Natasha's back hits the wall, hard but not too hard, as Steve kicks the door to his apartment in Stark Tower shut behind them and buries his nose in her hair, just below her ear. "How long do we have?" he breathes.
"About an hour," she says, and squirms against him. "Long enough?"
"Maybe," he says, drawing out the word.
Natasha grins, and taps him on the shoulder so he'll back up a little. He does, and she goes for the zipper on her catsuit.
"No, let me," he says, crowding against her again. "I want to peel it off of you and lick every inch of your skin."
He is blushing, and he can't meet her eyes, but yes, that is definitely Steve Rogers, Captain America, doing his damndest to talk dirty to her.
It's pretty hot. She isn't going to lie.
"I'm kind of disgusting," she points out. They were just in a fight with some twits who thought they were part of the Wrecking Crew, but were twice as inept. No one got hurt, but she was moving around a lot and her outfit lacks somewhat in breathability.
"Fine by me," he says, licking the side of her neck.
"Okay," she says, "but you get to strip first." He is still wearing his uniform as well, and having not grown up in the United States, she doesn't have a Captain America fetish. Well, not much of one.
He blinks at her, and says, "All right." His cowl is already pushed back, but his hands go to his belt, unbuckling it, before he unzips his boots.
It only takes him a minute or so to strip, military efficiency in his every move, and Natasha watches avidly. He isn't any less sweaty than she is, and his face is streaked with soot, but he is still the pinnacle of human perfection, and more than that, he is . . . hers, in a way she barely understands but won't give up for anything. "Mmm," she says, and smiles.
"You now?" he asks.
She gives him a heated look, pivots on one heel, and walks to the bedroom.
She hears him moving behind her, but when she gets to the bed and turns to look at him, he is carrying an armful of his uniform.
"Sorry," he says with a shrug. "I can't just--"
"I know," she says, smiling.
He drops the whole pile on a chair and turns to her. "Now, where were we?" It only takes him a couple steps to stand in front of her. "About here, right?"
His fingers brush the zipper, and she shivers. "Somewhere around there," she says.
"Good," he says, and touches his lips to her skin just above the zipper pull. She feels the quick flick of his tongue and puts her hands on his shoulders to steady herself.
He inches the zipper down so slowly she could swear she hears each individual tooth disengage, kissing and licking a trail down the midline of her body, over the fabric of her bra, until he reaches her belt and has to deal with that.
And then her holster.
And, while he's at it, her boots and her bracelets.
And the extra knife sheaths.
When he comes back up to standing, he meets her eyes and says with a grin, "Any other weapons to worry about?"
She shrugs. "You'll find them." There aren’t, actually; she lost her garrotte and another knife in the fight, and she’ll replace them later. Still, though.
"Then I'll just have to look, won't I?" He kisses a trail from the hollow at the base of her throat down to the zipper pull again, and starts his slow trek down her body once again.
When he finally reaches the end of the zipper, a little below her navel, Natasha is gasping, and Steve is flushed down to the middle of his chest.
She traces an uneven line where the flush ends as he pushes the open halves of her catsuit over her shoulders, licking a line across each shoulder. "Mmm, you taste like leather, and sweat, and smoke," he says, and a moment later adds, "No, really, it's good."
She chuckles, and it sounds breathy in her ears. "Yes," she says. "I know."
His eyes flick to hers and he smiles. One hand rises, threads through her hair, and tips her face up for a kiss, slow and warm and thorough.
Natasha kisses him back, her hands on his shoulders, pulling him as close as she can. When he breaks the kiss--he usually does, always worried about his enhanced lung capacity--he rests their foreheads together for a moment, and then straightens. "Let's get this off of you."
It takes a little bit of contortion, which it always does, but a couple minutes later, Natasha is sitting on the bed in her underwear, and Steve is kneeling at her feet, sliding the catsuit off. She reaches down and brushes a wayward strand of hair back off his forehead.
He looks up at her, eyes heated, and says, "I could just stay down here."
"You could," she says, and lets her knees fall apart.
He sucks in a breath and runs his hands up the outsides of her legs, hooking his fingers in the sides of her panties and, when she pushes up on her hands, drawing them off in one slow, sensuous pull. "Would you like it if I did?"
Steve sounds so earnest, and somehow that in itself has become a kind of dirty talk for them. Natasha shivers, and says, "Yes. I'd like that very much." A quick stretch behind her and she pitches her bra across the room, leaving her as bare as he.
"All right," he says, sparing only a quick glance for her breasts before he bends down to place a kiss on her knee. He skims his hands back up the sides of her legs to her hips, pulls them to the edge of the bed, and leans in.
Natasha rests back on her elbows and lets her head fall back, sighing as she feels his breath flow hotly over the inside of her thigh. His biceps, still covered in a thin layer of sweat, rubs against her leg, and she spreads her legs just a little wider. One of his hands, broad and warm, slides under her knee and hooks it over his shoulder.
She raises her head and looks down at the top of his head, barely a whisper away from her skin, and can't resist shifting her weight to get a hand free. Her fingers sift through his hair, the strands slightly gritty with sweat and soot, despite his cowl.
He sighs and pushes his head against her hand briefly before rubbing his nose against the short red curls covering her labia. His fingers brush at her gently before they part her folds, his tongue following immediately after.
It isn't the first time he's gone down on her, but it is still new enough--entirely new for him--that he is a little hesitant. She can feel it in his shoulders where they are propping up her legs, and in his tongue where he laps at her gently. It feels good; his mouth on her always feels good, but she wants a little more, especially now. She rubs her thumb over his temple and scrapes her nails gently over the curve of his ear.
He chuckles against her and grabs her hand, putting it back on top of his head. "Let me?" he says. "Lie back, enjoy."
"Oh, all right," she says with a smile. She ruffles his hair once more and lays back, hands above her head. Letting out her breath in a deep sigh, she relaxes into the dark-blue plaid flannel of his comforter.
Steve settles against her a little more, presses his tongue more firmly against her, and although he doen't speed up, he gets a lot more intense. "Mmm," she says in appreciation, and rubs one heel against his back.
He has a few things in his favor, even without the super-soldier serum: tenacity, a powerful sense of fair play, and an artist's eye for detail. Add to that heightened senses and the ability to go without breathing for about six minutes, and it isn't really surprising at all that he's figured out how to take Natasha apart.
Possibly it is more of a surprise that she's learned to relax enough, not treating it like an op, that she can let him see her natural reactions. She lets out little sounds of appreciation when he does something particularly nice with his tongue; she clenches her hands in the comforter when he presses a finger inside her.
And when he finally doubles down and starts sucking, she lets herself fall apart under his mouth and his hands, shaking and crying out.
She takes a long, luxurious moment to come back to herself; Steve is still kneeling at her feet, head against her thigh, stroking her hip with one hand. Tipping her head up just enough to see him, she says, "Come up here."
He does, blanketing her body with his; she feels his erection against her thigh but ignores it for now. His lips meet hers almost immediately and she tastes herself on him.
"Huh," she says a few minutes later, when he pulls back to settle next to her. "Your eyelashes are wet."
"They're wet?" Steve says, blinking, and a strange look--pride, maybe?--flashes across his face.
She brushes them with an unsteady fingertip. "And clumping together. It's cute." She can't stop the grin that spreads over her face.
He kisses her fingertip as it wavers near his mouth, and says, "I’m told that means I’m trying hard enough."
"Ohhh, yes," she says. "And succeeding. Definitely succeeding."
He chuckles and says, "Good. I'm glad you enjoyed yourself."
She may have responded, but a particular beep comes from Steve's phone, and he is pathologically incapable of leaving the phone be when the 'Avengers' beep sounds. He grabs the phone from where he left it on the bedside table, unlocks the screen, and sighs. "Fury wants us for debrief now."
Natasha sighs herself. "Of course he does." She kisses him one last time and stands. "Are you sure we don't have five more minutes?"
"We probably do," Steve says, "but honestly, I don't want five more minutes. I want five hours."
Something in her chest twists--or maybe un-twists--and she gives him a half-smile. "Rain check?"
"Rain check," he says, looking down at his lap ruefully.
One day, Natasha is going to add up all the times that her bosses have interrupted her and then take it out of their hides.