“Kiss me,” she says, on an escalator crowded with civilians. He hesitates, questioning her. Natasha pulls him in, her movements slow and deliberate. She doesn’t want to draw Rumlow’s attention, and she doesn’t want to spook Steve, who looks at her like he’s not understanding on purpose, like that’s easier than admitting the idea makes him nervous.
His lips are soft, even if the line of his mouth is a little too hard. Unsure, but she feels the tension start to melt away, except it’s already time to pull back.
He’s watching her, and she smiles, resisting the urge to run her tongue over her lips.
When she asks if it’s his first kiss since the War, since being unfrozen, she already knows the answer. It isn’t, for all his glorified sweetness he isn’t without hormones and the yearning for a connection with somebody special. But she already knows there have been no second kisses, no second dates, and that is by his choice.
“Kiss me,” she says again out in the parking lot, where they’re walking purposefully through the rows, like two people heading to their own car instead of choosing one to steal. He hesitates a second time, eyes quickly scanning for SHIELD agents, and this time when she pulls him in, her lips are curved in a smile.
His mouth is relaxed compared to before, and she initiates the kiss, but he doesn’t remain passive. His movements against her are small but they send a shiver through her all the same.
His first second kiss is hers, and she feels no shame in stealing it.
She purses her mouth around his bottom lip, tugs at it lightly, and his fingers flex against her arm.
“Where are they?” he asks when she pulls back.
“Where are who?” she asks in return. “Come on, slip me some tongue.”
He stares at her smirk for a beat, and then he’s exhaling a breath of exasperated laughter, shaking his head, and she likes seeing that smile on him. She thinks he likes to feel it, that he enjoys the tease, the playfulness missing from his life for too long.
They find a suitable car, and it’s her tools that unlock the doors. He slips into the driver’s seat without a word, fingers moving over the wires beneath the wheel until the engine flares to life, and he shoots her a look, waiting for her comment.
“Kiss me,” she says, and she’s starting to like the way those words feel in her mouth. “Make me feel it.”
“Natasha,” he sighs, and that smile is back.
“Come on, make it good,” she goads, tangling her hand in his collar, tugging him towards her across the seats.
It’s her tongue that presses into his mouth, but it’s his instincts that tells him to suck on it, sharp little pulse of sensation that pulls an appreciative noise from her throat, his hand in her hair.
His pupils are dilated when he draws away.
“We need to go,” he says, and she isn’t about to argue, time is of the essence. But she watches him the whole time, even when he reminds her that they’re supposed to be on the run, that she’s supposed to be watching for trouble. She just shrugs, turned in her seat so she’s facing him, and he rolls his eyes at her but he isn’t angry at all, she can tell.
It’s only when they’re far out from civilisation, trees and dust either side of the road, that she props her foot up on his thigh. “Put your hand down my pants,” she murmurs, and the steering wheel creaks under his fingers.
“Jesus, Natasha,” he breathes, carefully not looking at her.
“Come on, it’ll be fun,” she urges, voice thick with amusement and heat. Unbuckling her seatbelt, which earns her a frown, leaning across to swipe her tongue over his ear, which earns her a sharp intake of breath.
He keeps his eyes on the road.
“It’ll be like stress-relief,” she shrugs, grinning, heel digging into his leg.
“You’re serious?” he asks in disbelief, but there’s that damn smile again, and she can’t resist any longer. Moving across the seats, straddling his lap, and his arm moves for her automatically, allowing her in. Digging her teeth in where shoulder meets neck through the layers of his clothes, and his palm settles against the small of her back.
He pulls over, and she thinks that he probably could have kept driving, that his reflexes are good enough. But it’s smarter to stop, and she’s already being reckless enough for the both of them.
This kiss is harder, hotter, and he pulls her in so tight it almost hurts. She bears down on his mouth with all her weight, and he opens up for her, takes everything she gives. Fingers beneath her hoodie, stroking against her skin, and she works her fly open with her tongue inside his mouth.
Wraps her hand around his wrist, and he lets her guide him, his teeth nipping at her bottom lip, as she pushes his fingers beneath her underwear. Curling them so he’s palming her, fingers sliding over the lines of her labia, and he grunts softly, hungrily, a sound she’ll never get enough of.
Maybe she was wrong, maybe she isn’t his first second kiss. She’s not wrong that often, but she can believe she could be wrong about him. He’s so open with so much of himself, but that just makes the secrets harder to spot, and he’s been pleasantly surprising her since the day they met.
He’s so good, and maybe it’s not even skill, maybe he’s just that fast of a learner. Listening to the way her breath hitches when his fingertips brush her clit, and the next touch is more deliberate, thumb rubbing down against her, making her gasp.
She squirms a little, back arching, fucking herself down on his fingers, something delighted and bright within her chest. Palming him through his jeans, and his groan buzzes against her lips as she flicks at the zipper and gets her hand inside.
A truck flies past, car rocking slightly, as they work each other with increasingly hurried movements. Not even kissing anymore, just pressing their mouths together, and he murmurs her name as his fingers grow slicker with her pleasure, as she strokes him hard and fast.
His back bows as he comes, expression on his face so damn beautiful, and she feels the rush of heat on her wrist and sleeve. She half-expects him to apologise, but instead he groans and his fingers push inside her, and she twists and bucks her hips, head thrown back and a smirk on her lips as they work her to completion together.
“Kiss me,” he says after, still tangled together, sprawl of limbs in the driver’s seat, and she does. Free and easy, and she can taste his smile.
She crawls back into her own seat, and watches him wipe his hand across his jeans, zip himself up, fiddle with the wires again until the engine kicks in. She reclines against the passenger door and swipes her tongue over her wrist, licking up salt and sex.
“Jesus, Natasha,” he groans, and she thinks she wants to hear him say that every day.
Miles later she asks him who he wants her to be. When his answer is a friend, she swallows and thinks that, yes, she can do that. Yes, for him, she could want that too.