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Taste of Venom

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Steve can still taste the cobra's venom. He lost track of how many times he's brushed his teeth, how many times he's rinsed his mouth out with Listerine, since S.H.I.E.L.D. pulled him out of that damned jungle. Even the beers earlier with Clint hadn't helped. Sitting beside Simpson in the sterile infirmary didn't, either. He'd read until his mouth dried out, all of Genesis, and then he'd had two Cokes in the waiting room.

They hadn't helped, either.

He's hoping the cheap vodka and cheaper whiskey in the brown paper bag tucked between his arm and his chest will be enough to get rid of the taste of venom. If they're not, maybe the half-dozen dark chocolate cupcakes with mocha frosting, the pound of scotch bonnet peppers stuffed with lemon-flavored soft cheese, and the cajun turkey and pepperjack sandwiches on sourdough will do the job.

"You having a party or something tonight, Cap?"

Steve glances down and over to find the bakery girl at his elbow, raising one dark eyebrow at him while her eyes dance. She always seems amused by him. He kind of likes it.

"Just me, Rach." He shifts his grip on the hand basket. "Why? Are these party foods?"

"They are for some parties," she says mysteriously, giving him that little smile she likes to use when she thinks she's hinting at something he's too old and too straitlaced to understand.

He smiles back at her. "What do you kids call marijuana these days?"

She chokes on a laugh, her cheeks going pink, and her eyes flashing. He likes the way she looks when he surprises her.

"Cap!"

"Don't be such a square." He nods his thanks to the young man behind the deli counter and scoops up the paper-wrapped packages of meat and cheese. He starts to turn, catching Rachel's eye as he does. "You headed out?"

"Yeah, my shift is over."

"Let me pay for this and I'll walk you to the bus stop."

She falls into step beside him, lifting her arms to loosen the braid she keeps her hair in while she works. "Sounds good to me. Missed you around here these last few weeks. Off saving the world again?"

"Something like that." He cuts his eyes at her, automatically seeking the faded black star inked into the soft skin behind her right ear. He bites back the question he always wants to ask--didn't it hurt?--and instead takes in the layer of hair usually hidden by her braid. It's dark blue today, demure and almost conservative compared to the shades of violent yellow and sickly green he's seen. He raises an eyebrow at her. "Blue?"

She wraps her hair into a messy bun on the back of her head and pats the upswept layer of blue. "You don't like it?"

He likes all of her weird little alternatives to conventional beauty, but he keeps that thought to himself. He shrugs. "It's just kind of subdued for you. Almost blends in with the black."

"Graduation's in a few months. I need a real job to go with the shiny degree I'm about to have." She wrinkles her nose. "It's almost time to start looking like a grown-up."

"You? Never." He starts to unload his basket onto the belt at the cashier station, but she moves to take over.

She's efficient and organizes his--admittedly few--things based on how they should go into the bag. He's absurdly charmed by it. But he doubts she'd take the compliment even if he knew how to give it, so he just nods at the cooler beside the conveyor belt and says, instead, "Want a Coke?"

She snags one from the door and sets it on the belt with his things. "Thanks."

He pays with cash and the cashier doesn't even bat an eyelash. It's why he comes here, even though it's two blocks out of his way. Modern reliance on plastic unnerves him. He's unnerved enough at work, he doesn't need to feel like he's living in a nightmare when he's running his errands, too.

Rachel scoops her drink off the shelf near the card reader as he tucks his liquor into the thicker grocery bag. They say their goodbyes to the cashier and step outside, into the fading light of dusk and the bustle of Brooklyn.

"So is it top secret?" she asks.

"What?"

She bumps him with her shoulder as they start toward the bus stop. "Your mysterious disappearance."

He half-smiles at her. "Probably," he admits.

"You can't tell me anything?"

He makes a face. "I can tell you that I can't get the taste of snake venom out of my mouth." He gestures at the bag he carries one-armed. "That's what all this is for."

Her eyes go wide. "Snake venom."

"Snake venom."

She bites her lip and he can see the cogs turning in her brain before she asks, slowly, "Pretty strong, is it?"

He laughs. "Yeah."

"Well." Her eyes flash and her lips curve into a dark smile. He knows the instant before she opens her mouth that she's going to suggest something she shouldn't. "You know, there's one taste probably stronger than snake venom."

He thinks of the whiskey and the vodka, of the chocolate and peppers. And he looks her over, from her messy black and blue hair to her flour-dusted bakery counter uniform to her battered combat boots. He huffs a quiet laugh and knows exactly what she means.

It's not a thought that had occurred to him before. But now that it has, he likes it.

"You're probably right." He meets her eyes. "Busy tonight?"

 

 

*

 

She's sitting on his kitchen counter in a scrap of lace that barely covers her hairless mound and one of those deceptive Wonderbras, a crystal tumbler with two fingers of whiskey in hand and a look on her face that's full of challenges. He likes challenges. He likes half-naked college girls in his kitchen, too, especially when he discovers that the star tattoo behind her ear isn't alone.

Her knees part easily for him as he pushes in to stand between them. He traces a finger over the line of shooting stars just beneath her collarbone.

"Back in my day, good girls didn't have tattoos," he says.

She grins at him, all teeth and tongue. "I'm not a good girl, am I, Cap?"

"Guess not." The thought that it should bother him niggles at the back of his mind He knocks back his own double whiskey. It burns, but only distracts him momentarily from the taste of the venom. He reaches for the bottle. "Drink up. We've got vodka after this."

She downs her whiskey and wipes the back of her hand across her mouth. "Not all of us are super soldiers, you know. Some of us have limits."

"What are your limits?"

"No spanking," she deadpans. "Not into that. I had a guy once--he wanted me to call him Daddy while he spanked me. No hitting at all, actually." She shakes her head and holds her glass out for a refill. "Ask before trying the backdoor. It's fine, but I need to be ready first. Try not to leave any marks I can't cover up with a long-sleeved button down, huh? I have a job interview with Merrill-Lynch on Monday. Don't call me names." She wets her lips, her eyes roaming his chest and shoulders before she looks up at him. "And I'm on the pill and can prove it, so if you wanna skip the condoms, Captain America, I'm cool with that. I like it messy."

His dick twitches in his shorts. "Have you been thinking about this, Rach?" He refills his own glass and sets the bottle on the counter as far away as he can reach.

"Twice a day every day since you bought the first cupcake six months ago." She knocks back another two fingers and sighs, smiling dreamily at him. "I just never thought I'd get the chance."

"Why is that?" He swallows the whiskey in one mouthful and sets his glass aside before settling his hands on her knees. They're bony under his palms.

She laughs throatily, shifting her weight, spreading her legs wider. She sets her glass to the side, nearly at the edge of the sink, and she leans back on her hands. The position does lovely things to her small breasts. She kicks her feet, bouncing her heels against his cupboard doors, and she shakes her head.

"You're Captain Fucking America," she says, as if that explains it all.

"I guess I do have something of a reputation," he murmurs. He runs his hands from her knees to her hips, feeling goosebumps rise in their wake. "What's on your must-have list?" He can't decide if he's more fascinated by the soft tops of her breasts above the padded cups of her bra or her soft wet mouth.

She notices. That mouth twists into a smirk. "Kissing is good. Lots of touching. You can talk if you're into that, you got a nice voice, Cap." She sighs happily, dropping her head back as his hands move up her belly, as he palms her breasts through her bra. "That's good. That's real good. I like having my nipples played with so, you know, feel free."

He laughs. There were things he expected when he got back from Cambodia. This was not one of them.

Her voice warms. "Eat me out. Fuck me hard. I bet you're packing a little more than the average guy downstairs, aren't you? Don't answer that. I'll find out soon. I like sucking cock." He sees the flick of her tongue over her lips "I like it a lot. I like being titfucked, too, but I know I don't have much going on up here. I like being on top. Bend me over. Pull my hair. Bonus points for biting."

"Bonus points." He tugs the soft cups of her bra down, under her breasts, and covers her tits with his hands. They each fit entirely into his hands, pale and soft, with small brown nipples. She has little bars through her nipples and he finds that incredibly arousing. "Are we keeping score?"

"If we are," she sighs, "you're already winning."

"Mmm." He releases her.

Her head snaps up. "Hey!"

"Cupcakes," he says.

She blinks at him. "Seriously?"

"I don't think you understand how vile snake venom really is." He drags the plastic tray of cupcakes closer. He flicks it open and removes one, starting to pull away the wrapper as he straightens. "Want one?"

"I wanna lick it off your abs, yeah."

He laughs. "You know what my favorite thing about modern women is?"

"Our stunning personalities?"

He gives her a look as he bites into the cupcake. He chews as she watches, swallows as she watches, licks the chocolate frosting off his lips as she watches. Her eyes on him burn, sear a direct line straight to his cock.

"You're all brassy. Never met so many dames with mouths on them before the ice." He lowers the cupcake and smears chocolate icing over each of her tight little nipples. "Oops."

She's not breathing, he notes.

He takes half a step back and smears icing along the inside of each of her thighs. "Oops," he says again, this time softer.

She chuckles. "Your game is weak, old man."

"Maybe." He finishes half of what remains of the cupcake and holds the rest near her mouth. "Open."

She does, obedient, and he pushes the cake past her lips.

"Swallow." he breathes.

She moans while she does it.

Steve braces one hand on the counter just behind her and ducks. He laps the chocolate icing off of her breasts, slowly, gently at first and rougher as he tastes less sugar-sweet and more skin-sweet. Her nipple is hard on his tongue and the metal piercing it is cool. He bites.

She gasps and clutches at the back of his head.

He repeats the process on the other breast, lapping, licking, circling, lipping, and finally biting. She's wriggling on the counter, trying to scoot closer to him. Steve lifts his head, lifts a hand to cradle the back of her head, and he covers her mouth with his.

He tastes the shared chocolate, the whiskey. He tastes her. But under it all, still that underlying flavor of snake venom.

He nips her bottom lip. "Lie back," he murmurs.

She goes immediately, arms boneless, sprawled across his kitchen counter. He chuckles.

"I didn't peg you for the type to take orders, Rach." He kisses his way down her neck, mindful of her rule about leaving marks. He doesn't leave a single one until he finds the swell of her breast. He licks along the curve before he bites. Hard.

She arches off the counter, gasping. "Should have known you loved to give them, Cap." Her fingers tangle in his hair.

For a while, he doesn't say anything. He keeps moving down. He opens the clasps at her back and pulls her bra off, baring the spattering of stars that sweep from under her breasts and around her sides to her back. Steve likes the stars; he spends time on them, licking them, nipping her soft skin, nosing the undersides of her breasts. Her hips fit snugly into his hands and he's careful not to press too close between her thighs. The chocolate icing is melting and he doesn't want to smear it on his shorts.

She sighs and wriggles, combing her fingers through his hair as he works down. He kisses over her belly, stopping to dip his tongue into her belly button and close teeth around the curved barbell in the upper rim of her navel and tug. He likes the tattoos, the piercings. He didn't expect them to this extent and they surprise him, delight him.

She moans when he licks along the top edge of her lacy panties. "You're killing me here, Cap."

He smiles against her skin and scrapes his teeth over the prominence of her hip. He runs his hands up and down the outsides of her thighs, lightly, and teases across her lower belly with hot puffs of breath and the tip of his tongue.

She shifts closer to him and tugs insistently at his hair. "Steve, please."

He hesitates; he's not sure he's ever heard her use his name. It sounds strange on her voice and it feels strange, used now. He shakes off the strangeness and presses his face to her panties. She's hot and thick and fragrant, wet through the lace against his lips, and he moans quietly against her. Maybe she's right. Maybe the flavor of her will banish the taste of venom.

Maybe she'll wear him out and he'll be able to sleep.

He licks down the inside of her thigh, lapping up the melting chocolate frosting. The combination of her and the chocolate is heady. His dick swells but he ignores it for now. For now, he's going to get her drenched. Soaked. He's going to make her want it.

When he has consumed all trace of the chocolate, he moves back up. He bites the top edge of her panties, tasting cotton and the promise of her cunt, and he pulls.

She groans.

He smiles around lace as he peels the panties down her legs with just his teeth.

As soon as they clear her toes, she spreads her legs. She presses her fingertips against the back of his head and her voice is low, desperate, when she begs, "Please, Cap, please."

She's bare, of course, because she's barely old enough to drink and that's what all the kids do these days. He sinks to his knees on the chef's mat he dragged over from in front of the sink when she hopped up on the counter. He holds her knees apart and looks. Just looks. She's thin-lipped and swollen, slick shiny pink. He slides his hands under her thighs and up, until he's got handfuls of her ass and he can drag her to the edge of the counter. She spreads her legs wider, draping them over his shoulders, and she's all he can smell, all he can see.

He smirks. "Do you think this will work?" It's a small cruelty but he can't help it.

She groans and tries to pull him closer. "There's only one way to find out, man."

Laughing, he goes in.

She's tangy and earthy and so hot. It reminds him of the jungle, but he pushes those memories away. He uses his tongue at first, long slow licks, over and between between her folds, slipping through her slick. She clutches the back of his head and rocks her hips, her heels against his back. She's stronger than she looks. He takes the hint, the tip of his tongue finding the bud of her clit. Just under a tiny silver ring that makes him shake his head between her thighs.

"Is there anything you didn't pierce?" he murmurs.

"No." She pauses before adding, "You can tug on that with your teeth."

He does and her whole body seems to ripple. "Nice."

The sound she makes sounds like agreement.

He sets to work, filling his mouth with the heat of her and the flavor of her, filling his hands with the soft flesh of her backside. Her thighs tighten and release around his head, and her heels dig into his back. He closes his eyes and breathes her in and pulls her closer, flicking his tongue against her clitoris over and over and over, writing his name, spelling out the chorus of old War Bonds campaign songs. He falls into a rhythm and is so consumed with the taste of her that he misses the low groan she gives. Her cunt flutters against his chin, her thighs spasm around his head. She pulls at his hair, sinks her nails into his scalp. She shouts his name once.

Steve doesn't back off. She's not nearly close to how ready he wants her to be. He drags one set of fingertips down her thigh to pry her leg away from his head just enough to get a hand up between her legs. He hooks an arm around her other leg and spreads her open from above. When he plays the tips of his fingers through her juices and circles them around her entrance, she whimpers.

"In. Inside. Put them in, Steve, please."

With her lips spread wide, he flattens his tongue against her clit. Palm up, he eases two fingers into her, just the tips, and curves them. She whines at him, hips rocking down, so he sinks them to the first knuckle and rubs the tips against the front wall of her cunt. She scratches at his head and calls him names. He smiles against the slick hot skin of her pussy and shoves his fingers in deep.

She comes, clenching impossibly tight around his fingers. He keeps his tongue pressed flat to her clit and fights her body to crook his fingers inside her, to rub over the rough dip just inside her. He's breathing hard through his nose. Finally, for the first time since he got out of that damned cell, he smells something stronger than the jungle. She floods his mouth, his chin, and he's tasting something stronger than the snake's venom.

She yanks his hair to drag him away and babbles at him. "Off, Cap, please, off. Too much. Too much..."

He kisses halfway down the inside of her thigh, giving her the chance to breathe, before he sinks his teeth into her flesh just above where he thinks a smart miniskirt might fall. She whimpers and twitches, but she's still weak; he takes that as a good sign and starts his trek up.

She's flushed from chest to cheeks and breathing hard, sprawled across his counter. He leans over her. Her eyes are glazed and a little unseeing. He figures that's good enough. She did say she liked it messy. He plunges fingers into her hair and pulls her up.

"Down," he says, moving one hand to her back to help her off the counter.

She drops like a stone. He spares a moment to be glad that he brought the chef's mat over before her fingers are curved into the top of his shorts and she yanks them to his thighs. His dick springs free, thick and hard and standing straight nearly to his stomach.

The delighted gasp she gives stirs something smug and masculine inside him.

"How the fuck do you keep this monster tamed in that suit? No. Don't answer that." She runs her hands up his thighs and over his hips, higher, over his belly, back down. She wraps her hands around his hips and looks up at him, eyes bright and wide and hot, and she gives him a knowing smirk. "May I?"

As if he might change his mind. He tightens his fingers in her hair and shifts forward.

The first touch of her pointed tongue to the base of his shaft makes him groan. She licks him mercilessly, over his balls, along the crease between his thigh and body, up his shaft, over the head. She probes the edge of his foreskin with the tip of her tongue, flattens it against the purpling head of his dick. Her fingers work, a needless massage into his thighs, his hips, moving in. Chin to his chest, eyes half-open, he watches her. His breathing comes ragged and hot and his whole focus narrows to that single point. Her eyes drift shut as she wraps one small hand around him--there's that swell of pride again, when he sees that she can barely take half of him in hand--and she aims the tip of his prick at her mouth. Her wet mouth, her open mouth, and he half-expects the slide of teeth but it doesn't come.

Not thrusting forward takes all of his control. He may be losing higher brain functions, but he doesn't want to choke her. Doesn't want to hurt her.

She surprises him, anyway, pressing the flat of her tongue against the underside of him and loosening her throat, and then her nose is buried in the thatch of coarse hair between his cock and his navel and his eyes roll back in his head.

God bless promiscuous college girls.

His mind goes fuzzy around the edges after that. He hunches over, one hand braced on the edge of the counter behind her, the other cradling the back of her head. He holds himself still, as still as he can, but his thighs tremble and his stomach jumps and she rolls his balls between her fingers as she bobs and sucks and licks. Over the harsh sound of his own breathing, he listens to the wet smack of her lips and the fleshy strokes of her tongue and her gasping breath when she pulls back. He feels more than hears her little moans and pleased whimpers.

It builds in his balls and in his belly, coiling tight and tighter. His hand spasms on the back of her head and he thinks he hears himself say her name the instant before he's drawing his hips back and coming hard in her mouth. Through the haze of his orgasm, he sees her eyes go wide and then roll back in her head. She wraps her hand tight around his shaft, stroking him fast, and she seals her lips over the head of his cock. She sweeps her tongue over his slit again and again and even though it's over--for now--his balls squirm and his cock twitches and his body wants to obey her.

He tightens his fingers in her hair and pulls. She sucks him hard one last time and he moans, unable to help himself, and then she's settling back on her heels and looking up at him, smug. Her lips are swollen and there are traces of white lingering at the corners of her mouth and smudged over her lower lip. He lifts the hand from the counter and tucks his fingers under her chin. He rubs his thumb across her lips, gathering his come, pressing her mouth open.

She licks his thumb clean.

"That was fun."

She laughs and stands. He lets his hand run down her throat, over her chest between her breasts, and around to rest on her hip. He works his fingers up through in her hair, searching for damned elastic that's doing too much to keep it all contained. She tips her face up to him.

"Just fun?"

He smiles at her.

She steps closer, reaching up to loop her arms around his neck. He stoops to oblige her.

"You got something against kissing the mouth that just sucked you off?"

Not even a hint of it, he thinks, and kisses her soundly.

She yelps, muffled against his lips, and rakes her fingers through his hair, down his neck. He licks the taste of himself out of her mouth, vaguely mushroom-y. His hand curls at her hip, hard, and his fingers in her hair finally find that damned elastic. He twists them sharply and snaps it, spilling her hair over his hand and forearm.

She rubs her nipples against him as they end the kiss. "What's next, Cap?" She bites his lower lip and kisses his chin.

"Living room." He pulls away from her, reluctantly, and shoves his shorts down. He kicks out of them and snags the bottle of whiskey from the counter. His cock is still half-hard between his legs; it sways as he walks and he knows it won't go soft until he's come three or four more times. He just hopes she's up for the challenge. He starts for the living room and glances over his shoulder. "You can bring another cupcake if you want."

He settles on the couch, knees apart, relaxed back into the overstuffed cushions, and manages two swigs straight from the bottle before she joins him. She's all hips and shoulders when she walks, but he can see the moisture slicking her inner thighs nearly to her knees. She looks less dazed, too. Like she's ready for another round. Good; he hasn't quite lost the taste of the snake's meat or the rotted cloying scent of the jungle. He holds a hand out to her and she comes eagerly, greedily, straddling his lap and pressing her knees against the back of the couch. She settles on his thighs and holds the cupcake up between them.

"Share?"

"You eat," he says, "I'll watch."

She purses her lips. "Like to watch, do you, Cap?"

He shrugs. "I'm pretty visual."

"I just bet you are." She meets his eyes over the mound of frosting atop the cupcake and starts licking.

He goes between watching her eyes and watching her mouth, and when it's too much, he takes long drinks of the whiskey. She takes her time, licking off the frosting, nibbling the cake, then sucking her fingers clean. She runs her tongue over her lips and by then, her pupils are wide and she's edging closer, brushing the swollen wet lips of her cunt against his rising cock.

"Head back," he murmurs, and she does as he says without question, mouth open. He tips the bottle and pours too much liquor down her throat. She can't swallow fast enough; some of it spills over her lips. He sets the bottle on the end table, fists his hand in her hair, and licks the whiskey off of her chin, her throat. He moves down.

He traces the stars tattooed along her collarbones as she palms his neck, as her fingers tease through his hair. He smiles against her skin.

"Need something?"

"Get me off or I'll do it myself. Either way, it's gonna happen."

He lifts a hand to slide his fingers over her mouth. "Wet," he says, and nips at the hollow of her throat.

She sucks two fingers into her mouth and laves them with her tongue. It brings to mind what she did to his cock; his belly tightens and he gives an involuntary little huff.

She smirks even before she releases his fingers.

He drops that hand between them as she scoots back on his thighs just enough to give him room to work. He wishes briefly--absurdly--that he had enough hands to touch, fondle, and grope her in all the ways he wants. He settles for sliding his fingers up her inner thigh to cup her cunt while he tugs her hair, pulling her head back, and licks and kisses his way across her chest to her tits.

She's hot and slick and opens easily under his hand. His fingers slip and slide, circling her clit, and he bites at her hard nipples as he teases her. She clutches his shoulders. Her nails, short and sharp, cut his skin; the sting of sudden pain surprises him into hissing against the nipple caught between his teeth.

She swivels her hips and pushes down. "Cap, please." She drops her head, pressing her cheek to the top of his head. "You're such a fucking tease."

In response, he shoves two fingers into her.

"Oh..." She grinds down on his hand. Her fingers flex against him and her thighs tighten around his. She starts to ride his fingers, up and down and front to back, and she whimpers. "More. More, please."

He lifts his face to kiss her, hard. His tongue steals into her mouth and he pulls his fingers from her. He replaces two with three and twists them deep inside her, his thumb on the swollen button of her clit. He thrusts them inside her, over and over, fast and rough, and he keeps his thumb on her clit, constant pressure inside and out until she's shaking, shuddering in his arms, until he can feel the clamp of her inner muscles around his fingers. He times it carefully: when she's relaxed between clenches, he adds a fourth finger.

That sends her over again, and when he curves his fingers inside her, her whole body convulses once--and then she just melts. Her head falls to his shoulder. She's boneless against him, and though she shifts her hips back and whimpers, she doesn't have the strength to resist him.

He could take her like this. Lay her out, move over her, slide into her. She'd be slick and open and he'd move inside her, easy. He could arrange her arms and legs around him and he could take his time, ride her slow, bring her back to herself until she's aware again.

Instead, he withdraws his fingers and licks them clean. He moves his hand from her hair and wraps an arm around her, supporting her as he reaches between them again to stroke the tips of his fingers over her clit.

She tries to move away. "No..."

He muffles a laugh against her neck. "I thought you'd be up for more than that, Rach," he murmurs.

Her mouth works against his neck. "Gimme a minute, Cap. Haven't come that hard in a long, long time."

The same sort of smug pride from when he knocked Simpson's eye out of its socket rises within him. He kisses down her neck and over her shoulder, running his hands up and down her back. His cock is hard between them, dripping, but he can wait.

Or he thinks he can, until she shifts in his arms and her hands go to his dick. She strokes him twice and he lets her before he grabs her wrists and pulls her hands away.

She lifts her head and he meets her eyes. The expression in them is wild, reckless. She wets her lips, her eyes dropping to his mouth, briefly, before returning.

"Fuck me?"

It's not the demand he expected of her. It's a breathless request. He smiles. "I thought you'd never ask."

The table behind his couch is the perfect height. He lifts her--showing off, he can admit it; if he can't use the strength to impress tattooed and pierced grocery girls, then really what's the point--and walks around to it. He drops her over the table, on her stomach, and leans over her, guiding her hands to the couch cushions and making her clutch them. He rises slowly, shoving her hair over her shoulder.

A pattern of simple five-pointed stars starts at the top of her spine and scatters all the way down to her tailbone, right above the cleft of her sweetly curved ass. The same style of stars sweep from under her breasts, around her sides, and gather in the center of her back to continue down. He splays one hand between her shoulder blades, holding her in place, and traces a pattern between some of the stars with his fingertip. He nudges a foot between her ankles, forcing her legs wide. She doesn't have to be asked to lift herself on tiptoe. From where he stands, he can see her, wet and open, soft and swollen and ready. He runs the hand from between her shoulder blades to the small of her back and takes the other to his cock.

"Ready?"

"I have been ready for you since we got here." She wiggles her ass, arching her back, an invitation. "Please, Cap."

He shuffles his feet, framing her legs with his, and angles his hips. She's hot and tight and incredibly wet, and he shoves in to the hilt. She cries out once before muffling her face in the couch. Steve drops his head back and closes his eyes and forces himself to breathe, slowly. He's not a kid, he can last, but she's so much tighter than he expected, so much hotter, and when he pushes her ankles together, when he surges forward and drives her ass just a little higher against him, when he shifts inside her and she ripples, he feels his control slipping.

He runs his hands up from the small of her back. He gathers her hair, rocking his hips just enough to drive home the point that he's inside her, stretching her, filling her up, and he wraps the mass of it twice around one hand. He tugs. Her head and shoulders come up, her back arching, and she's caught, strung taut. He exhales, slowly. He likes this. He likes the mindlessness of it. He likes the baseness of it.

He splays his other hand on the small of her back and pushes down, just enough to keep her pinned, and he pulls on her hair, just enough to make it hurt. The long moan she gives makes him smile and he wishes he had a mirror in the living room. He'd kind of like to see her face when he starts to move.

Something almost as good occurs to him. "You a screamer, Rach?" He rocks, pulling out and sliding back in, just a little deeper this time.

She makes a small, strangled noise in the back of her throat.

He pulls out halfway and slams back in. "Asked you a question." He gives her hair a sharp tug.

"Yes!"

Over her shoulder, he can see her hands against the couch cushions, knuckles white. Her thighs are already shaking against his.

He leans on the hand on her back and pulls out, slowly, as slowly as he can stand it, feeling the drag of her skin against his, feeling the shift and ripple of her inner muscles back into the space he vacates. He doesn't stop until just the fat crown of his cock is inside her, just inside, and he stills. He closes his eyes again, briefly. His control is slipping. He could hurt her, badly, if he really lets go--he can't let go, not completely.

But he can let go enough.

"Scream for me." His voice barely sounds like his own.

His hips snap. Her cry is one of surprise, of pain, but he's moving, pounding, sliding in and out of her, and she's so tight, so wet, so hot. She keeps right on hollering in time with each savage thrust and through the blood roaring in his head, he realizes that she's wriggling with purpose, her hips angled, her ass high, and--no doubt--her clit caught against the table beneath her. He grins savagely.

He pulls her hair, hard, snapping her head back, and he moves his hand from her back to her hip. He shifts his legs wider, planting his feet for better leverage, wanting to drive into her harder, faster, to bottom out and listen to her scream, to pull out and listen to her gasp. He finds the quiet place inside his mind and falls into a rhythm, the same as he does in the gym, working the bag, or on the street, arms and legs and lungs pumping, or in a fight, throwing one punch and planning the next three. She's a means to an end and-- and--

It starts in his balls and works up. It starts in the small of his back and works down. He grunts, slams in, coming hard, pleasure radiating through him and stealing the breath from his lungs and the blood from his head. He feels it, feels the wet sucking spasms of her cunt around him, feels the rush of his own heat washing over his dick and dripping out around him. He surges into her a few more times, his balls crawling and twitching, emptying inside her.

She's shaking. When he releases her hair, her head drops forward. He's still a little dazed as his eyes roam down her back to the curve of her ass. Breathless and fascinated, he watches himself as he pulls out of her. His dick's a mess. Her pussy looks worse, swollen and dripping. He watches his hands on the globes of her ass. Watches him spread her cheeks apart, wide, and he spends precious heartbeats staring at the clenched bud of her asshole. He doubts he'd fit. She moans--he hears it, dimly--and he sees the flutter of her cunt, and then he's dropping to his knees, his hands still on her ass, holding her up and holding her open. She's slick halfway to her knees and he starts there, licking, the flavor of her juices and the flavor of her skin fresh and dark on his tongue. He closes his eyes and feels the jump of muscle under his mouth, and to reward her, he sinks his teeth into the soft flesh just above her knee.

Rachel whimpers.

He licks and bites and sucks, greedy for it, breathing in the rich scent of her. This close, he can see everything: how stretched she is, every minute twitch and jump and clench and flutter of muscle. He can see her clit, swollen and exposed beneath the pierced hood. He can see what remains of himself inside her, and when she's clean from knees to ass, he buries his face in her, his nose against the thin skin of her perineum, his tongue dipping into her. The backs of her thighs tremble against his shoulders and he hears her moaning weakly. He opens his mouth wider, pressing his chin against her clit, feeling the bite of the little ring against the point of his chin. He rubs his face against her and licks their mess out of her. Feeling her orgasm around his tongue pressed inside her--that's a new one.

When all he can taste is his own stale spit, he settles back on his heels. He wipes his face with the back of his hand and tries not to smile too much. She's down for the next few minutes, he knows--we can't all have super soldier stamina, he thinks--so he leans in to press a chaste kiss to the back of one thigh. Her skin is raw and red. Beard burn. He passes a hand over his face again. He probably should have shaved before they got started, but he wasn't thinking about hygiene when she was stripping out of her uniform and hauling herself up onto his kitchen counter.

He stands. She's utterly limp, draped over the table and the back of the couch, and even when he runs a hand down her spine, she doesn't move.

"Awake?"

She slurs something that sounds like "yes" and he chokes the chuckle that threatens to bubble out.

"I'm gonna go get the vodka. Need anything?"

He takes the sound she makes for "no, thanks."

He can't remember the last time he left a partner in Rachel's state. It's a good feeling, warm, lodged between his belly and his chest. But his dick is still half-hard against his thigh and the come on him is starting to dry. He grabs the whiskey off the end table and starts for the kitchen. When he glances over his shoulder, she still hasn't moved. He shakes his head.

Over half of the whiskey is gone, he notes as he leaves the bottle on the counter next to the vodka. He finds a dish cloth in one of the drawers near the sink and wets it and cleans himself, thinking he'd much rather have Rachel on her knees again, have her rough little pink tongue on his thighs and balls and cock. He grunts, tossing the cloth into the sink, and reaches for the vodka. He doesn't even want the drink. The alcohol isn't doing much for him and he's slowly forgetting the way that cobra's venom tasted, but she might.

She's recovered, or recovered enough, when he makes it back from the kitchen. She moved from the back of the couch to on it, at least, her legs tucked under her sweetly curved ass, her hair in waves around her shoulders, hiding her breasts. Her eyes are big and glassy and he catches the way they move over him, shoulders to knees and back, lingering at his hips, his chest. He slows his movements, an idea flitting through his lizard brain.

He has been doing a lot of the work so far.

He twists open the vodka and moves to sit beside her. "Need a drink?"

"Of you." She pushes the bottle away when he offers it and crawls right into his lap. "Jesus Christ, Cap."

"Language," he says idly, and sets the vodka aside to free his hands for her.

She kisses along his jaw and laughs against his skin. "Really? That's what you're going to take exception to?" Her hands are everywhere, over his shoulders, down his arms to his elbows, across his chest. She walks her fingers down his stomach and wraps them, gingerly, around his cock. She breathes in. "Wow."

"Effect of the serum." He combs his fingers through her hair, fascinated by the silky feel, the random curls, the spill of it against his hand. He pulls her in for a kiss. "Glad you approve."

She laughs at him. For the first time, he realizes that she sounds a little hysterical. Her eyes are so wide and dark when she pulls away, and he watches the play of her tongue over her lips.

"Oh, I approve. I really approve." She strokes the pad of her thumb over the head of his dick and gives a pained little moan. "I've never been with a guy who still had his..." She plays with it, pushing the sleeve of skin back to expose the crown of his dick, pulling it to stretch over the glans.

"Foreskin," he says helpfully.

"I know what it is, Cap!" She laughs breathlessly and presses her face to his neck, releasing his cock to grip his sides. "I never thought," she says, and her voice is muffled, "that this would happen."

He rubs his fingers through her hair and closes his eyes, briefly. She's so warm and small in his lap, in his arms, and so eager. Eager to please, eager to be used. He likes that. More than that, he likes that she's shameless, that she doesn't seem to expect anything out of him beyond what he wants to give her.

"You should have said something before," he tells her, dropping his head back to give her greater access to his neck. She takes it, her teeth small and sharp, and he likes the shudders that roll through him as she tests him, sinking her teeth deeper, soothing the stings with the flat of her clever tongue. He strokes the back of her neck, lets his hands wander down her back.

"How many times?" she murmurs. She licks the line of his collarbone, her nails scraping up his sides.

"As many as you want, sweetheart."

She laughs again, and he thinks he likes that edge of hysteria in her.

"How many times do you go off before this goes away?" She touches his cock again, and it twitches for her.

"Mmm." He squeezes her ass. "Four or five, usually."

"Fuck."

"Is that all right?" he asks politely, knowing full damn well it is and trying hard not to sound like he's making fun of her.

"Oh my God." She says it again, all as one word, against his skin, and she groans and rocks in his hands. "Oh my God."

She doesn't say anything for a long time after that. She settles on his lap, her ass on his thighs, and he has to move his hands up and down the outsides of hers, up and down her sides, up and down her back. He experiments, raking his nails from shoulders to hips. That makes her hiss and wiggle. Tugging her hair, forcing her head away from him, makes her moan, makes her bite him harder when she fights him and he releases her. She kisses his face, his neck, his shoulders, his chest. She nips at his throat, his nipples. She sinks her teeth into the meat of his pecs. All the while, she wiggles and writhes against him.

The fresh wash of wet heat against his thighs doesn't surprise him. What does surprise him--a little, at least--is the way her movements go from desperate to determined. She locks her hips to his, trapping his cock between the parted lips of her cunt and his stomach. She wraps her arms around his neck and shoves her fingers through his hair, forcing his head up.

Her eyes are on his, needy and not even a little bit apologetic. She tugs at his hair, not enough to hurt, just enough to let him know she's got hold. He palms her sides and smiles through half-lidded eyes at her.

"I need--"

"Whatever you want."

She whimpers. She moves faster, hips working. "Kiss me." She licks her lips, parts them. A low whine sounds from the back of her throat. "Please."

He slides his hands across her back and crushes her breasts to his chest as he kisses her. She whimpers, long and low, and he swallows the sound. He could slide his hands down, play with her, bring her off faster. He could pinch her nipples, lick them, do half a dozen things to help her. Instead, he holds her, and he kisses her, and he makes her work for what she wants.

Her tongue is rough, insistent. He bites at her lips when she breaks away to gasp, fisting one hand in her hair and splaying the fingers of his other hand over the small of her back. His hand spans nearly the width of her waist. She rocks and bounces and whimpers and moans and sucks his tongue into her mouth, kisses the edges of his lips. Her breath stutters.

He feels it in the crawling tension that tightens her back before she presses her hips hard to his and groans against his chin. She trembles all over. It's not as intense and as long-lasting as the others, but she still melts over him. Her lips drag along his jaw until she's laying her head on his shoulder. He pets her hair and her back and waits. His cock throbs between them, against her, in time with his heart.

"I wanna make you come," she mumbles, and she's slipping out of his arms, onto the floor in front of him, shoving his knees apart. Her face is flushed and she's breathing hard. She pushes her hair over her shoulder and looks up at him from between his thighs, wetting her lips. She drags her fingertips down his chest. "I wanna make you come and I wanna lick it up."

He can hardly deny her. It would just be impolite. He nods.

She licks her lips again and her eyes fall from his face to his crotch. He catches himself holding his breath. She runs her hands up and down his thighs, over them inside to out, from knee to hip and back. Over and over, just touching him, just looking at him. Impatience makes him reach out to lay hands on her head. He expects a repeat of the kitchen performance. That's not what he gets.

Delicate little flicks of her tongue, starting at the inside of one knee and working up. Her lips, soft and light, against his skin. Her hands still moving over his skin in a touch maddeningly light. His dick jerks against his stomach and he slouches and tugs at her hair, trying to pull her closer. She's stubborn, stronger than she looks, and he has to respect that even if he just wants to bury his cock in her throat and make her take him. He stops pulling and starts just combing his fingers through her hair. But he doesn't look away.

She licks his balls, round and round, missing nothing, her tongue quick and clever. She sucks them past her lips, one at a time, and though he tenses, he doesn't feel even a hint of teeth. She kisses the base of his cock, a reverent hello, and kisses all the way to the dripping slit. She licks that, greedy, making wet smacking sounds with her lips.

His vision goes blurry when she brings both hands up to wrap around his dick. It's a mass of sensation, her lips and tongue, her hands, all warm and wet and moving, and he's trying not to rock his hips, trying not to thrust, but some instincts can't be tamped down. His breath catches. His balls tighten. He's coming, over her hands, against his stomach, over her lips, hot spurts, nearly painful.

She doesn't stop. She goes right on. His mouth is dry, his breath ceased, his eyes wide. He can't miss this. He pushes her hair back from her face, obsessive, and watches with darkness edging out his vision. She meets his eyes, once, before she closes hers. A look comes over her face. The same look she might have savoring a sweet treat, he thinks stupidly. She licks. She licks his stomach, misses nothing. His hips. His cock, base to tip and back, tonguing the slit, tonguing the fold of foreskin, greedy, seeking every last drop. When she's done there, she licks his balls, his thighs, missing not even the most wayward drop.

He sucks in a deep ragged breath when she pulls back, his lungs burning. Primly, like a fastidious cat, she licks her hands from fingertips to wrists clean, one at a time.

"Mmm."

He hauls her up. His tongue is in her mouth and he's licking the taste of himself, salty and hot and bitter. Then he's joining her on the scratchy rug, flat out on his back, and he's got her over him, her sloppy wet cunt on his mouth, and her thighs are locked to the sides of his head and her fingers are tight in his hair. He's looking up the length of her body at her, at the surprise and unexpected pleasure on her face. His hands are on her ass, tight, holding her to his mouth, and her orgasm takes her by surprise. She pulls his hair and yells and her eyes roll back in her head. She grinds on his face, so hard he thinks she'll break his nose again--and won't that be fun to explain at work. He pulls her off of him and she goes down, hard, beside him on the floor.

He rolls up to his side to look her over. There are bruises forming on her breasts, her hips, and her thighs from his fingers and his mouth. Her legs are spread and he's not stupid, he knows she'll be bruised there, too, tender and sore. She may not be able to walk or sit right for a week. He likes that. He runs his hand over her leg and she spreads them wider.

"You should fuck me again," she mumbles.

He laughs. He leans over and presses a kiss to her sternum. "You think so?"

"Climb on." She makes a vaguely inviting gesture with one hand.

He kisses one of her nipples and she moans. "I think you're done, Rach."

"One more, Cap. I got one more in me." She shivers.

He catches the pointed tip of her nipple between his teeth and she whimpers. It's good enough, he thinks. The familiar ache is starting to spread through him. He's pretty close to done himself.

So he moves over her. He gathers her wrists into one hand and pins them to the rug over her head. It lengthens her body and she arches her back. She doesn't even try to free herself.

"You're gonna get rugburn," he murmurs, spreading his thighs between hers, forcing her legs around his hips. He shifts his weight, distributing it to his hand at her wrists and his knees under her.

She sighs. "Don't care. Worth it. Totally worth it."

He laughs and grips himself.

She manages to get her legs around him, to press her heels into his thighs and lift her hips. He waits, drawing it out, squeezing himself and rubbing the head of his cock over her, from the little hoop above her clit to the bottom edge of her cunt. He does this, over and over, shivering at the play of all that slippery wet flesh, until she's shifting her hips impatiently.

He doesn't warn her. Just points himself in the right direction and pushes in.

She starts to shout. His hand is there, immediately, covering her mouth, and he looks down into her wide eyes. Like this, she looks frightened, reluctant, and there's a new twist of lust in his gut that drives him harder, faster. He shoves in deep and deeper and her eyes are rolling back in her head and she's moaning, her breath wet and hot against the palm of his hand. He lowers his head and bites at her neck, at her shoulder, his eyes falling shut. He grunts, working harder, close, so close to the end. He can feel it. Feel it slithering down his spine and up his thighs. Feel it squirming low inside him.

He takes his hand away from her mouth. She whimpers against his ear when he pulls out nearly all the way. He leaves just the head of his dick inside her. It's a peculiar balancing act, but he does it, and he even gets his eyes open and his head angled so he can watch. So he can watch as he wraps a hand around himself and, like he's alone, jerk himself off. Into her. She starts up a litany, babbling prayers and curses in his ear. He grits his teeth and squeezes himself hard, one final pass, palm slick around his shaft, and then he's coming, shooting inside her, hot and thick and there's so much of it--there's so much of it.

He's still coming when he raises his head and takes her mouth in a bruising kiss. He's shuddering, empty, when he shoves inside her one last time and takes the pads of four fingers over her clit, quick and merciless, and she's coming around his softening cock, twitching and jerking under him, moaning into his mouth.

Her eyes are glazed. Her lips are swollen, red. There are marks at the edge of her mouth, marks he knows his fingertips will fit into. He releases her wrists and shifts his hips, sliding out of her, but he doesn't move off of her. He doesn't move away.

Instead, he whispers, "Watch me." He wants her eyes on his.

He dips fingers into her. Slides them over her. He gathers what they've done and he brings his hand up. And he smears it over her lips. He brings his fingers to his mouth and he licks them clean. Then he licks her lips. His tongue dips into her mouth and she's moaning. He does that, over and over, touching her, toying with her, feeding it to her, stealing it from her, until there's nothing left. Then he kisses her again, one final time, one hand under her head, his body held just over hers, careful of crushing her, careful of her, like she's a lover he cares about.

She whines softly.

He smiles down at her. "Think you can move?"

Her eyelids flutter and her head rolls back and forth. "I think I might be dead."

Chuckling, he kisses her cheek. "Take a few minutes if you need it. Want me to go start the shower for you?"

She stirs. "I can--" She flops and sighs. "I need a minute."

He rolls off of her and stands. He stretches. His dick, finally, is soft. He's sticky and sweaty, but he's satisfied--and most importantly, he can't taste the jungle or the snake's venom anymore. He glances down at her.

"I'll be right back."

She nods at him without opening her eyes. That small smile curving her lips doesn't fade, either.

He pads through to his bedroom. In the ensuite, he turns on the shower, slightly cooler than he likes it. He finds a fresh towel in the closet, a wrapped bar of soap under the sink, and a sealed toothbrush in the medicine cabinet. Not that he makes a point of bringing guests home, he thinks, but he might start making exceptions more often.

He grabs a pair of sweatpants out of his dresser and tugs them on.

She's coming in as he starts out, her arms full of her clothes. She smiles at him, a little shyly, and he thinks how very young she looks.

He pauses near her to cup the back of her head and kiss her temple. "Everything you need is in there."

"Thanks."

He just smiles and sidles past her.

In the kitchen, he listens to the muffled sounds of the shower and drinks several glasses of water. His muscles ache. His head is starting to pound. He thinks, finally, that he could get some sleep. He didn't lie when he told Carol he doesn't dream. He hasn't had a dream since 1944. Everything since has been a nightmare. It's only when he's beyond exhausted, bone-tired and soul-tired, that he manages a restful night.

The shower goes off and he reaches for the phone in its cradle. "Do you have a cab company you like?" he calls toward the bedroom.

She pokes her head out of the doorway, her wet hair falling stringy around her face. "I'll just catch the bus home, Cap, don't worry about it."

He frowns at her. "I'd really prefer you let me call you a cab."

She looks at him, and the way she does it is so familiar that he starts to feel his cheeks go hot. She grins at him.

"All right, grandpa, go ahead. Call me a cab." She disappears back into the bedroom. "That's not a fight I'm gonna win, anyway," she grumbles. "But you're paying for it!"

He shrugs. That was a given. He checks his junk drawer for the cab leaflets and finds one to call. He figures thirty minutes should give her enough time, and the impersonal voice on the other end assures him that it's no problem. He gets the money out of his wallet--too much, he knows, but he hopes not too too much, he doesn't want her to think he thinks he's paying her for something--and, damn, now he knows he's tired. He scrubs a hand over his face. Maybe he'll sleep for a week.

When she comes out of the bedroom, once again in that godawful uniform--he'll never be able to look at it quite the same way--he's got a sandwich for her wrapped up in paper towels, sitting on the edge of the counter next to the cash.

She gives him a mysterious little smile, the one that always makes him think she's making fun of him. "Is that for me?"

"Figured you'd be hungry, too," he says around a mouthful his own sandwich.

She laughs at him. She shoves her feet into her boots and doesn't even bother to lace them up. "You really don't do this, do you, Cap?"

He raises an eyebrow at her. "Is this some weird faux pas?" It would be, he thinks. Guys these days can't even be nice to a dame--

"Nah." She picks up the sandwich and leans her hip against the counter. "Just usually, guys don't fix me a snack and call me a cab."

"You're spending time with the wrong guys."

She grins wildly at him. "Yeah, but they're fun."

It's his turn to laugh. He could kiss her again, he's so grateful for her, and when he thinks about it, he can't think of a single good reason not to. So he leans over and brushes his mouth to hers and says, "Thanks, Rach."

She smiles up at him, fondness in her eyes. "You're a good guy, Cap. You are, don't look at me like that. This was fun." She steps back. He watches her sling her bag over her shoulder and palm the money. She winks at him. "Let's do it again sometime, huh? Just... give me a few months to recover."

He thinks she's probably making a show of it when she walks bow-legged to the door to let herself out.