Steve Rogers is a weapon, from the crown of his head brushing against her cheekbone, down to the long, strong toes digging into the mattress.
Maria knows this. She just didn’t think about what that meant on an intimate scale.
No hands, she told him, thinking it would give her a little more leeway, buy her a little more time and breathing space. But he doesn’t need his hands to be a menace – not when he has her pinned with his hips and his lips, his elbows caging her body, his knees braced against the sheets inside of hers.
And she can clutch at his back, scrape at his nape, wriggle under the weight of him, and tease him with her toes, but she can’t control when he grinds his hips against hers, when he rubs his chest against her breasts, when he nips at her throat with his teeth – lightly, so he doesn’t leave marks she’d have to explain in the morning.
She can’t do anything.
It’s not only frustrating in a sexual sense; it’s unnerving to let him take control. She’s usually the one making the moves in bed – both with him and with previous lovers; giving instruction, then letting them take their pleasure.
This is Steve taking his pleasure – his body dragging carefully against her, his hands flexing from open to fisted to open, the muscles in his shoulders and back flexing as he holds himself off her enough to tease her with the promise of more. Then he changes his angle a little, and Maria moans as his cock slides against her in just the right place. The responding noise from his throat is like a laugh, low and pleased as he does it again. And her body arches up into him, making the plea she can’t form with her lips.
Again, long and slow; and again, excess sensation.
Maria trembles, desire wound like a spring, coiling inside her ready to pop, holding onto her sanity by mere scraps, her fingers digging into his nape in request and plea.
“Let go,” he murmurs in her ear as his hips move against her. “You can let go...”
She doesn’t say she can’t. She can’t say she can’t – that that’s not who she is. She can give commands when she’s the one in control; but she can’t beg for mercy when she’s not.
And Steve understands that – and, thankfully, doesn’t need her submission to make him willing to give her what she wants. It’s not a power-play to him; he has nothing to prove. And so he fills her mouth with kisses, little licks of his tongue to draw her out. He moves a little faster, a little harder, in the rhythms that he knows she likes.
And Maria drags her nails down either side of his spine to feel him writhe in her, and digs her nails into the hard muscles of his buttocks as he flexes, thrusting, thrusting...
She snags his lower lip between her teeth, sucks it into her mouth, and smiles to feel the shudder of his body as he keeps her on the fierce and feral edge, before his own orgasm breaks and his laugh vibrates through every cell in her body.
Afterwards, sweaty and sticky, his breathing already smoothing out while hers drags across the jagged edges of exhaustion, Steve smooths the damp wisps of her hair back from her brow with his hand, framing her face with his hand so she looks up at him through wary lashes.
His gaze holds hers a moment before he smiles, ruefully. “Nothing.”
It’s not nothing. They both know that. But it’s lie enough for them to accept at face value.