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The next guy who steps into the cage is not from around here, and not in the typical way of men from out of town who come out to the bar thinking they can prove something to themselves by beating Logan in a fight. He can’t be more than late twenties, with a slightness to him that means he’s worked hard for every muscle he’s put on. In the dim light of the ring he stands out golden, nothing like the pale and overly-flanneled locals, nothing really like anybody Logan’s ever seen.
No one ever stands a real chance against Logan but this one looks like he’d go down all too easy. Hard to say what he might be getting out of this. “You lost, kid?” Logan asks when the guy gets close enough.
“Yeah,” he says, all dark eyes and a twitch at the corner of his pretty mouth like he might be holding back a grin. “Guess you better take me home and look after me.”
Logan’s caught off guard enough that the kid gets in the first punch.
It’s not that Logan’s rusty at fighting anyone who poses even half a challenge but this guy is fast and hits fucking hard. One good swing takes Logan in the jaw good enough that he tastes blood, the cut at the corner of his mouth healing up quick but still leaving wet red on the kid’s already bruising knuckles. He notices it too and with a flash of a disconcerting smile he licks the blood away, flicker of pink tongue followed by a little kiss, and takes another shot.
Logan realizes very quickly, as he dodges right and those knuckles glance off his cheek, that this guy is fucking nuts. He takes another hit to the ribs and in the guy’s moment of shock upon hitting bones much harder than expected Logan gets him hard in the face, the solid smack of it prompting ugly cheers from the crowd as the kid stumbles back. Logan follows, still swinging but pulling his punches now so he doesn’t risk doing too much real damage, a little sick at the thought that the bar’s typical crowd might be getting off on watching Logan beat up some twink out-of-towner, as capable and bloodthirsty as he might be.
But the kid must feel it, looking furiously at Logan with his cheek bruising and a nosebleed and saying, “Come on, fuck me like you mean it.” Then he fights back twice as hard, wild unpredictable swings until he drops quick and whips a leg out to knock Logan to the floor.
Logan lands hard and sees red. Everything fades away for a terrifying span of time, Logan’s awareness coming and going in bursts of feeling: his fingers curled in the kid’s shirt, flinging him across the ring, the metallic rattle of the guy’s back hitting the cage, knuckles hitting bone, soft hot skin and hurt, helpless little cries.
When Logan comes back to himself he’s inches away from the guy, hands tight around his wrists, pinning him to the metal chain link fence caging them in. “You got a death wish, or what?” Logan growls. Up close enough to kiss him Logan’s hit hard by the sensory overwhelm of it all, sweat and fear and blood and elation and want radiating off of his bruising body. Logan breathes him in deep and regrets it when he sees the triumph in those dark eyes.
“Yeah, I do, thank you so much for noticing.” He fucking bats his eyelashes. “You wanna finish me off?”
He actually does, in fact, and the best part is the moment of genuine shock on the kid’s face before Logan fucking clocks him. He regrets it the moment the kid slips from his grasp, knocked out cold and sliding to the floor. There is no feeling of victory. Logan does not like his life very much at all.
He can’t even commit to it either, doesn’t get more than half a step away before he has to check and make sure he didn’t just carry out a negligent homicide. It’s a relief to see the guy already stirring, blinking up at him with a vaguely concussed air. It’s too loud in here now, the other patrons having a grand old time in the aftermath of it all, but it’s still audible to Logan when the guy says, low and wet, “Thank you.”
Logan decides to dedicate himself to getting incredibly drunk.
About twenty minutes and half a bottle of Jim Beam later the kid takes the barstool next to Logan and says to the bartender, cheerfully gesturing to Logan’s whiskey, “I’ll have what she’s having.”
The bartender looks him over. “This ain’t that kind of bar.”
“It’s not the kind of bar that serves the same drink to two different people?” he asks, guilelessly blinking those huge dark eyes. The innocent effect is somewhat ruined by the fact that he looks like he’s been beaten within half an inch of his life. His heart is still racing. Logan can hear it.
“I brought in a good crowd tonight,” Logan says to the bartender, surprising even himself. “Just give him a drink.”
Another glass and the remaining half of the bottle are slammed down onto the bar as the bartender mutters a slur that Logan pretends he doesn’t hear and leaves them to it.
“Wow, he seems nice. This place is great, I love the ambiance. Wade,” the kid says, “Wade Wilson. Charmed, I’m sure.”
After a moment, Logan concedes. “Logan.”
“Just the one name? Like Madonna? I love it.” Wade pours himself a generous drink and throws it back with what he probably thinks is an undetectable wince. “So I’m in town for work,” he shares, blatantly checking Logan out. “And I needed to blow off a little steam after a long, boring day. And I hear about this wretched little hick bar where they do cage fights, and I’m like, that can’t be a real thing, but nobody responds because I mostly work alone and I was actually eavesdropping on a random conversation at the motel where I’m staying. You know, the one half a block down the street.” He points in a northerly direction despite the only motel close by being approximately southwest of where they’re sitting.
“Do you have a concussion?” Logan asks him.
“Maybe!” Wade says, emptying his second glass. “Wanna go back to my room and put me to bed just in case?”
Fuck it. If this kid passes out ten feet down the road into a snowbank and dies Logan’s going to feel like a real asshole. “Sure.”
*
He does have to stick close as they walk southwest down the road towards the lousy local motel. Wade is swaying a little and somehow did not bring a jacket with him, and yet still nearly bit Logan’s head off for offering his own. He’s not stupid though, or at least not proud, because he did end up taking it. He looks smaller in black leather, snowflakes catching in his hair, melting on the hot healing skin of his bruised face, stark and still pretty in the glow of the streetlights. Logan wonders again what exactly the fuck his deal is but given that he’s going along with this too he figures he doesn’t have much room to try to ask and get personal about it. Here they both are. Fine.
They step into the room and Wade immediately strips off Logan’s jacket, drapes it over the rickety desk chair and follows it with his shirt. In the quiet out of the whistling wind and street noise Logan can hear Wade’s heartbeat thundering, can practically taste him already: the need, desire, adrenaline and still that fear underneath it all. Logan tries not to take it personally; there’s always an element of danger when fucking a stranger and men can be cruel. Wade seems like someone that men have been cruel to. Logan would rather not be one of them.
Wade’s expectantly raised eyebrow when he sees Logan still dressed prompts Logan to catch up, trying not to look too hard at the bruises blooming all over Wade’s torso, his back, twin cuts on his shoulders where Logan slammed him against the cage wall so hard the rough chain links cut him. Wade came tonight to hurt and be hurt and Logan gave him what he wanted and now he’s going to keep giving him what he wants. As penance, maybe. Logan feels so fucking guilty looking at him now no matter what Wade wanted.
“Come on, you know you’re not here to read me a bedtime story,” Wade says, bruised and bare in front of him, working Logan’s belt open impatiently as Logan finally gets his hands on him again, framing his shoulders to get a good look at him. He’s lightly tanned despite it being midwinter, smeared with violet and blue where Logan’s fists grazed and caught him. The apology must be there in his eyes when he looks at Wade’s face again because Wade gives him an annoyed look. “Yeah, that’s all you, you mean old man. Make it up to me with your dick already.”
Logan leans in for a kiss and Wade ducks back like he’s expecting a slap, then recovers by crowding back into Logan’s space, wrapping his fingers around Logan’s cock and hissing, “I said your fucking dick, I’m not your little girlfriend for the night.” Wade strokes him, his grip sure even as he glances down to watch himself do it, the smallest catch in his breath from what must be a spark of pain at the flex of his aching knuckles. They’re as bruised as his face but nothing looks broken, just red and abraded. The guilt twinges again, Logan thinking that if this were different he’d offer to clean his hands up, get them wrapped and take care of Wade as best he could. Go slow with him, make up for what he did.
But this is what it is and if nothing else Logan will have a warm body next to him tonight. Well, at least for a little while. “Get on the bed, then,” Logan tells him, and follows him there without much choice when Wade keeps ahold of his cock like he thinks Logan might run away.
It’s usually easy with women, might take a little more discussion first with men when that happens, but Wade might be the easiest of all. He’s up on his knees, already got the lube out and slicking his fingers before his hand disappears behind himself and he moans a little. “I didn’t leave a mark on you,” Wade says, breathless just from opening himself up, riding back on his fingers. “And I should have, I got some good shots in. You’re a mutant, obviously. Invulnerable? Or just accelerated healing?”
“Yeah,” Logan says, realizing that he’s never admitted that out loud. Nobody’s ever asked and it’s not the kind of information you volunteer these days. “I heal fast. And I don’t get sick.”
“Fabulous,” Wade says. “Then you can go in bare, I haven’t been fucked raw since grade school.”
It’s so rare for Logan to feel truly out of his depth but Jesus Christ this kid is a piece of work. It’s like Logan’s an object to him, a task, a dick to ride, even as Wade’s now the only person Logan’s met since he woke up who knows the truth about what Logan really is. He half wants to tap out, get his head on straight or get a bottle of booze to let it go fully crooked, make it easier for him to keep up with this fever dream of a fuck.
But then Wade’s touching him, pulling him in close as he straddles Logan’s lap, and Logan’s grounded again, has to be with his arms full of Wade, his mouth drawn helplessly to Wade’s throat when it’s offered up. Wade gets one hand around both their cocks, his grip wet, and explores with the other, rubbing a thumb over Logan’s nipple and making him arch into it, following the curve of his ribcage, fingers pressing in hard to slot between each rib. “Something different here too,” Wade says, his voice softer now, demand replaced by simple curiosity. “Not bone, or not just bone. It’s harder. Something else?”
“Yeah,” Logan says, all he can confess with the not-much he knows about himself. “Something else.”
Still slowly working their cocks together in his tight grip, Wade looks Logan over like he’s trying to see inside him, like he could unwind every secret knotted in Logan’s body if he just focuses hard enough on Logan’s cock, his stomach, his chest, his shoulders. His pupils are dilated, black swallowing deep brown when their eyes meet, and it’s strange, the recognition there, like maybe he found what he’s been looking for in Logan. Logan hopes Wade’ll share whatever the hell it is. He’ll take any clue at this point.
“Why’d you wanna fight me tonight?” Logan asks. It’s the only way he can think of to look back. He wraps his arm more tightly around Wade’s waist, pressing against bruises and making Wade gasp, gets a hand on one round ass cheek and moves inward, feeling at his slick hole. He’s soft, easy there, Logan pushing two fingers into the heat of him like Wade’s body has been waiting to welcome him inside.
Wade swears, pitched forward with his face in the curve of Logan’s neck, fucks himself back against Logan’s hand. Logan feels it all as Wade nuzzles at his pulse point, the tip of his nose, the rise of his cheek, the curve of his browbone, all of it near burning hot, blood beating only barely beneath the surface everywhere Logan hurt him. Even this sweet touch must make him ache terribly. Logan misses the feverish heat of him even as he rises a little to breathe against Logan’s ear: “Masochism, mostly. You can fuck me hard.”
Logan’s careful anyway when he lays Wade out on his back; he can give it and take it rougher from men and usually does without complaint but despite the open invitation he still can’t square with the idea of hurting Wade any worse than he already has. Wade’s not fragile, and he’d probably punch Logan in the nose for even thinking it, but there’s something so fucking breakable about him, so much that seems already broken.
He doesn’t fight it when Wade rolls over, ass up and bruised face impatient when he looks over his shoulder at Logan expectantly. “You already beat the hell out of me, not much point taking care now,” Wade says. “I know I got the drop on you before, I knocked you on your ass and it made you go all feral. Aren’t you angry? Don’t you just want to take it out on me again? Don’t go easy on me now.”
Jesus. Fuck. Alright.
Logan feels it again, his back colliding with the floor, that red rage that overtook him for one horrible minute and left nothing but a racing heart and healing, bloodied knuckles, the scent of metal and copper and fear, Wade on the ground and grateful. He lets the memory roll through him, feels it in his blood and bones and claws itching to get out. He strokes the warm skin of Wade’s back, skims over the chain marks on his shoulder blades, and slides one hand up Wade’s spine until he’s cupping the back of Wade’s neck, guiding his head to bow down.
Wade’s still so tight when Logan pushes into him, oiled and stretched but Logan still feels his full-body shudder from the inside, how he tenses up and can’t help making a hurt little sound. Logan doesn’t stop, gives him everything he asked for until he’s bent low over Wade’s trembling body, buried inside him, too close not to feel how he’s struggling to take it, the wet sound of his inhales like he’s choking down a sob. His hands are fisted framing his head on the pillow, clenched so hard a little cut has reopened on one bruised knuckle, and Logan wants to touch him there, feather his fingertips over those tender bones, but Wade says, feeling him hovering, “Don’t fucking ask me if I’m okay, fuck you. I’ve taken bigger dicks before.”
“Have you?” Logan asks, pulling out an inch before thrusting back in deep, making Wade cry out. He hasn’t been with all that many men, but at this point he’s pretty sure he’s above average.
“Fuck,” Wade says, hiding his face in the pillow, “No, fuck, I haven’t, okay? Shut up and fuck me.”
That makes Logan laugh, quiet and close, this dark little sound of amusement he’s never heard from himself before as Wade squirms underneath him, trying to make himself to adjust to it. Logan’s nice and helps him out, fucks him slow and deep, circling his hips to open Wade up for himself, each thrust making Wade good for him, forcing Wade’s body to fit him inside. So swept up in the violence and shock of it, the maelstrom force of Wade hauling Logan into the hurricane of himself, Logan almost forgot that he wanted this too.
It gets easier, Wade relaxing into it because he doesn’t have any other choice, Logan starting to take what he wants, free to get rougher than he usually would. Wade arches back into him, trying to get more contact, grabbing for Logan’s hip like he could drag him in deeper, and Logan lets him for a moment before seizing Wade’s wrist and pinning him down, wrapping his fingers around the other wrist too and letting him feel it, Logan’s weight on him and the fact that there’s nothing Wade can do about it. Wade’s vexed little moan stretches out into a whimper when Logan starts pounding him, evolving into a desperate litany of fuck, please, Logan, fuck, yes, need it, please, please, please, as Logan keeps going, giving him what he’s begging for.
Wade’s all desperate heat under him, around him, Logan losing himself in it. Logan’s been safe with everyone he’s done this with, with women because the last thing he wants is some little Logan No Last Name Jr. running around and with men because they’re too smart not to be. Taking Wade bare is almost too good, that heat gripping him tight, nothing between them. The intimacy of it could almost kill him if he would let it and he wants it to, wants to stay here with Wade, inside him, in this completely foreign feeling that maybe this is actually where he’s supposed to be.
Blood beads up on Wade’s split knuckle and Logan ducks in to taste it, taking Wade in the same way Wade licked Logan’s blood off himself after the punch that cut Logan’s lip. The helpless, overwhelmed look in Wade’s eyes when Logan meets them is nearly enough to make Logan forget himself and steal a kiss but he can’t bring himself to cross that boundary, settles instead for a soft brush of lips over the back of Wade’s hand and pulling back enough to reach under Wade and get a good grip on his cock.
He stays fucked in deep, lets Wade guide their movements, thrusting himself into Logan’s curled fist and back onto Logan’s cock, taking what he needs. When it’s not enough he begs, “Please, Logan, hurt me, please,” and Logan gives into him, drags Wade’s hips up and slams into him, hard and cruel enough to hollow him out. Wade whines at the feel of it and Logan has to shut him up, this ruined desperate thing beneath him begging for punishment Logan can’t imagine he deserves. He gets his hand on Wade’s bruised jaw and two fingers in his mouth, rubbing meanly at his split lip until Wade comes trembling in his grasp, sucking on Logan’s fingers, tears at the corners of his eyes.
“Why do you have to be so…” Wade starts when Logan’s fingers slip wet out of his mouth, looking over his shoulder at Logan like he just can’t figure him out, like he doesn’t even know how to try. He looks devastated, desecrated, and Logan did it to him, he did all of it, bruised him and fucked him and made him cry.
“What?” Logan asks, voice soft. A little afraid that he’s done something wrong, or at least unwanted. Wrong seems like a relative judgment here.
Wade shakes his head, swallows, says, “Get on your back, I wanna ride you. See your face when you come.”
Logan pulls out of him, leaving him red and wrecked and swollen there too, evidence of what he’s done all over Wade now. Wade straddles him and sinks down onto his cock with a hiss of pain, but there’s determination in his eyes as rubs his tears away with the heel of his hand, and he starts moving right away, focused on Logan as he fucks himself. All Logan can do is go with it now, his hands on Wade’s hot thighs, fucking his hips up to meet it each time Wade slams back down on him, watching as Wade slowly recovers, vulnerability bleeding away more and more each time he clenches his ass on Logan’s cock like he’s trying to force the orgasm out of him.
It works, Logan can’t resist him, his hands on Wade’s ass holding him in place with an iron grip as he comes inside him. It’s too much and it’s all he’s going to get so Logan looks back, staring into those bottomless dark eyes as he fills Wade up, leaves another part of himself behind. It hasn’t been like this before and Logan doesn’t know how he’s supposed to keep going now that he knows this is what it can feel like.
After a too long and yet still too short moment, Wade says, “That was great,” and then bends low, close enough that Logan thinks maybe a good performance earned him a kiss—god, Logan needs to do something about his very depressing life—but instead there’s a metallic sound as Wade grabs something from underneath the bed, and with startling speed he’s sitting up again, Logan’s softening cock slipping out of him, two katanas crossed over framing Logan’s throat.
“Okay,” Logan says, because what in the fuck else is he supposed to say here, “I think this kind of thing is usually negotiated first.” When he exhales, the blades cut in just a fraction, just enough to sting.
“Oh, now you’re cute and funny? Now you want to make conversation?” Wade, unbelievably, looks genuinely irritated about this.
“When exactly did you want to talk to me tonight? When you were asking me to beat the shit out of you, or when you were telling me to shut up and fuck you?”
“I can’t believe you’re this hot and a service top,” Wade says, continuing to look furious as if he has any right to. “I would not have taken this job if I’d known how big your dick was. I can’t take you out of circulation for ethical reasons now. And I was told you had fucking claws, I thought I was going to get to see claws. Maybe get a little stabbed. Where are the claws, Logan?”
Sure, why the hell not. With his hands still braced on Wade’s thighs, Logan slides out the claws. The pain of it still startles him a little every rare time he does it, his bones making room for what shouldn’t be there, his knuckles flayed open. When they reach their limit he slides his hands up to Wade’s bare hips, letting him feel the flat side of each innermost claw, carefully allowing the slightest tease of sharpness. With blades at his own throat, for once a little afraid, it still feels good somewhere deep inside Logan that someone wants to see him for what—who—he really is.
“Well, those are cool as fuck,” Wade says, aggravated. “You know, you have some very rich people really desperate to get ahold of your ass. I was supposed to chop you up into pieces and bring you back in separate bags, it was going to be gross but I was going to be so brave about doing it. You were going to end up a science experiment and I was going to absolutely thrill my accountant Gina with some 401k contributions for once. Who the fuck are you, anyway?”
“I don’t know,” Logan says honestly. “I woke up a little while back without any memories. Didn’t know where or who I was, just had these dog tags with my name on them. Sounds like you might know more about me than I do.” This is the first time in Logan’s remembered life that he’s experiencing what must be a strange and cautious sort of optimism. Like he finally has a chance to find out what happened to him, a way forward. “You think you could help me out?”
“Literally the exact opposite of what I was hired to do as a mercenary killer, which was to kill you. No real room for community service in the job description,” Wade points out. “But that is an unexpectedly sympathetic backstory. You kinda got me there. If I kill you now I’ll feel like a total dick. And an idiot, because you’re an incredibly good fuck.”
It’s a roll of the dice, he knows that, but Logan’s going to do what he wants right now, damn the consequences. He strokes at Wade’s waist, slides his thumbs over Wade’s hipbones. Angles the claws to press into Wade’s back so he has to bend closer or get cut. Wade swallows, swears, lets himself be guided down. His grip on the katanas continues unwavering even as he gets a breath away from Logan’s mouth, so the blades cut into Logan’s throat when he arches up to meet Wade in a kiss.
It’s worth bleeding for, worth the sting to finally taste Wade’s mouth. Wade gasps a little at the pressure, finally releasing the swords when Logan licks at his swollen lower lip like that’s the particular pain he’s been hungry for all along. Logan has the advantage, could take him out right here and run rather than risk it. But what’s he risking, anyway? Wade could have killed him, and he didn’t. Logan’s willing to see how it goes from here.
He curves a hand lightly around the least marked-up parts of Wade’s jaw to see if he’ll be allowed and Wade leans into it, his eyes slipping shut for the barest moment. Trusting him. When Logan takes another kiss Wade returns it, slow and shockingly sweet.
“Well, fuck,” Wade says, when they part again. With care now he slides the katanas away, setting them against the wall. His hand finds Logan’s, fingertips brushing over the blunt tops of the claws, turning Logan’s hand this way and that as he examines them. “Seriously, these are so cool. Does it hurt when they come out?” His fingertips reach the bases of them, feeling around at the broken and mended skin where they emerged.
“Every time,” Logan says. He draws them back in, Wade watching, touching him with plain fascination. When the claws disappear Wade presses kisses to where they were, soft over the healed spaces between each knuckle.
Wade looks at Logan like he’s something amazing.
“I will make you stab me at some point,” Wade says. At Logan’s raised eyebrow he rolls his eyes. “Lightly. In a nice way. God, this night went differently than I expected.”
He climbs off of Logan, finally, but Logan doesn’t have much time to miss his weight before he’s shuffling in close, a warm presence alongside him.
“So, okay,” Wade says, “If I don’t do this job, which I’m not going to at this point, hope you caught that, the people who hired me are going to send more people like me after you to do the thing I was supposed to do and didn’t. So there will be people trying to kill us, probably a lot of them. I think you can handle yourself, because most of the mercs I know are just ordinary sociopathic humans and you have the invulnerability thing going for you, which is neat. The lab I was supposed to take you to is just a couple days drive from here, so I figure I can say I killed and dismembered you and they’ll trust me due to the great reputation I’m pretty freely throwing away. We can come up with a good strategy for getting you into the building alive while we’re on the way. And if it all goes to hell and I die when we get there that’s fine, at least I’ll have gone down swinging. On your dick, I mean. If I’m risking it all for your ass I will be tapping it with vigor and all of my remaining youthful enthusiasm. Please confirm that you agree with this plan.”
“I agree with this plan,” Logan confirms. “But try not to die, would you?”
“Okay, so you volunteer to be my human shield. Mutant shield. Sorry if that was offensive.”
“It wasn’t,” Logan says. He will be guarding Wade with his life going forward to the point that Wade will likely find it insulting. Logan will do it anyway. Wade’s prickly but pragmatic, and anyway Logan can probably kiss the protests out of him.
Wade puts his hands up. “Trying to be respectful. Someone at the lab will have to have answers for you when we get there. It’s a place to start, at least. Do you have a way to get us around? I’ve been using a rental and it’s fine but I do not like driving in snow and I don’t want to continue doing it.”
“I’ve got a truck with a camper.”
“Love shack on wheels,” Wade says, delighted. “Great. Hope it has a big enough bed. If not we can cuddle. Well, we can cuddle either way. This’ll be fun! Not the part where we’ll have to break in to a very well-guarded facility and hope that we can get the villain to monologue some answers at you. Or actually the part where we’ll be chased down by assassins if we both manage to escape again afterwards. But hey, road trip!”
“Wade,” Logan says, cutting in at Wade’s first available pause for breath. At least with this guy he’ll never be bored. When Wade peers up at him, his eyes wide and serious, Logan just says, “Thanks.”
“Oh,” Wade says, blinking. He rolls away, turning the bedside lamp off and casting them in darkness. Logan sees him take a deep breath, and when he turns back, he nods, smiling a little before folding himself into Logan’s hesitantly open arms. In the quiet shadows of the room, wrapped up in Logan, he says, “You’re welcome.”
*
Wade’s still there when he wakes up, not that he could have gone far with Logan tucked up behind him, arm around his waist. He doesn’t look quite as beat to hell in the thin bars of daylight slatting through the blinds, which is almost as much of a relief as Wade not having fled in the night. He makes an annoyed sound at feeling Logan stir behind him, and Logan tries to go very still, but it’s too late.
“Oh god,” Wade says, cracking one eye open to look back at Logan over his shoulder. “It wasn’t all just a dream? I did actually throw this job and my bad boy reputation away last night for some admittedly fantastic sex? I committed to going on an actual fucking quest? No no,” he insists when Logan tries to draw away from him, “Stay here, you’re fine here.” Logan pulls him even closer, and Wade snuggles back into him. “I’m just double-checking that this is really happening and last night wasn’t just an incredibly elaborate sexy bedtime story I told myself to fall asleep. But here we are.”
“Here we are,” Logan echoes, not entirely able to believe it himself. He nudges his face into Wade’s neck, closing his eyes for just a second, being there, feeling it. Yes. Here they are.
“So,” Wade continues. “Morning sex first, obviously.” He shifts back against Logan’s erection demonstratively, then keeps rubbing on him, clearly just enjoying it. “And then breakfast somewhere. And then we get on our way?”
“Yeah,” Logan says, sliding his hand down Wade’s stomach, curling it around his cock. “Sounds good.”
“Alright,” says Wade, and turns around in Logan’s arms, looking him in the eye as he slips his thigh between Logan’s and grabs his ass to haul him in closer. “Then let’s fucking go.”