TITLE: Please (8B/?)
AUTHOR: vanessagalore
CHARACTERS: Veronica, Logan, Keith
WORD COUNT: 3,391
RATING: NC17 for this chapter
SUMMARY: Sometimes it's best to just get the hell out of Dodge. Set right after 'The Bitch Is Back'.
SPOILERS: Spoilers for the whole series, especially season 3.
WARNINGS: Cursing.
DISCLAIMER: I don't own any rights to Veronica Mars. This story is written as a tribute only. Beta'd by zaftig_darling. All remaining errors are my responsibility.

THIS IS THE "MATURE" VERSION OF CHAPTER EIGHT OF MY ONGOING FIC, PRECIPITATION.

IF YOU ARE OFFENDED BY ADULT SITUATIONS,

PLEASE RETURN TO THE "T" RATED VERSION OF THIS CHAPTER

That night, I lie awake for hours, thinking about everything Logan and I had talked about. Everything I thought I knew about the past year has been changed. It's as if someone's given me a new pair of eyeglasses, and I'm finally seeing things as they are.

Dad had come back to the room, smelling of whiskey and breath mints, bearing newspapers from Dallas, Little Rock, St. Louis, and New Orleans, along with a few tabloids. He hadn't been able to find an LA Times or, what would have been even better, a San Diego Union-Tribune. I didn't ask about the drinking, and he didn't volunteer any information.

Dad was untalkative and pensive as the three of us leafed through the newspapers, hoping that we wouldn't see our names. People Magazine had a huge spread on Princess Diana's sons, and nothing on Logan. Of course Dad and I aren't big enough celebrities to make it into that rag.

The only mention of any of our exploits was a two-line blurb in the back of the Weekly World News that Logan Echolls, son of famed Hollywood star, the late Aaron Echolls, was missing and was presumed to have violated a probation agreement stemming from an assault charge in December.

'The late Aaron Echolls'—I always liked reading that phrase. It was almost, but not quite as good as reading 'Aaron Echolls fries for the murder of Lilly Kane.'

There was a small photo with the article: Logan, accompanied by his lawyers and beseiged by reporters, as he emerged from the courthouse from the preliminary hearing for the Felix Toombs murder trial. I'd been waiting in the limo that day, so thankfully I wasn't in the picture, and it wasn't a very clear picture of Logan, to our great relief.

The big news in the tabloids was Paris Hilton's impending incarceration for violating her probation. I felt sick as I read the gleeful accounts of how the judge was going to "throw the book at her", and I pictured Logan also becoming the victim of vengeful prosecution, mostly for the crime of being famous. And Lindsay Lohan had been cited for drunk driving and driving her up onto a curb, with what police called a "usable" amount of cocaine. The reporters seemed almost thrilled to report that the actress had screwed up yet again.

Still, Cliff had been right. The incessant reporting about the foibles of Lindsay Lohan and Paris Hilton had driven Logan's crimes off the front pages. But once the jackals had gotten their fill of the big celebrities, it seemed likely that Logan would be their next target. I imagined exultant headlines blaring "Echolls Lashes Out Again, and the Judge Drops the Gavel" or "What's Wrong With Celebrity Kids—Why Can't They Behave?", with picture after picture of Logan, unfortunately photogenic and favoring his father's good looks, and editorials calling out for harsher sentencing to "send a message".

I sent a fervent prayer that Paris and Lindsay would keep being notorious and overshadowing Logan's exploits. They seemed to thrive on the publicity, and the threat of consequences didn't seem to even ping their radar. I hoped that they'd be page one fodder for a long, long time...long enough for us to get away.

Even as we suffered through the grim task of perusing the tabloids for bad news, Logan kept stealing glances at me, making it obvious he wished we were alone. Now that the light is back in his eyes, I wonder how I never noticed its absence these long months.

I don't know what Logan and I are going to do. It seems like we've just scratched the surface of our issues. And it had been cruel to only have time to kiss momentarily before Dad came back and interrupted us. I long to take Logan's hand, to lean against him and seek his comfort. But the three of us need to stay together and watch out for each other, and there's no question in my mind that it would be foolish for Logan and I to leave Dad's protection for even a short time to pursue some foolish romance.

What would we do? Have a date? Go see a movie at the drive-in and get a malted afterwards? Do we tell Dad we need some 'alone time' and ask him to skedaddle, looping a necktie over the motel room doorknob to ensure our privacy?

It's completely ridiculous. We need to cool it. I resolve to ignore my hormones and stop thinking about it. It's all just chemicals anyways.

But it doesn't mean that I can sleep. This motel, at least, is quiet, unlike our lodging from the previous night. We're in a room on the opposite side from the highway, and there's no traffic noise or drunken guests slamming doors. Dad falls asleep quickly, snoring a little louder than usual, and I wonder how many drinks he'd had. He's never been a teetotaler, but it surprised me that he'd taken the risk of going to a bar.

I stare up at the ceiling and try to count sheep. The alarm clock displays 2:14 when I get up and go to the bathroom. My face, in the glare of the fluorescent light in the bathroom, looks haggard and unfamiliar beneath the inexpert style of my brunette hair.

When I wash my hands and open the door to go back to bed, Logan is waiting outside the door, a finger held to his lips to silence me. He pushes me back into the room and turns out the light, shutting the door behind him. Other than a faint sliver of grayness outlining the edges of the door, it's completely dark.

I sense him leaning down to me, and, with his lips pressed close to my ear, he whispers, "I don't want to wake up your dad. We have to be quiet. I can't sleep either." And then he touches my face.

I find his ear with my lips. "He'll freak if he wakes up and we're not there."

I feel his smile against my cheek. "He's a detective, Veronica. He'll figure it out. But I promise you, he's sound asleep—he didn't even twitch when I got out of bed."

And then—just the sound of the two of us breathing in the blackness.

I sense him fumbling, getting his bearings—a hand brushing past me, then grasping me with more sureness. I'm turned and urged backward against the solidness of the door. Lips crushing my nose, trying desperately to find me, and I stand on tiptoes trying to reach him. And our mouths meet.

...Oh yes. I remember this. Long nights in the X-terra when Dad thought we were seeing a movie, but really it was an excuse for hours of kissing and a hand teasing the edge of my bra and then...oh god, then he was underneath the fabric, cupping me, I remember that first time, how it felt—the unfamiliar sensations in my breast making me nauseous and afraid and oh god is this how it's supposed to feel, my whole body flushed red-hot with hormones surging out of control...

Strong hands around my waist, pulling me—I don't know what he's intending, but I don't care—and then his hands lift me up onto the sink. Just a gentle hint with his fingers and now I know what he wants. I wrap my legs around his waist and let his mouth sink to mine. My hands grope for his face...yes...here it is, the rough hint of day-old beard and familiar features. I don't need to see them; my fingers know these planes and hollows, the tough cartilage of an ear and silky hair beyond. A caress of his jaw. It's been so long since my fingers twisted in his hair, so long since I stroked his cheek.

His hands explore me...I hear his sudden subtle gasp as he trails his fingers down and finds the flesh of my outer breast. My breath judders as he cups me, suddenly sure where he is, sure how he wants to and what he wants to, and the pad of his thumb finds me, teases me, oh god torments me, my flesh contracting into a thousand nerve endings of concentrated desire.

His breathing thrums so loudly in my ears, and I yearn to keen his name, to lament out loud the time we've lost. His fingers gather the fabric of my t-shirt, lifting it off me, revealing me.

...That first time I let him see me, my arms shyly crossed to hide my nakedness. He took my arms, gently opening me and looking at me, adoring me, his head bending to kiss the soft flesh, a hand caressing me, just the slightest pressure and...

Now the t-shirt is over my head, my arms still tangled in the fabric, and, unable to wait, he kisses me, a trail of wet adulation from neck to breast. An impatient hand, pulling at the t-shirt and freeing me, and a single word, whispered.

"Yes."

It's a demand, a proclamation. I'm not given a choice as he grabs my hand and pulls it down to his boxers. A strangled sound, suppressed in his throat, as I stroke him.

...My tentative hand, that first time in the backseat. I didn't know. 'Yes, just like that. You can't do it wrong. Oh god, Veronica, yes, please, don't stop. Oh god I love it. Please...a little tighter, oh god oh god, yes, yesss.' The shape of it, so surprising, the power of it, so strong and frightening, but I loved him so, even if I never said it. I would have done anything for him. Until I didn't...

He pushes his boxers down, freeing himself, and his breathing is loud and ragged. My hand now encircles him and his fingers pause in stroking me through the damp cotton of my sleep shorts. His breath catches and he tenses in pleasure at my touch. He feels soft and hard, with helpless little thrusts in my tight fist as he tries for more friction. Again his lips, wet and seeking, find mine, and he fills me with his tongue. His hand covers mine and stills me, and I know he wants me to slow down.

He guides me—slow, gentle caresses—and he leaves me to it, his little panting moans throttled down and barely perceptible. His hand slides inside the waistband of my sleep shorts, and now his fingers skim over my pelvis, seeking me out, finally finding that spot right there, right there!, and then...pressure. Insistent circles, unrelenting as I tremble and arch into his hand. I break his kiss and silence my whimpers with his shoulder, my eyes squeezed shut, vision blacker than black with the red blots of electrical storms.

One-handed, I struggle with my shorts, trying to pull them off to give him more access. He senses what I'm doing and tries to help, although the frantic movements of his hand between my legs is hindering us. His lips are desperate on my neck as I hoist myself a little. The shorts finally give way to our efforts, the waistband sliding down below my hips, and he slips a finger in, and then two, knowing without a doubt that I'm ready for him.

And without thinking, I grasp him a little stronger, and he can't help it—he moans, and both of us freeze, expecting the light in the bedroom to snap on and an angry voice to demand what the hell we're doing.

It stays dark; it stays quiet. And tentatively, helplessly, we resume stroking each other.

I hear him, I don't need him to say it, I know exactly what he's thinking...'oh god, Veronica, feels so good, love you'. I know that he loves me—he doesn't need to say it.

...It was June and he'd shucked me out of my bathing suit in the pool house, and I'd never let him do *that*. I was afraid. I didn't like the creepy pool house because of the memories, still all too fresh with the video wiring ripped out and the new paint job all too obvious, but we needed to be alone and Mrs. Navarro was far away, up in the main house.

We smelled like chlorine from hours of teasing each other in the pool, and I'd let him touch me everywhere else, but never below the waist without my clothes on. His eyes were locked on mine as his fingers trailed down, down, a little insistent as my legs trembled, not very welcoming. One finger, a slow oscillation, and...oh god THIS is what they were talking about, and I was wet, an unbelievable slickness and I relaxed and his finger slid inside me. Yes...this is what they were talking about...

He breathes, "Want to."

"Can't..."

"I know."

"You first." And his hand plucks me off him, and I wonder at his self-control. A strong hand grasps me around the waist, steadying me, and his hand thrusts and massages me. He knows just how I like it, after hours of practicing until we got it perfect. A gentle pressure, small little circles of pleasure building to an intensity, and, as I begin to tremble, rough pulsations and deep strokes inside me. I try to imagine how he'd be talking me through it, 'yeah, baby, just like that, let go for me, love you, sugarpuss, let go for me.'

...That day in the pool house, he'd been stroking me for a long time, an hour it seemed. It felt very, very nice, incredible even, but nothing to write a song about or start a war over. And I started getting nervous, because it seemed like he was expecting more. I mumbled, "It's okay, let's go back in the pool, all right? I don't want you to get...bored." I'd pulled at him, trying to get him to stop.

And he'd hitched himself up to my face, and, trapping my arms in his hands above my head, he'd kissed my protests away. And then he'd said, "I promise I'll let you know if you're boring me. But trust me, I could never be bored with you lying beside me naked. I want you to relax, okay? We're just going to do what feels good. Don't worry so much." Then he'd eased me over onto my front and climbed on top of me. With strong hands, he'd slowly massaged my back, caressing me and kneading me until I was a blob of jelly in his hands, and then he'd rolled me back over and started again, taking his time and caressing me until...

Thrusting hard and keeping his thumb right where I need it, he finds my mouth again, tonguing me deeply, and my hips twitch helplessly. His frenzied breaths in my ear, his frantic movements, awkward and desperate in the dark—I'm excited and completely under his sway as he pushes me, pulls me...pleases me, petrifies me. He holds me, forcing me to submit to his hands, and he coaxes me to let him, let go, let it happen.

I tremble and tumble, the darkness giving me a little vertigo. Geometric patterns dance in the blackness of my vision, and I feel like I'll never get enough air again. His lips press a line of kisses on my neck as I pant and quiver against him. It's been so long since he made me feel this way—so long since I surrendered the way that only he can make me.

Panting...breathing...vibrating...muscles twitching and throbbing...the mingled sweat of our bodies...my distinctive scent on his fingers as he caresses my face and kisses me tenderly. We could be anywhere, here in the dark. It's not a motel, it's a luxury beach cottage in Hawaii, it's a pied à terre overlooking the Eiffel Tower, it's a condo in Vail, it's his bedroom at the Neptune Grand and we haven't screwed it all up, and that stupid blue fish is still intact above us, still the ugliest thing I've ever seen. We're not hiding, we're not running, my eyes are just closed because I can't bear how intense it is when he touches me.

I fumble, trying to find him again, and he's hard and tense, ready for my hand. He's so close to me and so ready; it's impossibly difficult to hold him and not pull him inside me, with every instinct, every hormone and chemical in my body screaming at me to make love to him. But we can't. It would be a catastrophe if— I can't even think it. He senses my anguish, and he holds himself back as I smooth my fingers around him, the two of us stronger and more sensible than each of us by ourselves—at least for this one fleeting moment of passion in the utter disaster of our lives.

"Love you," he breathes.

"Love you."

I love the way he feels, urgent, muscular. It's so goddamn carnal, that protuberance of flesh, such a powerful appendage with the ability to change lives, to make you fall in love, to create another being. It's passion and sex and love, rushing toward completion. I massage him, cuddle him, fist him with intensity, and I imagine him inside me, thrusting and seeking—the loveliest friction of them all. No barriers...just completely as one. I so want to have that again.

He finds me once more, his thumb caressing me between my legs in time to my hand's movements. As I tighten my grasp and speed up my strokes, he buries his face on my shoulder to smother his moans. His pelvis takes over as he finds his own rhythm—he's too excited to last long, and we shudder together as he releases with a soft sigh of pleasure.

And we hold onto each other for a long time, panting and trembling, sweat cooling and cramped muscles relaxing. I become aware of a bruised hip that I don't remember hitting, and Logan straightens up and his back cracks audibly. I long to see his face, to lie in his arms and murmur nonsense syllables of love, but the best we can hope for is a few moments of tenderness in the dark and maybe something more in the days to come.

As quietly as we can, we use a washcloth to clean each other clumsily in the dark. I reach for the doorknob to return to bed, and he puts his hand on mine to prevent me. "Want to hold you for a while," he whispers. Logan sinks to the floor, crossing his legs, and tugs on my hand to make me join him. Helping me to settle into his lap, he wraps his arms around me in a tight hug. I lean my head against him and relax into his embrace as I wrap my fingers around his upper arm. His hand traces light circles on my shoulder and he rests his head on top of mine.

Our breaths sync in rhythm as we hold on to each other in the darkness. And I think back to that lazy afternoon two years ago in the pool house when he'd been so patient with me.

Afterwards, he'd held me tightly as I quivered, and he'd sworn to me that it would be even better when we made love. When I was ready, he'd promised. And he was right, it was even better...but it had been almost a year later before that happened.

Because that night, after such a perfect afternoon, he'd dropped me off at the Sunset Cliffs apartment and met up with his friends, and they'd burned down a swimming pool in the city park. And we'd started fighting, and eventually the fighting got to be too much. I grew so afraid of whatever it was that was going on with him that I'd had to break off the relationship.

So it had been the next summer when we finally made love.

Six months was the longest we'd ever made it as a couple.

"Maybe this time."

I didn't even realize that I'd actually whispered it out loud until I heard him answer, "Maybe."