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The hammer of want, pure lust, wasn't something Logan was planning on giving into. Not with someone he saw every day. Not with a teammate. Not with - god help him - never with a friend.

But his dick didn't care. His dick didn't have friends. The scent, sweat and leather - hot after a workout, sometimes blood tainted after a mission, that scent filled the mansion. It slipped under his door late at night and he'd wake with a dull, miserable ache between his legs. The flick of smile - white teeth against tawny skin - made him wonder what those teeth would feel like in his flesh. He watched clever hands deal cards late at night, followed the flow of the graceful body as they play- fought in the danger room or fought for real against their enemies. He thought about those long legs and how they'd feel wrapped around him. He thought about those hands on his skin, touching him. He thought about it a lot.

Logan was thinking about it now and listening to the faint, but not faint enough, noises from down the hall. The thief had been getting close to the professor's personal secretary for some weeks and tonight, all his charm and grace seemed to have paid off. Logan had heard them walking quietly up the hall to the thief's room. The thief's soft, slurred English had been reassuring and secretary had been gigglingly intoxicated on probably very expensive wine and anticipation.

There was the sound of closing doors and a soft thump. Logan twitched. Then he heard the soft sound a quiet, breathless sound that made all the hair on his body stand on end and the ache between his leg sharpen to a stabbing need. He wondered what the woman was doing to the thief to make him sound like that. He wanted to be the one making the thief sound like that.

He slid his hands under his sheets, touching himself with a grimace. Logan didn't touch himself. He didn't like to. He didn't like to think of himself like this - so hungry he'd take his own hand and be glad. There were bad memories there. There were bad memories most everywhere. When he closed his fingers around himself his breath left him in a hopeless whine. His pulse sped between his fingers, under hot, thin skin. He closed his eyes on the empty room and his mind to what his hand was doing. He listened.

More soft sounds in the late night. The thief knew how to be quiet. But Logan had good ears. He heard the whispers, he heard the soft sounds of appreciation - heard the thief murmur 'suck me' in french-creole. Logan's hand spasmed around himself at the voice, fluid dribbled across his belly. His breathing quickened, echoing the pace of things in another room. His hand moved under the sheets, easing a need he didn't want to have and couldn't really satisfy. He came on a gasp, hearing another gasp not far away but never close enough.

He lay there and listened to the silence.