Jean shoved Peter down onto the room’s only furniture, a chrome examination table, though Logan’s body resisted enough for him to end up seated rather than prone. Jean turned her efforts into a dance—moving her hands up and down her body, swaying her hips to the pulse of the psychosphere. As discombobulated as he was, Peter watched—his expression turning Logan’s eyes big and round.
Would you mind telling me why I’m not serving detention in Queens? he asked mentally, even as he tried not to goggle at her.
A lot of people wouldn’t question that. Jean’s slender legs turned serpentine as she turned to show off her ass, bunching it and relaxing it inside her skintight leather trousers.
I am not going to be distracted by badonkadonk for more than another five minutes, Peter swore.
Alright, here’s the deal. We’re on Krakoa, a prison island for mutants. The dictatorship of Genosha imprisons its mutants here, where they’re hunted, killed, for sport. They broadcast it on the internet. Last month, we tried to stop them. We destroyed the studio and freed their current reality TV star. But they rebuilt it and sent a strike force onto American soil to capture us and bring us here for their sick version of justice.