Said m’hot.” He shrugged the shirt from his shoulders and let it flutter to the hard wood. Logan watched transfixed as he undid the top button of his pants. His face darkened and twisted.

“Now what the fuck are ya doin’?”

“What’s it look like?”

What did it look like, indeed…

Logan’s dick was tenting his pajama bottoms and screaming for contact. Hands. Mouth. Anything. The kid was driving him nuts.

Beneath the smell of the tequila, he smelled lust, heady and addictive. Pheromones wrapped around him and squeezed until he couldn’t breathe. He could nearly taste the sheen of sweat on Remy’s skin, just looking at him.

“I’m warnin’ ya, Remy. Don’t make a fool of yerself. Yer gonna kick yerself in the morning. Or I’m gonna kick yer ass now, if ya don’t stop.”

“Remy heard ya jus’ fine. And Remy don’ give a shit. M’ uncomfo’table, an’ I’m gettin’ outta dese.”

ZIIIIPPPP… The staccato rip of teeth separating made Logan jerk.

Dark, crisp hair caught the sheen of lamplight before Remy’s hand eased inside the stiff flap of his pants, rearranging himself.

“Damn, that feels good. Hoo.”

Why wasn’t Logan leaving?

The sane part of him shouted that question in his ears.

The rest of him stood rooted to the floor, urging Remy to finish his chore. He licked his lips.

Do it. He hadn’t said it aloud.

Remy heeded him anyway.

He rose ungracefully, unfolding himself and stretching in a yawn. Remy scratched his smooth belly briefly before reaching back into his gaping zipper flap and kneading the lump in relief. His flesh was heated beneath his touch and throbbed for more, for a firmer, surer grip.

Logan’s arousal swallowed him, burning in his veins.

“Ain’ no one else around, homme. Can take all de free turns we want, non? Unless ya wanna change de rules?”

Remy’s hand fisted around himself, slowly, deliberately stroking. Logan felt the pull of the motion between his own legs and coveted it.

He wanted to feel smooth flesh pulsing in his palm. Remy’s. Just once.

He’d try anything once.

Remy was willing, that much was obvious by the long, thick column of flesh jutting up from its nest. Remy fidgeted, working his hips further above the waistband until his ball sac sagged over the edge of his zipper. It was growing leathery and tight, drawing itself up with his ministrations. Remy’s thumb flicked over the plump head, swiping away a clear, thick droplet.

Screw the rules.

“Ya wanna play?” Remy paused, then continued to jack himself at a slightly faster pace, completely unashamed. “Then we play.”

His last thought before he closed the gap between them was that those damned pants had to go. Logan’s hands shot out and clamped Remy’s hips, pinning him and groping his ass. It felt firm and round in his palm, and he squeezed it hard. He scraped down the pants by the waistband, baring it to the cool air of the den and giving the young man goosebumps.

His dark eyes raked over Remy, holding dark intent. Remy shivered.

This wasn’t going to be gentle. Or pretty.

He was nonplussed. Remy grinned and again let the momentum carry him to Logan, grinding against him to enjoy the friction between them. He groaned in pleasure at the feel of his cock sliding against the soft flannel of Logan’s pajama bottoms, buffeting the hardness underneath. Logan made him burn.

Remy’s breathing was harsh, panting and short as Logan leaned in close, zeroing in on his neck.

“New rules. Ya make me come, and then ya get a turn, Remy.” He muttered the words into the side of his throat and grazed his skin with his teeth. Remy bucked against him as Logan’s hands pressed his hips closer, rubbing more firmly.

He bit Remy’s ear; pleasure overlapped the pain while Logan kneaded his ass. His touch was possessive and hungry, and Remy wondered silently if the feral had done this before. Remy’s hand wound around his upper arm, attempting to guide his hand. He wanted himself enclosed in that brawny fist. Another bite at the crest of his ear made him groan with need. Logan’s tongue lapped his bruised skin, almost in apology. Not quite.

Logan pulled back. He wasn’t in the mood to kiss, even as he gave Remy’s mouth a furtive look.

He gave his pants a savage yank, lowering himself and the offending leather before Remy could blink. He nearly tripped when he jerked them below his knees, forcing him to step out of them.

Logan looked his fill of Remy from his lower vantage point, watching his stiff cock bob slightly between those long, muscular legs. He skimmed his palm over his flesh, ruffling the fine, crisp hairs and scraped him lightly with his blunt fingernails.

An end to his ache was inches away in the form of Logan’s mouth, if he would just…

Logan feathered his thumb over Remy’s balls, so briefly that Remy groaned in protest. He ran his thick fingertip down the column of his cock, a light touch at odds with how he’d been with him so far.

“Ya want it?’

“Oui. C’mon, homme, ya killin’ me!”

“Ya accused me of bein’ a chicken.”

“Nuh-uh! Ya gotta be confusin’ me wit’ everybody else playin’ the game!” Logan wrapped his hand around Remy’s thigh, savoring its firmness as he gave him a test-taste.

Remy was slightly salty on his tongue but hot and smooth. His knees almost buckled.

But it wasn’t his turn yet. Logan pulled himself up, practically climbing Remy’s body as he stood. He steered him to the couch.

“Wait, mec!”

“Uh-uh.” It wasn’t an option. Not when the Cajun was driving him crazy. “Siddown.”

“Wait up, man, whaddya wan’ me ta…aw, man.” Logan’s dick sprung back and bobbed with his hard shove of his pajama bottoms, the elastic waist getting caught on his swollen flesh before the pants fell to the floor.

He was erect. He was impressive.

Remy leaned up from the couch cushions where he was sprawled and sat up, finally giving into the urge to touch him. His hands followed the same path Logan’s had, skimming along his legs as he, too, took a long, slow taste.

It wasn’t enough. Logan growled in warning and curled his fingers in Remy’s soft hair. Remy moaned a low “MMMPH!” as Logan fed him his dick in one garbled mouthful.

Remy fought to accommodate him and establish a rhythm. His memories took him back to random encounters in equally random bars. Sometimes he woke up with a woman in his bed. Sometimes, to a man. Both had their benefits.

The kid’s mouth. Hot. Wet. Wrapped around him like velvet. Logan watched his face in disbelief, then awe as Remy warmed to his task. He was groaning around him and clutching him, eyes closed, something which Logan regretted, only for a moment.

There was something about Remy’s eyes when they looked at him not to tease…but to tempt. He put away that thought and focused anew on the suction of his lips and flick of his tongue.

Pull. Lap. Suck. Pull. Lap. Suck. They moved in sync. Logan’s fingers dug into Remy’s scalp and remained tangled in that soft, thick hair. He didn’t protest the slow roam of Remy’s hands over his body where he stood.

Remy expected Logan to feel hard. His muscles convulsed slightly when Remy’s touch tickled too much or struck just the right spot. He stroked one sensitive nipple and felt it harden. He rolled it slightly between his fingers and enjoyed the Wolverine’s growl of warning. Remy’s own arousal grew the more he pleasured Logan, excitement pooling between his legs. He felt the dampness of precum gathering in the tiny indentation where Logan tasted him.

The kid wasn’t missing any part of him that screamed to be satisfied, despite being drunk off his ass.

“Geez…that’s…good shit,” he hissed. “Damn it, Rem! Damn, you can suck!” Remy cupped his balls, feeling their heft and firmness. He pulled back and released Logan’s death-grip on his head, groped his dick and lifted it aside as he drew one ball into his mouth.

It felt so good. It felt wrong. It felt right. It felt like sin.

Remy jerked and stroked his dick while mouthing each ball, painting them in his heat. “C’mon,” he urged him. “Ya know what I want!” Remy peered up at him, never taking away his luscious mouth. “Rem! Goddamnit, move it back where ya had it!” Yet Logan was enjoying the anticipation just as much, not knowing where Remy would put his mouth next.

Remy struggled with him, wanting to heed him, but dizzy from arousal and the alcohol he’d consumed. He lingered at his balls, flattening his tongue against each globe, not minding the crisp hair.

Logan was impatient. He needed fulfillment. He wanted to feel his dick pulsing in the Cajun’s mouth again, pushing at the back of his throat. Oh, God, he needed it.

“C’mon,” he pleaded raggedly. He couldn’t stand it. Logan took his cock in his own hand and aimed it back inside Remy’s mouth, cramming it inside.

He pushed it, and the kid, too far.

He heard an ominous gagging noise and felt the kid’s throat convulse around him. He still needed to thrust.

Remy had other ideas. As did his stomach.

“Ooommpphhh…” His chest contracted with the need to breathe through his mouth, but obviously, he couldn’t. It didn’t bode well.

“Rem?”

“Urrmph…” Nope. That didn’t sound good either.

“Kid, are ya all-“

“MMPH! Leggo! Lemme go!” His abrupt shove and Logan’s withdrawal from his mouth sent Logan sprawling. He fell backwards over the coffee table and practically landed on his head. He heard a rush of footsteps toward the sink.

Sometimes, Logan hated his enhanced senses. He heard the kid puking his guts out loud and clear, followed by a stench too unholy to be described. Logan’s head throbbed, and it wasn’t due to a hangover.

“Geez,” he muttered. Remy’s groan from behind the wet bar sounded like he agreed with him.