His Hands (Logan x MC)

Author’s Note: From “Prompt 5: What is Logan’s Least Favorite Thing About His Appearance.” It gets a little steamy.

Logan is up to his elbows in the car’s engine when he feels Ellie’s soft touch on his shoulders. “It’s almost midnight. Come to bed.” Her fingers slip downward, tracing invisible patterns along the veins of his toned arms.

“Careful, troublemaker.” He turns to her, holding up his grease-stained hands in warning. But Ellie is staring at the way his sweat-soaked shirt clings to the hard planes of his chest, and there is a heat in her eyes that makes him forget momentarily how to form words.

He glances at the dismantled car behind him. Its owner is coming to pick it up at 7:00am. “Five more minutes?” He offers. Ellie just bites her lip and walks slowly towards the stairs to his loft. “Two minutes?” She reaches up and unties her halter top as she reaches his doorway. Fuck. He can finish the repair tomorrow. He grabs a shop towel and hastily wipes the grime from his hands.

Logan has always hated his hands. He can hide almost every part of himself behind a fake accent or a new suit, but not the hard callouses on his palms or the knuckles that never fully healed after a street fight in Detroit. Grease lingers under his nails, and he remembers himself as a small boy with dirty hands and unbrushed hair, struggling against the social worker as she led him away.

His hands remind him that he came from nothing, that he is nothing, and he can’t help but see the contrast when he touches Ellie. Tangled up with her in his sheets, he watches his fingers move over her soft skin, and wonders in amazement if this is real. How can it be when there is so much about them that is different, so much about him that is broken?

And then her lips are on his neck, her breath coming in soft whimpers against his skin. And he can’t think anymore, can only move his hands faster against her body as she comes apart beneath him.

_________

Bonus Scene

Ellie slips her hand beneath Logan’s as he shifts gears, guiding his 2005 Devore GT through traffic. He raises an eyebrow at her. “What? It’s the closest I can get to driving your car,” she jokes. Logan throws his head back and laughs, the most carefree she’s seen him in weeks. She settles back into the leather seat contentedly. This is how he taught her to drive, his hand over hers on the gear stick, expert fingers guiding hers through the motions.

She loves his hands. She’s watched him bend metal in the shop, arms flexing, his grip impossibly strong. But at night his touch is feather soft, like she’s something precious and rare. And when he’s asleep, she traces the scars that run across his fingers and wonders how he got them.

Traffic slows to a crawl, and she lifts his hand to her lips for a moment, kissing the knuckle that’s still swollen for connecting with Salazar’s jaw. She glances up in time to see something — surprise? — flash behind his eyes before a genuine smile spreads across his face.