Mating Call Of The Phoenix Ch 07

Scott had a sudden, strong awareness of his body. It was no wonder, after what he'd put it through, but no, this was different. Not the stingingly sweet feel of his body after lovemaking, drained but happy, relaxingly agitated and slowly settling. This was the bulging heat of a work-out session.

He could smell ozone about him, sweat and adrenaline, but his heartbeat was deep and even. He hadn't been truly in danger, trusting to the Danger Room's safeguards. And now he was in one of the mansion's bespoke bathrooms, about to take a shower, the cool water soothing the stubborn warmth of his muscles, a young man's muscles, him in the prime of his life.

He looked at himself in the mirror, admiring his younger self's musculature. Vain, he knew, and not too rational—he'd lost little muscle mass since those days, they hadn't been

that

long ago, and it was hard to recall all the almost

playful

business with Gambit and Cable and Bishop and not think how profoundly unhappy he'd been. Or at least, would be. Once he had time to think. There was his problem: thinking.

"Mutant fashion, though," he recalled. "I can't believe I got Logan to wear blue underwear on the outside..."

"Oh, he would've done anything for me," Jean said. "Not that you noticed, with Psylocke throwing herself at you."

"And us being newlyweds, too. Maybe that should've been a warning sign."

"Maybe your last marriage should've been a warning sign," Jean pouted. "But then, when it was me you cheated with..."

"I think now it's both me and Madelyne that cheated with you."

"Yes," Jean grinned haphazardly. "That was fun, no? And to think I would've felt guilty over such a thing."

"No. You wouldn't have."

"You're right. Maybe I just would've been worried about you feeling guilty... or I would've thought how I was supposed to feel guilty..." Jean shook her head. Kissed his cheek. "You're filthy, husband mine. Get in the shower."

"What was that about Psylocke?"

"What was that about Namor?"

Scott winced and obediently disrobed, taking a length of cloth from his pocket to tie around his eyes. Not much point in getting his glasses wet. Moving by touch and familiarity, he got into the gargantuan shower stall, found the dial, and cranked it to a bracing cold gush against his overheated muscles.

He felt it all come off him—two hundred curls with the seventy-five bar, two hundred squat thrusts with the two-hundred pound, endless minutes under the chest machine to see how long he could take those two hundred more pounds of dead weight. He always felt swollen with muscles afterward, bulging with it, and that heat ferociously resisted the cold water. He felt like red-hot metal being cooled, fresh from a smithy's hammer. He imagined if it weren't for the blindfold, he'd be able to see steam rising off his muscles as they slowly lost their tension, their torque, becoming tepid masses of flesh again and not the powerful machinery they had briefly been.

Before he could shiver, he swung the dial around, now dousing himself with hot water. It felt even better on his numb, insensate muscles, reviving them, breathing new life into his flesh, pitching him up and flooding him with a new awareness, waking him up from the languor of the adrenaline high crash. He heard every drop of the shower spray upon the mosaic of tiles, felt every bead of water caressing his skin, his member growing half-hard with the sheer rush of sensation.

Groaning, Scott unerringly found the bottle of shampoo, popped the cap open with his thumb, and doused his scalp in it, then began using his fingers to grind it into his hair. He could feel the humidity of the gales of steam flurrying about the stall, condensation no doubt growing thick on the otherwise clear glass.

"Oops. I walked in on you," Betsy Braddock said unapologetically, her British accent clear and cool, chilled and slightlyy head like the very best wine.

Scott could just imagine her—he'd seen her often enough, and enough of her

often

. The long, lean, athletic body with its muscular thighs, tapering legs, something delicate, almost balletic about the dainty feet that now squelched wetly, bare, upon the tiled floor. Her long, purple hair unfurling proudly from her tattooed face, with its chillingly precise lines, the cruel symmetry of it evident in her fierce smiles, her haughty stares. She could give Emma a run for her money in that department. But where Emma was pale and porcelain, Betsy was gold, the toning of her race and her training supplemented by a tan she worked at for hours, practicing her telepathy and telekinesis while she let the sun ripen a shamelessly exposed body.

And her trim hips and pert ass belied the exuberance of her breasts, full and heaving, befitting the musculature of her biceps and strong shoulders. High-set and firm, there was always a delectable contrast—her ass almost entirely exposed by the thong that bottomed her uniform, while her breasts, supple as they were, were completely hidden—if you could say such a tight costume really hid them. The comparative modesty neighboring such wanton exhibition had always struck Scott as particularly erotic, a sort of open warning or challenge—that she was a telepath and deigned to make herself... accessible, but once the floodgates were open, you'd be drowned in her.

Jean could, of course, read his thoughts—at the moment, he supposed she

was

his thoughts. "Every wife worries about her husband and an Asian hooker," she sighed.

Scott mentally shushed her;

be nice

. "Betsy," he greeted amicably, cleaning his hands off in the shower spray. "Take a wrong turn?"

"I'm in a real rush," Betsy said, louche enough that he could just picture the smile on her face. She was making absolutely no effort to convince him that her story held water. "And all the other bathrooms are occupied. You mind if I use your shower? I mean, it is pretty big..."

Scott could feel her eyes on him, and she wasn't looking for tattoos. "Sure, Betsy. Come on in—water's fine."

"Mmm. Finally starting to see reason." He heard the many straps of Betsy's costume come undone, whispers of silk on silk as she took off more and more.

"I can't see much of anything at the moment," Scott said. "So it's not like you have anything to be embarrassed about."

"Oh, I certainly don't. With or without ruby quartz." He heard the slap of her costume against the ground.

"I wonder if her pussy hair is purple too," Jean said, finger tapping her chin. "Want me to tell you, Scottie?"

Shower's not

that

big.

He heard the door swinging open, the suddenly compounded echo of the shower as the waterfall reverberated throughout the bathroom. A dull roar that turned Betsy's footfalls into a whisper. "I'm pretty dirty at the moment," Betsy said. "Jean and I made a few mud-pies, sparring. I wouldn't say it's a

good

thing you can't see me now, but I am... filthy."

"Not fighting over me, I hope."

"Oh, no. I don't need to fight for you. Do I, Scott?"

Scott smiled into the blackness he saw. It was actually a little fun, wondering what Betsy was doing, where she was looking—if she had noticed how he was starting to harden. "That was a very generous donation you made to rebuild the mansion last week, Betsy. There should be some way I can repay you."

"Just so long as I get my money's worth."

"Turn around."

"Ooh, Scott—what makes you think my back isn't turned already?"

"Turn around," Scott repeated.

He heard her footsteps pad about in a circle, the shower water now sluicing over the back of her body. It actually sounded quite different without those voluminous breasts in the way.

"My... what can we do in this position?"

"I could wash your back."

"And I bet you could get it clean enough to eat off of—or something like that."

Scott grinned and picked up the bar of soap.

***

Betsy could've gasped. Scott didn't start out by washing her, but by gripping her shoulder firmly with his off-hand. Now, having steadied her, he rolled the soap in circles over her back. He was impressed by the sculpted muscle—understated but potent—that swam just below the surface of Betsy's tanned skin.

"Do you always take this firm a hand with your subordinates?" Betsy teased cheekily—then accentuated the little pun by giving her ass a little wiggle, almost close enough to Scott's body for him to feel—but not quite.

"I do with the ones who need it," Scott replied. His poker face was so stony that it was impossible to tell if he realized the innuendo.

The circles moved lower, the bottoms of their arcs touching the small of Betsy's back, then the base of her spine, then brushing the tops of her buttocks. Betsy cooed at the overly familiar touch and wondered if Scott would dare go further.

He did, but not in the way Betsy expected. Instead, his thick arms wrapped around her slender form, the bubbling soap bar suddenly pressed to her stomach, just below her belly button. Now Betsy did gasp—it was an unexpected touch, in an area that often went untouched, just intimate enough to be less than sexual, but not close enough to be crude. It was an openly flirtatious, erotic gesture and Betsy enjoyed it.

She'd had her eye on Scott Summers for quite some time and had enjoyed the little fox-hunt, setting upon him the hounds of her body, her wit, her tantalizingly open sexuality. When he'd suddenly acquiesced to her come-on, she'd feared the hunt was over, with perilously little challenge in the final reckoning. That he'd simply decided to go through with it, perhaps even out of some fuming resentment of Jean.

But no. Cornered, the fox had reared onto its hind legs and bitten back, and Betsy enjoyed the battle. She would end it victorious—they both would—but bloodied. Oh, so wonderfully bloodied...

"That donation is turning out to be money well-spent..."

"Feeling clean, then?" Scott asked, ghosting the bar of soap over her belly. Higher, toward her breasts, but with painstaking slowness—feeling the ridges of her abs give way to the softness of her sternum, the supreme suppleness of the skin under her breasts...

"In all but mind."

"Good. I'd hate to think I wasn't being thorough."

"That's why you make such a good leader, Scott. You always make sure to dot all the Is... cross all the Ts..."

She started to turn around, but Scott's other arm closed on her throat, a chokehold, grip so harsh that Betsy almost automatically moved to incapacitate him. But she decided she liked playing the fawn, helpless in his hands. The bar of soap spread its suds between her breasts, Scott's large hand and the waterlogged hairs of his wrist and arm brushing along the inner curving of her décolletage.

There was something delectable about how restrained his interest was, as if leaving just the slightest doubt as to whether his intention truly was as wonderfully dishonorable as Betsy hoped. He didn't go out of his way to grope her, nor did he avoid the flesh of her cleavage. Betsy felt fantastically well-handled, tempted—she wondered if he was paying her back for how she had teased him.

The soap laved up the hollow of her throat in slow, sensuous, back and forth caresses, leaving a layer of filmy residue tingling on her skin. Scott moved his other hand, getting a grip on her hair now, using that to hold her head teasingly in place. She could move it, but only so much before she hurt herself pulling at the grip he had on her scalp. It put a smile on her face.

As the bar massaged the line of her jaw, spreading its silky layer toward her mouth, she fought the urge to lick at the intimately close touch. God, why did he have to be using that

thing

instead of his bare hands? She wanted to be sucking on his finger, at least. Or maybe he could use a washcloth—just a thin layer of fabric, rubbing at her so... radically different from the feel of his hands. Would she grow used to it? And then, when he let the washcloth fall away, how would that feel? Or maybe...

"How much would I have to donate for you to use your tongue to clean me?"

"No charge," Scott said huskily, his body so close that she could hear the beginning of the words in his chest.

"Mmmm... and do I get to choose what you're licking off me? Because I can imagine several possibilities. Some of which you'd greatly enjoy... contributing."

Maddeningly, he let go of her hair; she instantly missed the pressure of tugging just slightly against it. Instead, he took hold of her hand, bringing her arm up, and brushing the soap over that skin—still sensitive, but much less taboo. Betsy pouted. He was taking just as much time

there

as anywhere else—the least he could do was move on to her legs.

He did her other arm, Betsy letting herself become aroused, her breathing grow heavy, her breasts surge up and down. Then he put the bar of soap aside.

Betsy bit her lip. "Want me to do the rest myself? You can watch..."

"No. I want to do it. And I want you to watch."

Abruptly, Betsy's arms were jerked above her head, both her slender wrists caught by Scott's left hand and pinned over her. She stared up at her arms, trapped by the tall man, and stared disbelievingly at him as he took the showerhead down from its mount, the hose extending with it, a slight zipping sound.

"Scott! I've always wanted you to act more than think, but I certainly didn't know you'd been thinking like this..."

"I haven't heard any complaints."

"That's right." Betsy grinned dangerously. "You haven't."

In a moment, Betsy was rewarded with a harsh spray of water over her chest, her belly, washing away the suds Scott had left. Betsy felt them being sprayed off her flesh, the rich lather replaced with the scalding water of the hose. She looked down at her own gleaming flesh, oiled and smoothed by Scott's loving treatment of it, and actually felt a twang of lust.

Hell, she really was beautiful, a physical specimen, no amount of humility could deny that. All that was missing to truly make the spectacle was Scott's body against hers, their perfect forms pressing together like two Olympians in combat. Except no Greek statue would have a cock like Scott's on it. Wouldn't fit the aesthetic. To truly capture that look, it would have to be inside her...

Scott sharply dropped the spray of water to her sex, as if that could cool her down; she felt it hammering against her groin, claws scratching at the swollen, sensitive flesh of her cunt, a rush of prickly heat swelling between her legs. Betsy's mouth dropped open, a groan escaped her throat as the sudden rush of sensation doubled her over. Only Scott's strong grip held her in place like a torture rack.

"Ohhhhh!" Betsy moaned, letting her voice be as obscene as it wanted, not squelching the pornographic noise at all. She looked up and saw that it was working: Scott had grown epically tumescent, his manhood shooting straight out from his crotch as if reaching for her. Betsy waggled her hips, rubbed her thighs together, wondering if Scott could tell just how close her warm body was to his impalement of her.

He sprayed her in the face, forcing her to shut her eyes, and Betsy's breath came even hotter as she stopped being able to tell how close he was and could only imagine, could only dream of what he'd do next. Abruptly, she was wrenched away from the wall, spun around, shoved back against the tile below the showerhead. He pushed her hands to the water pipe and, unthinkingly obedient, Betsy wrapped her hands around them. Immediately after, she downplayed her obeisance with a joke.

"Quite hard, this." She kneaded her hands a little, adjusting her grip. "

Very

long."

"You haven't seen anything yet. Are you going to let go?"

"Mmm-mmm," Betsy hummed.

"Good girl."

With one hand freed, he put it on her shoulder and indicated for her to do a half-turn, keeping her hold on the pipe. Betsy did so, and felt him run the spray down her back, skimming the suds from her. He lowered the showerhead gently, letting its rushes of warm water massage Betsy, and she was so much more aware of Scott—his closeness to her, his hand still showing her how he would like her oriented, even his breathing and its mocking evenness despite her bare arousal—that she let the water lull her into a false sense of security. He washed her buttocks clean, then dropped the showerhead underneath her and shot water up between her thighs.

Betsy cried out, her feet drumming on the floor as she struggled to take this new intensity of sensation. He was purposely pushing her, playing her like an instrument, seeing how much she could take then stopping only so she would want it even more. It made her furious. It made her need him. She had a feeling about how the shag would be, and it would not be him giving into her feminine wiles. It would be her trying to contain all the lust he was expressing—the lust she had inspired in him. God, how was she supposed to wait?

Her skin reddened, the roaring water pelting her body. Now it blasted against her tits, her nipples stiffening against the liquid onslaught driving into her firm flesh. She could feel the heft of each round tit aching with lust, and shook her head violently to try to gain a handle on the lascivious feelings he was pushing into her. It was impossible. Her mind erupted with lust again and again.

"Scott... God,

Scott

..." Slowly but surely, her determined resolve was washed from her just as the soap had been. She yearned to submit to him, and when he surged forward, his hand covering her throat, she closed her eyes in glee. God,

God,

if only he were ready to fuck her...!

"Let go of the pipe," he told her firmly, something wonderfully understated in the strength of his voice. No macho posturing, no raised volume, just a simple expectation that she would obey. No wonder he was leader. No wonder she'd wanted him so badly.

Betsy released the pipe and, using his throttling grip on her throat, Scott lowered her to the floor. She crouched down as far as she could, then let her legs shoot out so she landed on her ass. Scott released her neck and she took in deep breaths, panting as much from excitement as a need for oxygen. She actually wished that he had choked her a little more. He seemed to have a real knack for it.

Scott let her breathe for an instant, his cock hovering near her face, throbbing powerfully, making her hopeful for what he'd do with it—fuck, but if she could just touch it... Then he was playing the water over her again, down her body, familiarizing her with it again and then centering it on her cunt.

Betsy jerked her body up, letting it fall slowly back to the puddled floor as the rush of warm water on her clit and sex kept her hips rising and falling, rutting with the spectacular interplay of liquid and flesh. She let her thighs spread further apart, rolled her hips from side to side, feeling the warm water sloshing against her ass. The spray played over her tits next, nipples aching and throbbing in time with the beating of her clit, then back down, down to where she knew it would feel best, lower, lower...

She couldn't bear the luscious heat rising in her sex. She gnawed on her lower lip, feeling herself rising up to meet the stream between her legs, rushing toward climax as if she'd given her body permission to fully deliver what Scott had demanded. Yes, she was going to come, come just from Scott washing her body, come without even having been touched. Betsy laughed, rolling her ass and hips up against the water. She was his. How could he not want good things, beautiful things, for someone who was his?

No, it wouldn't be long before the climax building in her cunt went off, a bomb whose fuse Scott had burnt every second of the way. She could feel the unmistakable tension building behind her groin, the hot, swelling ache that sharpened to a pinpoint of ecstasy. Betsy closed her eyes and lay there, wondering if Scott would stop when she climaxed. God only knew what would happen if those sensations kept going through her orgasm. Maybe it would be a little something like what her enemies felt on the receiving end of a psychic knife...