It's not that she didn't like Bobby; she did.
Bobby was nice, and sweet, and funny, and so careful and patient. Well, mostly patient. And a little too careful for her liking sometimes. But still, he was a great guy, and any girl would be lucky to be his girlfriend. Kitty had reminded her of that just this afternoon.
John had been staring during English Lit again - flipping his lighter open and rolling his thumb over the wheel. She knew he didn't dare light it, not after Mr. Summers had blasted its predecessor out of his hand and through the back wall. Still, he flipped and rolled.
Sometimes she'd make a face at him just to see his mouth curl slightly at the corner. Other times, she'd watch him out of the corner of her eye until her head started to hurt and she had to look forward again. Occasionally, she'd stare back and wait for his smirk that was almost a smile before she looked away. Most of the time, though, she just ignored him. Or at least pretended to.
Today she stared back.
She'd decided while doing her hair that morning that she was feeling rather 'Inner Logan' (even though Inner Logan had faded quite some time ago and had taken Inner Erik and Inner David with him). It was a convenient excuse for when she was feeling more like the girl she'd used to be. The sassy, flirty, climb-any-tree, punch-any-bully Marie she'd been before her mutation had reared its ugly head - the girl she was before she'd spent eight months on the road, doing things they all assumed she couldn't do to survive.
'Inner Logan' was the reason she'd kept staring at John, long past the point when she normally would've stopped. Even as that smirk curved his mouth and his thumb rolled suggestively over the wheel of his lighter.
Well, she knew it was suggestive, anyway.
No one else would see it that way, but then, why would they? It wasn't until Kitty'd tugged on her sleeve with an impatient, "Come on, Rogue," that she realized class was over. Kitty had pulled her into the hall and given her the Bobby Lecture as they made their way to Trigonometry. She'd nodded and murmured agreement in all the right places, and even meant it.
She still meant it, even as John pressed her into a dark corner (their corner, the back of her mind hissed) in the third floor hallway. Even as his hands, hot through her layers of clothing, kneaded her flesh and pulled important parts of her body flush against his. Even as his mouth found her throat through the barely there scarf bought just for these occasions.
Even as her hands threaded through his hair and held him to her.
He worked his thigh between hers, rocked against her, and she whimpered and thumped her head against the wall behind her. He was hard already and she ground against him eagerly. He groaned and bared his teeth against her neck, but didn't nip like she knew he wanted to. He was always so careful not to leave a mark, even in the places no one would see, just in case they did see. His hands worked their way underneath her shirt to tug and caress the fine mesh camisole she wore beneath all her tops. He cupped and kneaded her breasts and pushed her shirt up under her arms and why oh why hadn't she worn a button-down today? His thumbs rolled over her nipples like they rolled over the wheel of his lighter, and she fisted her hands in his hair and arched towards him as he dragged his mouth away from her throat and moved to her breasts. She sucked in a breath as he drew hard on her nipple through the thin material of her bra and camisole. His mouth was searing hot, like his hands, and it was almost painful but it was also almost like there was nothing between them at all, and that was why she let John drag her into dark corners and empty rooms and do just about anything he wanted to her. Because when he touched her like this it was almost like he was really touching her, with nothing in between, and she knew it was as close to the real thing as she'd ever get.
She clutched at his shoulders, twisted her hands in his t-shirt as he slowly, carefully undid her jeans. He pulled away to drape her scarf across one side of her throat, down her breast and over the exposed skin between her camisole and panties. She dragged her hands down his chest and arms, fingers clutching and grabbing, breathing hard and shallow as she pushed her hips towards his hands. He gave her that smirk and tugged her jeans down her hips enough to slip his hand inside. She gasped and closed her eyes and fought the urge to buck against his fingers. Instead, she held perfectly still; she didn't want to have to lie to Dr. Grey about how she'd managed to absorb John. She didn't think she could keep the telepath from seeing the truth in her mind.
Her heart stopped and her breath caught in her throat as he rubbed a finger slowly, teasingly, and oh so carefully against the cheap satin of her panties (bought for fifty cents on clearance, because really, who was going to see them anyway?). He drew his finger along her folds, lingering over the damp spot on her panties until she hissed in a breath, then he pulled away, pulled his hand from her jeans long enough to tug her scarf lower. She pouted and whimpered shamelessly until his hand returned, swathed in silk and wonderfully warm, to slip inside her panties and cup her sex. Her whimpers turned into moans as she moved against his hand.
"Shh…" Whispered into her ear through the curtain of her hair, and she quieted but didn't stop moving. He leaned into her and buried his face in her neck as he started to thrust against her hip. His fingers traced her entrance and his thumb rubbed over her clit and she bit down hard on her lip to keep from crying out. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders and yanked his shirt up his back, desperately needing to touch him. She scratched gloved fingers over the trembling muscles of his back while her other hand pulled on the slightly damp hair at the nape of his neck. He ground harder against her, worked his hand faster between her legs, and she matched his rhythm, jerked her hips and panted in his ear.
She was close, so close; she just needed a little more. His fingers fumbled against her briefly, but before she could react, she felt the tip of his finger push inside, and she was gone, clutching and grabbing at him as she mewled and whined through her orgasm. His breath came in hitched gasps as he came hard against her, grunting softly into the crook of her neck.
Then it was over, and they were panting and slightly sweaty and feeling only the tiniest bit guilty. She wouldn't meet his eyes as he pulled her scarf from her panties, only to carefully tuck it into his jeans pocket. She didn't know why he always took her scarf afterwards (well, okay, she had a pretty good idea why, but she didn't like to think about it), but she would always find it in her room a few days later, neatly folded and freshly laundered. He would go back to watching her and she'd go back to pretending not to notice him watching her. They never talked about what they would occasionally do, and as far as they could tell no one even suspected.
Why would they? He was Bobby's best friend after all, and she was lucky to be Bobby’s girlfriend.