The music drew them in, clearly audible through the trees. Rhythmic, tribal percussion. Clapping. Bells. An unfamiliar stringed instrument that vibrated powerfully in the charged air.

Logan and Marie emerged from the shadowy forest into the West chamber. That too had been altered since their last visit. It was still draped in tones of indigo and midnight, the Milky Way twinkling above in a fine nexus of fiber optic filaments. This time, a mysterious fog swirled around their feet and different lights shone around the exterior of the room, making the walls bleed a violent crimson. They shifted into the vermilion sear of a spectacular sunset; effectively stopping time at that fiery moment the sun sinks below the horizon.

On the stage, a pair of dancers moved to the powerful beat. The male was bare-chested, wearing a pair of thin white pants with a braided orange rope for a belt. It was the woman, however, who stole the show. She was nude, her body a strange configuration of dusky flesh and bronzy-black scales. A series of smooth graduated plates ran down her spine, extending down into a long, wickedly frightening scorpion tail. The familiar hooked curl of the barbed stinger swayed to the exotic beat, a deadly metronome keeping perfect time.

The pair moved in tandem, strange motions that were more than a dance but less than a fight; retreating and attacking, ducking under controlled kicks and roiling with fluid motion that appeared to fly in the face of physics and anatomy. The female used her tail to great effect, for balance and offense, coiling and swinging and striking at the male as they flowed, using every inch of the raised dais in the center of the room. It was mesmerizing. The music drove their rhythm, dictating the style and energy; low moves across the floor, crawling, sweeping, and then darting up with twisting flips that seemed to defy gravity.

Logan and Marie made their way to the bar, ordering drinks while they watched the deadly pair. The man was wiry and muscular with long dreadlocks, an aquiline nose, and a stylized scorpion tattoo in vivid green curling across his chest. The woman was lean and tall, her black hair escaping her long ponytail in wisps that clung to her sweaty skin. Her breasts were small with dark nipples that were pulled tight, but it was her stinger that drew their attention rather than the sleek skin on display.

It was Marie who broke the silence first and Logan noted that this time she was more comfortable watching the stage. "That looks like somethin' more than just a dangerous dance, sugar."

"It is," he replied, downing a shot and ordering another before the burn had even reached his belly.

"Care to share with the class?"

"It's capoeira, a Brazilian martial art."

"And how do you know that?"

"Done my share of fighin' south of the border, kid. Buenos Aires. Rio. Sao Paulo." The Wolverine stirred at the memory. Hot, humid nights with the drums pounding in his ears and that wildness rioting in his blood. A bizarre cocktail of strange scents and strong drinks and rippling, sweaty bodies; some in the cage. Some after.

"Tell me more."

"S'about leverage. Power. Speed. Quick, complex moves."

"Not that."

He understood then she wanted personal details from his time there and not a lesson in an unfamiliar martial art. He nodded curtly. "Not here."

His eyes slid to one of the alcoves lining the wall. Hers followed. He was less inclined to conversation with the Wolverine riding so close to the surface, but he was willing to give her what he could before he lost himself to the wildness completely.

Signaling the bartender, he made short work of ordering a bottle and then turned to snarl at a large breasted blond with a taste for expensive leather who was clearly intent on approaching them. She was brassy and obvious and the idea of such easy prey asking permission to touch either of them made his skin crawl.

He didn't care if she was interested in him or his woman. He was in no mood to share and the violence in the low, threatening snarl was sufficient to ward her off. In contrast, the primitive sound had the opposite effect on his own woman. She quivered, but not with fear, and moved closer. The urge to sink his teeth into her was powerful enough to make the world go hazy around the edges.

Wrapping his fingers around the neck of the bottle, he caught Marie's eye. "Move your ass, darlin'." His patience was wearing thin.

In the semi-privacy of the alcove, Logan set the bottle on the table between them, drawing Marie's gaze from the stage to trace down the bottle of amber liquid.

"What's that?"

"Cachaça." The word rolled off his tongue and licked into her ear. KaSHAHsuhhh... "S'Brazilian and strong as shit. Go easy, huh?"

He cracked it and passed it over without taking a sip so he could taste her undiluted on the bottle when she passed it back. Watching her little fingers encased in black leather wrap around the bottle made his cock throb.

It wasn't his favorite spirit, but it was one of the little details she'd been curious about earlier. She held it under her nose first. "Smells like tequila." And then the bottle was between her lips. Her eyes watered and he could tell she felt the burn all the way down, sweet at first and then it bloomed into something else, smoky and a little wild. "God!" But because she was the Rogue, she took another sip, bigger this time, and grinned at him. "It's… earthy."

"Yeah. The shitty stuff tastes like dirt and costs about the same. They make it from sugarcane. S'got lotsa names. Tiger Breath. Heart-Opener. Fightin' water."

"Ah," she said understanding. "So all those wild nights south of the border started with this?"

"Started. Ended. Shit'll kill ya even with the healin'." That made her laugh. He took the bottle from her and drank deeply. It did fuck-all to stall the burn in his blood.

"More," she crooned, soft and low. Damn her. She knew what that slow drawl did to him.

"Fightin' there's brutal. No rules. Dirt under your feet and rebar at your back, cagin' ya in. More fuckin' bribes crossing palms than cheap drinks. Bare tits and tight bodies wherever you look."

It was a crude, honest assessment. He was losing too much ground to the wildness to say it any other way. He thought she might bristle, but she wet her lips instead and leaned in to breathe into his ear.

"Mmm… you like that or he does?"

Sex and violence and no law but his own?

"Fuck yeah. Both of us." He took another pull from the bottle and passed it back. "Don't remember too much, though. S'mostly one big Cachaça-fueled blur that smells like blood, feels like hell, and tastes like lime and pussy." He smirked at the look on her face. "You asked."

"You're one uncouth son-of-bitch, sugar." Her tone suggested she wasn't entirely displeased.

"You like it. Wilder I am, the wetter you get." He put a hand between his leg and pointedly rubbed his thumb where she'd slicked him with her essence earlier on the bike, such a sweet slide over the smooth leather.

"Fuck you." She saluted him with the bottle and a dirty wink. There was no arguing the truth with the Wolverine.

"Soon."

The unwavering surety in the quiet word made them both shudder.

With a smirk of her own, Marie withdrew the envelope from her coat. She tapped it against her rosy lips provocatively, watching his eyes gleam in the darkness before slapping it on the table between them like a dare while she took another drink.

Logan raised a brow. "Gimme that." He took back the bottle, purposefully ignoring the envelope. No way was the Wolverine going to lose this crazy game of chicken. At least, not without the proper incentive. He took another bracing swallow from the bottle. "Too much more of this and you're gonna need some Mississippi in ya to keep goin'. Unless that's your plan."

It wasn't a question.

He didn't expect an answer and didn't get one. The Rogue knew how to push his buttons. The Wolverine just grinned into the plummy gloom. He liked to play with his prey before going in for the kill.

~ooOoo~

The drums reached a fevered pitch and the room plunged into darkness.

The Wolverine wasted no time in going on the offensive.

"Touch yourself." An order, rasped into the soft whorl of her ear. He almost laughed when Marie jerked in her seat, but he knew she'd rise to the challenge. "Do it," he prompted when she didn't immediately comply. "Fuck that good girl bullshit. Gimme the bad girl. Whenever. However. That's whatcha said."

He didn't need to tell her where to touch. She knew. The Wolverine never did anything in half-measures. Those little gloved fingers slid between her legs.

He could see her clearly, even in the blackness, but he knew she was blind and that made it even better. Her lip was caught between her teeth and her eyes were closed. That hand was working between her legs though, and he hadn't expected that. The Rogue was rarely predictable. Still, that couldn't go unanswered.

"Inside," he demanded. The urge to penetrate her with something — anything — was overwhelming. "Use three fingers." Two would be more comfortable for her, he knew. But with the glove, three would hurt good.

She whimpered, which told him she'd complied. He counted to twenty-three, the number of seconds she'd left her lips on his wrist last time, before pausing to take one last moment to appreciate the view. The fingers of her other hand were splayed wide on the table. Her hips were beginning to move and she'd clamped her thighs around her wrist, but the Wolverine was in no mood to let that fire rage without throwing some gasoline on it.

"There she is." The bad girl. "Hell, darlin'. Even if I ordered you to use the bottle here, I'd expect you to do it." Her hand stopped moving.

Her breathing changed and she shuddered. First round to him, then.

"Stop." Another order, just to shine her on.

"No." He could tell she was close.

"Bad girls don't say no. Just yes," he fired back.

"I'm gonna make you pay for this, you know." A casual threat but not an idle one. He could hear how fast her heart was beating.

"I reckon so."

"You mean you hope so." She pulled her hand away, smugly. The glisten on her fingers was maddening, but it was the glorious scent clouding his brain that made him want to howl.

He ignored her, mostly because she was right. "Wipe your fingers on the bottle, kid." He'd said it to shock her and it worked. But only for a moment.

The Rogue held out her fingers between them, sure and confident, even in the inky darkness. "You sure you wouldn't like this better? But then, you haven't asked permission to touch me, have you, Wolverine?" She pulled her hand back and swirled the tip of her finger slowly around the lip of the bottle before she fisted the neck in a firm grip that made the muscles in his belly clench.

She always had to push.

Tonight he pushed back.

"He don't ask, darlin'. He takes."

Her whole body quivered.

The room was beginning to grow lighter. He caught her eye.

"Nothin' smart to say to that?" he observed, taking a pull from the bottle and crudely licking his lips after.

She shook her head.

He was almost disappointed until he realized the envelope was gone.

"Fuck," he muttered, feeling as if their little game had suddenly been turned on its head.

The Rogue just smiled as the first strains of music tickled his ear. "Hush, sugar. Show's starting."

Up next: not a damn clue. Heh. But I have a list of song titles, here, and a WolverineMuse who's all fired up and ready to raise hell…