“You lied to me.”
Maria smirks as she looks down at him, sprawled on the mat and looking more than a little out of sorts. It’s not her fault he has this terrifying habit of underestimating her. Between the streets of Chicago, her father, the Marines and SHIELD, he shouldn’t act so surprised when she pins him.
“Not once,” she replies, standing smoothly. “Another round?”
He doesn’t get up, just watches her for a moment in a way that makes her insides crawl. She’s not sure it’s good or bad to be honest. She’s not sure she’s ever had a man look at her with that same combination of amazement, pride and awe. Respect and attraction.
Well. It most certainly is unexpected.
Her history says men are terrified of a woman who can take them to the mat like she can. She’s no Black Widow, no Cavalry, but she’s good in her own right. She knows no one believes it, knows that most people think she’s gone soft from her transfer to Stark and her time out of the field, and she knows that every time she’s challenged, every time she wins, she isn’t praised for it.
But the look in Steve’s eyes... well, it’s different.
“I saw karate in there,” he says as he pushes himself up. “But some of that was dirty, Miss Hill.”
God, she lets him get away with that. She hates herself for it a little, because she should be correcting him - ‘lieutenant’, ‘agent’, it doesn’t matter which - but she never does. She never has. Not since the first time ‘lieutenant’ had rolled off his tongue and she’d felt her stomach turn deliciously.
She shrugs a shoulder. “I grew up in Chicago, Rogers. And not the pretty side of it.”
He files that away. She can actually see it happen, even as he offers her this excited, boyish grin. And dear God he is Captain America and she is no blushing virgin. But the look of him, the size of him as he stands, towers over her in bare feet, does things to her.
Things she should not, cannot, will not feel.
(It’s too late.)
She’s jolted out of her thoughts when he comes at her, trying for the element of surprise. He catches her arm because she hadn’t been paying attention - she’ll kick herself for that later, letting herself get distracted by him - but she moves with it, swings with it, pulls a bit of a Romanoff as he tries to take her to the mats. A hitch in her breath, a twist of her body, and he’s down again.
“Good try- oh!”
She hadn’t anticipated him flipping her, hadn’t anticipated the press of him against her body. She is not pinned, not by any extent of the imagination and she can think of about twelve different ways to get out of this, but she doesn’t move. Their breathing pushes their chests together with every inhale and he has her wrists in one hand over her head, but it’s the blue of his eyes that holds her captive.
That and the sinful press of his hips between her thighs.
Her breath catches as he presses in, his face not near as nervous as she’s always believed sex would make him. No. This is a man who knows what he wants, who knows what he’s doing. She’s caught, she knows it, and as much as she knows she should pull away, should pull on her Do Not Touch cloak, that is not at all what she does.
Instead, she arches against him, presses her hips into his as her head tilts back. She hears a growl the moment before his mouth comes down to her throat. He is not gentle - she’s not sure if that’s because he thinks it’s what she wants of if it’s just who he is like this. Either way she likes the contrast - and is very much not afraid to use his tongue. He leaves her gasping within moments, eyes wide and vision blurry as she looks up at the industrial lighting.
The hand not pinning her wrists comes into action then, slips along her hip and the bare skin of her stomach. She gasps again, arches into him, and gets that same delicious growl that makes her eyelids flutter.
That more than catches her attention - or maybe it’s the fierce heat on his face, she’s not totally sure - her chest heaving for an entirely different reason now. He’s holding on by the skin of his teeth, utterly turned on by their sparring and the ridiculous mess he’s turned her into.
She should say no, for more reasons than the fact that they are sprawled on the gym floor. She just... can’t seem to summon those reasons right now, not when he’s looking down at her like he could devour her. Like he’d like nothing better than to do just that.
He drops his head with a relieved breath, pressing his cheek to hers for a moment before his mouth finds the sensitive juncture of nerves just under her ear. Her hips come up as she gasps, eyes widening at the pleasure that zings along her nerve endings. He laughs in her ear, this low, dark thing that makes her shiver. But then he’s pulling away and she releases a high, desperate noise that is definitely not a whine.
No, he’s right. This is a terrible idea on so many levels, but she can’t help thinking that the minute they stand, the minute they separate, she’s going to lose her nerve. Or he is. He rips the choice from her hands when he gets his palms on her lower back, presses her hips deliciously against his.
“Arms around my neck.”
She does as she’s told because when Captain America gives an order with dark eyes and a flush high on his cheeks, every cell rises to obey. Her gasp turns into a moan as he lifts her easily, jars her perfectly against his hips and curls heat tightly in her stomach.
As he walks with her, mouth slipping and sliding over her neck and around the strap of her sports bra, she wonders if maybe she’d just been blind. Not to him, per se, but maybe to herself. Because he’s attractive, yes, and oh man, has it been a while, but the desperation is new and different and, she’s surprised to find, not entirely unwelcome.
She rocks against him with every step, uses her hips and her arms to press and slide. He stumbles more than once – she gets shoved against a post and the mats on the wall by the men’s locker rooms – and she takes great pride in the moments he does. He seems so in control, not near as desperate as she is and she finds herself yearning for it.
He’s biting a mark into her pulse point as he shoves into the locker room, weaves his way to the back corner lockers furthest from the showers and the door. He presses her against the cinderblock there and she barely pays any mind to the substantially cooler temperature of the brick. Not when he’s hot and hard and pressed against her just right.
And she wants him. Now.
“Okay, okay,” she hears him say on a laugh, dropping her legs and gripping her hips to keep her still. “Sweetheart, just give me-“
“Not your sweetheart,” she growls out, gets her teeth on his earlobe as she pushes up on her tiptoes. His body jerks against hers before he gets his hand into her hair, tugs her head back so he can see her face. She feels his fingers dive beneath her pants and her panties.
“You sure about that?” he asks, voice dark as his fingers press just right. She’s soaked and revels in the way his breath comes out in a harsh rush. “Maria, shit.”
And oh. Oh wow. She likes it when he swears.
“All for me,” he murmurs into her jaw. “What were you thinking about, hm?”
She doesn’t care. She shouldn’t care because God, he is better at this than she could have ever imagined. There’s nothing tentative about the way he finds her clit, the press and slide of two thick fingers into her. It’s tight, but the stretch is delicious and she keens. He catches the sound with his mouth, ravages hers while her body shakes, comes undone.
“There you go. There you are,” he says and she’s pretty sure Captain America’s voice should not be that low, nor should it carry that gentle note of crooning that sends her arousal spiking again. “You really wanted it, didn’t you? Greedy for it.”
She can’t say she’d known she’d be, but wow. Just wow. Maybe this is the best impulsive decision she’s made in a long time.
And then he slips his hand from her panties and slides his two slick fingers into his mouth.
“Fuck,” she whispers and lets her eyes close for a split second before she’s shoving first at her pants, then at his. He deals with his shirt while her hand trails along his outer thigh, in until she has him in her palm. She gets a full-body shudder for that, his eyes lowering as they watch her.
He drops his hand, slips it around her waist, down her back and over her ass until he can lift her thigh. Her leg goes around him, makes the angle awkward with her hand, but he’s grasping her wrist anyway, pulling her away.
“I don’t have protection.”
“S’fine,” she says breathlessly, because it is her job to know his medical history and she’s had her insides carved up one too many times for it to matter. And oh, oh it definitely doesn’t as he pushes in, the burn and stretch making her catch her breath.
“Maria. Shit, s’tight.”
Well yeah, she almost says, it’s been a while, but she catches herself first, palms the back of his neck. “Again.”
His hips rock back, then push in just a little more. She moans this time, pushes up on her toes. He takes the hint, slips a broad palm beneath her other leg and lifts. The weight of her pushes her forward, into him, onto him and her eyes widen before fluttering closed. He’s just perfect, she thinks, big enough, definitely hard enough, and strong enough to hold her in one arm while the other slithers between them. He strokes her clit with every shallow thrust, pushing further and further each time until there’s barely enough room for his fingers to work.
Not that she cares. Her body slides against his with the sweat they’ve accumulated on their skin, the friction hot and sweet. His hand comes up, shoves her flyaways out of her face with his palm.
“Look at you,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “God, sweetheart, you feel amazing.”
“Ditto,” she manages to gasp as he shifts her hips just right. Words escape her then, just a symphony of moans and gasps to accompany every push of his hips. She can hear the gentle cadence of his voice as it rises and falls, words and endearments she thinks she’d kill him for murmured into the skin of her neck. But God, she doesn't care because everything feels wonderful, tight, coiling, coiling…
She does cry out this time, his mouth not fast enough to muffle the sound. Her body shakes as the climax overtakes her, leaves her breathless and weak in the aftermath. She’s just getting her brain back online when his thrusts stutter unevenly and he groans into her shoulder.
They stay like that for a moment, both because she is utterly pinned - not that she’s complaining – and because he’s going to need a moment. Eventually, he raises his head, meets her gaze with a strange sort of wonderment and satisfaction.
She snorts, can’t help herself. “You just fucked me against a wall and all you can say is ‘huh’?”
She expects the demure Steve Rogers to come out now, the one that holds the door for her and pulls out her chair in meetings. Instead, he lets his eyes slide over her face, down her body to where they’re still joined. He’s softening within her, but rocks up experimentally and sends her back arching, has her gasping.
He’s wearing the smuggest smile when she manages to open her eyes again and she wants to hit him. She really, really does. “Next time maybe we should try a bed. You know, for traditions’ sake.”
She opens her mouth to tell him he’s delusional if he thinks there’s going to be a next time. “You should probably take me to dinner first.”
The smugness bleeds out of his smile and he’s left with this boyish, radiant thing before he presses his mouth to hers in a hot, languid kiss. “That can be arranged, Lieutenant.”