“Oh, please you can stop with the name, rank and serial number biz, Captain. I really don’t care,” Darcy says, examining the nail polish on her right hand. “Damn I scuffed a nail.”
“What do you want from me,” Captain America rasps pulling uselessly at the metal cuffs attached to his wrists and ankles. The uniform is torn in places, golden skin and hair visible on chest and thigh. The cowl is just as battered and Darcy gives into the temptation to pull it from his head. She knows the face of the man behind the mask. The blue eyes and long lashes, the blonde hair dampened by sweat.
His jaw clenches tight, and his eyes bore into hers. She absolutely does not shiver.
Darcy drags her nails over his cheek, scraping against skin and stubble. “I want a great deal of things, Captain. Seeing what you could do on your knees with that pretty mouth is sadly not at the top of my list so don’t worry your pretty little head. Your virtue is safe from me.”
“What do you want,” the Captain grit out.
“Ah, what sort of half assed Bond Villainess do you take me for,” Darcy tisks, digging her fingertips into his jaw.
“You tell me.”
“I wish that I could, but that’s not part of the game,” she says. Darcy leans over and brushes her lips against his cheek. The scent of sweat, smoke, and the faint tang of woodsy aftershave fills her lungs.
The red mark of her lipstick a livid wound on his cheek. He swallows hard, mouth turned down in a frown, eyebrows pinched together. Darcy’s laptop trills shrilly and the Captain jerks his head back.
“Looks like playtime is over.” She reaches up to offer him a sloppy salute, hand brushes the mask covering the upper half of her face.