A Classic Situation

Elevator railings were not meant to carry your average person. Under a person heavily augmented with adamantium, it stood no chance especially since it had already manfully help up against a silk shirt catching and ripping on one of its screws, a knob crushed to bits for leverage, and a Manolo Blahnik-shod foot balancing on its age-smoothed bar.

"Jeannie." He shifted her-- light as a throwing knife-- so that she stayed up by virtue of his knee and her grasp on the wooden mouldings framing the elevator mirrors. "The kids..."

"Are on a field trip," she whispered. Tracing the whorls in his ear, she continued, "They won't be back for another two hours and forty-three minutes. What I'm going to do to you, Logan, is only going to take two hours and thirty minutes."

If she could package that smile-- mischief, sensuality, and self-confidence wrapped in dark pink lipgloss-- she'd be irresistible. Scratch that: she'd be all powerful. Wait--

Logan stopped trying to think coherently as she slid the shirt off his shoulder and, exquisitely, bit the bared flesh.

Outside, Warren sighed as he made his way up the stairs. That was the sixth time this week that the elevator malfunctioned. He would really have to talk to somebody about it.