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By the time your cart rattles up to the twelfth tee, you’re pretty sure the universe has it out for you.
It started with the guy on hole three who thought “service with a smile” meant he could snap his fingers to get your attention and then complain the beer wasn’t cold enough—despite the literal ice in the cooler. Then there was the bachelorette party with matching pink visors who ordered twelve different drinks, changed their minds three times, and somehow managed to knock over an entire row of perfectly lined-up seltzers while giggling that “oops, that’s a you problem, right?”
By hole seven, the sun had turned brutal, baking the course in a hazy shimmer that made the grass look like it was melting. Half your backup inventory went missing from the shed, so you’ve been playing a fun game of “how many ways can I apologize for not having their favorite brand of light beer.” Your head aches, your lower back is a knot, your thighs are damp with sweat under your shorts, and your polo sticks to your spine in the most irritating way possible.
And then, somewhere around hole ten, a stray ball comes screaming in from the neighboring fairway and misses your head by inches, slamming into the cart with a loud, sharp thwack that nearly stops your heart.
You’re still a little shaky from that one.
So yeah. Worst day.
You plaster on your practiced “totally fine, not dying inside” smile as you pull up to the next group. Four men in various degrees of polo and khaki crimes stand around the tee box. Three of them are strangers.
The fourth one isn’t.
James “Bucky” Barnes leans on his driver and looks up the second your cart squeaks to a stop. His cap is pulled low against the sun, strands of brown hair curling at his neck, beard neatly trimmed around a smirk that has more than once made your brain skip a beat. The navy polo he’s wearing clings to his chest and biceps, the sleeves hugging thick, muscled arms that flex when he shifts his weight.
You’ve seen him a lot this summer. He’s become one of the course regulars: the guy who tips well, flirts harmlessly, never lets his buddies get away with treating you like a walking vending machine. You like him. A little too much, if you’re honest.
“Afternoon, gentlemen,” you chirp, even though your voice feels frayed. “What can I get you?”
Two of the strangers immediately ask for beers and something cold, complaining about the heat, the walk, their score. The third wants to paw through your entire selection to see if you have a specific brand you already apologized for being out of five times today.
Through it all, Bucky is quiet.
You can feel his gaze on you, steady and thoughtful, like he’s peeling back the bright service-industry veneer and clocking exactly how close you are to snapping. When you hand over change and force another smile, his eyes dip to your mouth, then back up.
“You good, doll?” he asks, voice low enough that the others don’t really hear it.
You inhale. “Peachy.”
His brows twitch, like he wants to call you on the lie, but you’re already turning to shove the cash box back under the cooler. Before you can straighten fully, a familiar clatter sounds in the empty space behind you.
You turn.
He’s standing there with his wallet in his hand, a thick wad of bills pinched between two fingers.
“I’ll take the rest of it,” he says.
You blink. “The… rest of what?”
He tips his chin toward the cooler. “All of it, sweetheart. Every bottle, every can, the sad little energy drinks hiding in the corner. I’m buying you out.”
The other guys laugh like it’s a bit. “What, you starting a bar at home, Barnes?”
“Something like that,” he says absently, eyes never leaving yours. “What do you say, cart girl? You wanna close up early?”
Your heart thumps, sudden and hard.
“You don’t have to—”
“I know I don’t have to.” His mouth curves around the words. “I want to.”
The way he says it does something to you that has nothing to do with the cash he’s holding and everything to do with the way his gaze warms, soft but unyielding. He’s not teasing. Not really. He looks… concerned. Determined. Like he’s decided something, and that thing includes you not having a meltdown on the eighteenth hole.
“Barnes, man, that’s—” one of the guys starts.
“Put it on my tab if you want,” Bucky interrupts easily. “But I’m serious. She’s done. You all good? You got your drinks? Great. We’ll catch up.”
The golfers grumble good-naturedly, shrug, and wander back to their game. They’re already popping cans and complaining about their swings as they move down the fairway. Within seconds, their voices blend into the general hum of the course.
Silence settles around the cart.
You stare at Bucky. “You really gonna drink an entire cooler’s worth of alcohol by yourself?”
“Who says I’m drinkin’ it?” He steps closer, folding the bills and tucking them neatly into the front pocket of your polo, fingers brushing the fabric over your chest just enough to make you swallow. “Maybe I’m just highly motivated to improve staff morale.”
You snort despite yourself. “You’re unbelievable.”
“There she is,” he murmurs, pleased, because he got you to crack a little. Then, softer: “Seriously, honey. Let me buy you out. You’ve looked ready to bite somebody’s head off all afternoon.”
“You’ve been watching me all afternoon?” you say, because reacting to the first part feels like it might break you open.
He doesn’t deny it.
“Drive me somewhere quiet,” he says instead, voice lowering in a way that threatens to melt your knees. He taps the empty seat next to him as he slides in, his big body making the cart rock gently. “Let Daddy make your day better, doll.”
Heat crawls up your neck.
You shouldn’t love how that sounds as much as you do. You shouldn’t like that he says Daddy like it’s a promise and a question all at once, eyes locked on yours like he’s giving you ample space to say no. You shouldn’t love the lazy confidence, the way he moves like the world bends around him, except when he’s talking to you, he’s… careful. Always careful.
You think of the golf ball that nearly cracked your skull. Of the leering guy who tried to talk you into “riding something more fun than that cart.” Of how tired your legs are, how hot your skin feels, how bone-deep worn out you are.
And then you climb into the driver’s seat and put your hands on the wheel.
“Buckle up,” you tell him, because your mouth is braver than your brain.
His answering grin is slow and sinful. “Yes, ma’am.”
He twists to snag the seatbelt—not even pretending he’s just doing it for safety—and the motion pulls his polo tight across his chest. Muscle presses against cotton, veins shifting in his forearms as he settles in. You put the cart in drive before you can stare too openly.
The path that loops behind the back nine winds through a cluster of trees, where the land dips just enough to tuck you out of sight from the main fairways. You’ve seen couples sneak down here before, in stolen afternoon moments they hope the clubhouse cameras can’t catch. It’s shady and quiet, the air cooler where sunlight filters through leaves instead of blinding off glossy turf.
You guide the cart down the slight slope, gravel crunching under the wheels. The usual hum of the club feels distant now, like something you can shrug off with your uniform in the locker room. For a few minutes, it’s just you, the low whine of the motor, and the solid weight of Bucky at your side.
He rests one arm along the back of the seat, fingers draping behind your shoulders without quite touching. His thigh is a solid line of heat next to yours, stretching his slacks tight. He smells like cedar and cologne and sun-warmed cotton, with a hint of something darker, muskier, underneath.
“You okay?” he asks quietly after a moment. “Really?”
You keep your eyes on the path. “I almost got decapitated by a Titleist. Found out half my stock mysteriously walked off. Got called sweetheart, honey, and ‘hey you’ in roughly equal measure by grown men who still don’t know how to read the menu on the back of my cart. But sure. I’m fantastic.”
His hand slides down from the back of the seat to rest lightly on your shoulder, thumb rubbing a slow circle through the fabric of your polo. “You shoulda called me over to smack some sense into ’em.”
“What, you gonna beat them with your nine iron?” You glance at him, lips twitching.
“Don’t tempt me.” His eyes flick over your face, softer now. “I really am sorry, doll. You don’t deserve to have your day go like that.”
“Oh yeah?” Your voice goes quiet. “What do I deserve, then?”
The look he gives you makes your breath catch. Heavy and warm and molten, like he’s cataloging every answer he’s been holding back all summer.
“Park,” he says, rough around the edges. “Then I’ll tell you.”
Your pulse thuds in your throat.
You pull the cart off the path into a shaded alcove between two large oaks, wheels bumping over uneven ground until you find a relatively level spot. The canopy above throws dappled shadows across the front of the cart, the air cooler, birds chattering somewhere deeper in the trees. No other golfers in sight. No stray balls.
Just the two of you.
You put it in park. Your hands linger on the wheel like you’re afraid to let go.
Bucky’s fingers still on your shoulder. “Look at me, baby.”
You turn.
It’s not like he hasn’t flirted before. The playful comments, the lingering tips, the way he sometimes slides an extra five into your hand with a wink and a soft “for you, not the cart.” But this—this feels different. Not casual. Not easy.
Focused.
“Any of this too much?” he asks quietly. “We stop, I walk back, you tell the manager I bought out your cooler and took off. You never see me again if that’s what you want.”
The idea hits you like a punch. “I don’t want that.”
“Good.” Relief flickers over his face. “’Cause I’ve been thinkin’ about getting you alone in this damn cart since the first day you rolled up and tried to upsell me on overpriced trail mix.”
“You bought three,” you remind him.
“Yeah, because your lips did this little pout when I said I didn’t want any.” His thumb brushes the corner of your mouth lightly, the touch so gentle it makes your lungs forget how to work. “Drove me insane. Still does.”
Your pulse hammers. “You really notice everything, huh?”
“Hard not to, doll.” His gaze dips to your throat, then lower, sliding down the line of your body. “You’re my favorite part of this course.”
He says it like it’s fact, simple and solid as the trees around you.
Your hands finally leave the wheel and find his chest instead, fingers curling into his polo. The fabric is warm and slightly damp from the heat; under it, his heart beats steady and strong. You don’t even remember leaning in, but suddenly his breath is ghosting over your lips, the brim of his cap casting you in shade through the thin space between you.
“Still wanna make my day better, Daddy?” you ask, the word tasting decadent as it leaves your tongue.
His eyes blow dark.
“Baby,” he rasps, “you got no idea.”
Then he’s kissing you.
It’s not tentative. It’s not careful. It’s hungry in a way that scrapes the bad mood right off your skin. His mouth claims yours like he’s been holding himself back for weeks and finally decided he’s done pretending. His hand comes up to cup the back of your head, fingers threading into your hair, tipping you exactly where he wants you. His other hand spans your waist, tugging you closer across the small space between your seats until your chest is pressed to his and the steering wheel digs into your hip.
You make a small, startled sound against his lips. His tongue swipes along the seam of your mouth, coaxing you open, deepening the kiss until thought melts away under pure sensation. He tastes like mint and beer and something that makes your toes curl in your sneakers.
“Come here,” he murmurs, breaking away only long enough to haul you more fully into his lap.
You go easily, straddling his thighs, your knees braced on either side of the seat. The cart rocks with the shift in weight, a soft creak of metal and suspension. It only makes your heart race more. His hands slide down to your ass, fingers biting through the thin cotton of your shorts as he pulls you down until you’re seated firmly against the thick, growing press of him beneath his zipper.
“Oh,” you breathe, a little helpless.
“Yeah,” he says, voice rough with satisfaction. “There you go, princess. Just like that.”
He kisses you again as he rocks you forward gently, the slow grind sending heat spiraling through your body. The friction of your shorts against him, the solid flex of muscle under your thighs, the sheer size of him—everything conspires to make your head spin.
You break away, panting softly. “We’re really doing this in the cart.”
He smirks, thumb brushing your lower lip. “Got a problem with that?”
“No,” you say, voice breathy, honesty spilling out before you can catch it. “Kinda hoped we would.”
He groans, head tipping back against the seat for a beat like he needs a second to get himself together. When he looks at you again, his eyes are molten.
“Fuck, you’re gonna kill me,” he mutters, fingers gripping your hips tighter. “Gimme a sec. I wanna taste you before I lose my damn mind.”
Your brain stutters. “Taste—”
“Mm-hm.” He taps your thigh. “Turn around for me. Knees on the seat. Hold onto the back rail.”
You blink at him, then at the empty tree line, and feel heat roar to life low in your belly.
“Out here?” you whisper, but you’re already moving, sliding off his lap to kneel on the passenger seat. Your fingers curl around the metal bar at the back of the cart, knuckles whitening. The position makes your shorts stretch tight across your ass, your back arched, your breath catching.
“Out here,” he confirms, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “Don’t worry. I’ll keep watch.”
His hands skim up the backs of your thighs, slow and appreciative, fingertips leaving trails of heat on your sticky skin. He hooks his fingers in the hem of your shorts, dragging them up just enough that the fabric rides higher, baring more of you to the warm air.
You gasp as he leans forward and presses a kiss to the inside of your knee, then another on the back of your thigh. It’s almost reverent. Nothing crude, nothing rushed. Just his mouth following a path up, up, up, leaving a trail of soft, open-mouthed kisses along skin that’s never felt particularly special before and now feels like it might catch fire from the attention alone.
“You’ve been running around this course all day for assholes who don’t appreciate you,” he murmurs against your skin. “Least I can do is worship a little.”
Your grip on the bar tightens. “That’s not—ah—necessary.”
“Feels necessary to me, doll.” His thumb strokes the side of your hip. “You want me to stop?”
“No,” you say instantly, voice gone thin. “Please don’t stop.”
“That’s my good girl,” he praises softly.
The words send a shiver straight down your spine.
You feel him shift behind you, the seat creaking, and then he’s undoing the button of your shorts with deft fingers. He takes his time, like every little movement is deliberate. The metal teeth of your zipper whisper down, your shorts loosening around your hips. He tugs them, inch by inch, over the swell of your ass, carefully maneuvering them down until they’re bunched mid-thigh. Your panties cling to you, damp with heat, the thin fabric doing little to conceal how much you want this.
You make a faint, embarrassed noise. He catches it immediately.
“Hey,” he says, voice low and soothing. “None of that. You know how many times I’ve thought about this? About you?”
You swallow. “You have?”
“Baby,” he almost laughs, the sound incredulous. “The way you smile, the way you talk, those little shorts you wear when it’s hot out? I’ve spent an unhealthy amount of time in the clubhouse shower tryin’ not to be a creep about it.”
Your face flames, but your chest swells too—some fragile part of you softening at the idea he wanted you this much and still kept his distance until you were ready. Until you parked the cart and climbed into his lap and said Daddy like you meant it.
His hands slide up the backs of your thighs again, thumbs pressing into tight muscles, working circles that make your knees wobble. He rises slightly behind you, and then his breath is ghosting over the backs of your thighs, the curve of your ass, the thin cotton between your legs.
You gasp sharply when his mouth finally lands over that thin barrier, warm and open and possessive. He kisses you through the fabric, slow and deliberate, like he’s savoring the taste even dulled by cotton.
“Sweet little thing,” he hums, the vibration making your toes curl in your shoes. “Knew you’d be delicious.”
Your hips jerk involuntarily. “Bucky—”
“Hold on tight for me,” he tells you, fingers curling into the sides of your panties. “Gonna take good care of you.”
He eases the damp fabric aside, baring you to the air and his gaze. You can’t see his face, but you feel the way he stills for a heartbeat, breath catching like he’s been punched. Then—
Then he settles in.
The first slow, deliberate stroke of his tongue against you rips a sound from your throat you don’t recognize. You slap a hand over your mouth too late, muffling the rest of it into your palm as your whole body bows against the bar.
“Easy,” he murmurs between slow, thorough licks. “Got you, baby.”
Your legs tremble as he works you, unhurried but relentless, like he’s got all the time in the world and every second is dedicated to mapping exactly what makes you gasp, what makes your hips twitch back toward his mouth. He alternates between long, languid strokes and firmer, more focused attention, letting you ride the waves of it, encouraging you quietly when you whimper and shift.
“That’s it,” he soothes, voice rough with arousal. “Don’t hold back on me. Wanna hear you.”
“We’re—we’re outside,” you manage weakly.
“Tree line’s clear,” he counters, lips curving against you. “Only thing out here is you and me, doll. And right now, you’re the only thing I care about.”
He proves it, too.
His hands bracket your hips, holding you steady when your knees threaten to give out, thumbs spreading you just enough to angle you exactly where he wants you. Every slow drag of his tongue, every swirl, every gentle suck pulls another frayed sound from your chest. You’re vaguely aware of the cart rocking slightly as you brace against it, of the birds still chattering in the distance, of the faint hiss of wind through leaves.
Mostly, you’re aware of him.
Of the way his mouth moves over you like he’s devouring something he’s craved for a long, long time. Of the way his quiet praises spill against your skin, hot and reverent.
“Look at you,” he groans softly when your hips start to roll against his face. “Grindin’ on me like that. Such a good girl, givin’ it to Daddy just how he wants.”
You whine, your hand dropping from your mouth to grip the bar again, because each time he calls himself that, your whole body tightens.
“Please,” you gasp. “Bucky, please—”
“Please what, sweetheart?” His tongue slows to a torturous pace. “Use your words.”
You squeeze your eyes shut. “Please don’t stop. I’m so close, I—”
“Yeah?” he murmurs, and you can hear how smug he is about it. “Then you better hold on.”
He gives up on slow entirely.
He works you with focused intensity, tongue and lips and the steady anchoring pressure of his hands. The pleasure builds fast, coiling tight in your belly, winding higher and higher until your breath is nothing but short, stuttering gasps.
You hear yourself babbling—nonsense words, his name, the occasional broken Daddy when the pleasure spikes hard enough to blur the edges of your vision. He groans each time you say it, like the word feeds him, spurring him on, his grip tightening enough that you’re sure you’ll feel his fingerprints on your hips later.
“That’s it,” he urges against you when your thighs start to shake in earnest. “Give it to me, doll. Wanna feel you fall apart for me.”
You break with a shuddering cry you barely manage to smother against your forearm. Fireworks explode behind your eyes. The world narrows to a point of blinding heat and the slow, grounding sensation of his hands holding you steady while your body convulses.
He keeps his mouth on you through it, easing you down, swallowing your sounds like a man starved.
When you finally slump against the back rail, boneless and trembling, he presses one last, lingering kiss to your tender skin, like he’s sealing something there.
“Still with me?” he asks, voice hoarse.
You nod weakly, forehead resting on your arm. “Gimme a minute. I think my soul left my body.”
He laughs, soft and delighted. His palm sweeps up your spine, warm through the thin cotton of your polo. “C’mere, sweetheart.”
You carefully hitch your panties back into place and shimmy your shorts up enough that they won’t fall off your hips, then turn and practically collapse into his lap. He catches you easily, arms wrapping around your waist, his big hand splayed across your back.
Your legs bracket his thighs again, but this time you’re more aware of the very prominent, very hard ridge pressing against you through his slacks. Your eyes flick down, then back up to his face.
“You didn’t have to—” you start.
“Yeah,” he says dryly, “I kinda did.”
You swat his shoulder weakly. “I mean, you didn’t have to do that without… y’know. Getting anything out of it.”
“Oh, I got plenty out of it.” His eyes darken. “But if you’re worried about fairness, we can fix that real quick.”
Your stomach flips.
“You sure?” he asks, though his hands are already sliding down to your hips, impatient. “You want me?”
You meet his gaze and let him see it—the want, the relief, the trust. The way he made your hellish day feel distant and small with his attention, his care, his mouth.
“Yes,” you say simply. “I want you.”
“Fuck,” he whispers like a prayer. “Okay. Okay, come here.”
He lifts your hips slightly, maneuvering you closer as he reaches down with one hand to undo his belt. The soft jingle of metal and the muted rasp of his zipper fill the shaded space. Your pulse races anew. You feel him free himself from the confines of fabric, the blunt, hot press of him against you making your breath stutter.
He pauses, breathing hard. “You on anything, doll?”
“Yes,” you answer, heart pounding. “And I’m clean. You?”
“Same,” he says without missing a beat. “But say the word and we stop. I’ll just sit here and kiss you stupid instead.”
You don’t think you’ve ever liked someone more in your life.
“We’re okay,” you assure him, cupping his jaw. “I want all of you.”
His eyes flare.
“You’re gonna be the death of me,” he mutters, then slides one hand down between your bodies.
He slips his fingers under the edge of your panties again, finding you still warm and slick from his mouth. You whimper quietly when he drags his fingertips through the wetness, coating himself with it. The blunt head of him nudges at your entrance, the pressure already enough to stretch your breath into a thin line.
“Nice and easy,” he soothes, eyes locked on yours. “Just sink down on me, baby. I got you.”
You brace your hands on his shoulders, fingers digging into solid muscle as he slowly guides you down.
The first inch makes you gasp, a sweet, aching stretch that borders on too much. He’s big, your body adjusting to the intrusion with a mix of burn and pleasure that curls your toes. He watches your face carefully, jaw clenched, restraint written in every tense line of his body.
“Breathe,” he murmurs, thumb rubbing your hip. “There you go. You’re doing so good.”
You exhale shakily, letting your weight settle bit by bit. He fills you, hot and thick, the sensation almost overwhelming. It’s not just the physical stretch of him—it’s how utterly encompassing it feels to have him here, under you, inside you, his arms around you, his voice grounding you.
When you finally sink fully onto him, your thighs flush to his, you both release a sound in unison—his a guttural groan, yours a breathless, disbelieving moan.
“Jesus Christ,” he grits out, head tipping back as he squeezes your hips. “You’re so tight, sweetheart. So fuckin’ perfect around me.”
You shiver. “You’re… big.”
“Good big or bad big?” he manages, trying for humor and mostly just sounding wrecked.
You roll your hips experimentally and feel him hit deep, pleasure sparking so bright you gasp. “Very good big.”
He laughs once, breathless. “That’s my girl.”
The cart shifts beneath you as you begin to move, the old suspension protesting with soft creaks each time you lift yourself a few inches and sink back down. The slight sway adds a strange thrill, a reminder that this is reckless and public-adjacent and absolutely the best decision you’ve made all week.
Bucky’s hands guide you at first, steadying your rhythm, helping you find a pace that keeps the stretch delicious without tipping into discomfort. Once you do, he loosens his grip, letting you ride him how you want.
You take him up on it.
You find a slow, grinding motion that lets you savor every inch, every shift of him inside you. Each time you rise and fall, his eyes darken further, his hands flexing on your hips like he has to physically stop himself from flipping you onto your back and taking over.
“You feel so good,” you whisper against his mouth when you lean in for a messy kiss. “So deep.”
“You’re killin’ me, doll,” he groans, kissing you back with matching hunger. “Look at you. Bouncin’ on Daddy’s lap in the middle of the damn back nine like you own the place.”
“Maybe I do,” you murmur, then yelp as he snaps his hips upward, meeting you halfway with a sharp thrust that steals your breath.
“Maybe you do,” he agrees, voice gravelly. “Especially lookin’ like this.”
His hands slide up from your hips to your waist, your ribs, your throat. He doesn’t squeeze—just cradles the sides of your neck, thumbs tilting your chin up so he can see every flicker of pleasure on your face.
“That’s it,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “Fuck, that’s it. Just like that, baby. Take what you need from me.”
You do.
You pick up the pace gradually, your body chasing that familiar coil of pleasure low in your belly. The cart sways more obviously now, rocking on its wheels with each slower, deeper pump, the creaks blending with your soft sounds and his broken groans.
You’re vaguely aware of the absurdity—having the best sex of your life in a golf cart while the rest of the world whacks little white balls around manicured grass—but it only makes you hotter. Only makes the whole thing feel more like a stolen secret carved out of a bad day.
Bucky’s breathing turns heavier as you ride him harder, his hands dropping back to your hips to steady you, to pull you down onto him with each thrust. He meets you halfway now, his own control fraying, the low, filthy sounds spilling from his chest doing nothing to help your impending unraveling.
“Look at you,” he praises, fingers digging in. “Look at the way you’re takin’ me. Fuckin’ yourself on my cock like a good girl. You know how long I’ve wanted this? Wanted you?”
Your eyes flutter, head dropping to his shoulder as the pleasure stars to crest. “Wanted you too,” you confess, words tumbling out unchecked. “Since—since the first time you smiled at me. Thought I was going crazy.”
He curses softly, lips finding your temple. “You’re not crazy, baby. Or if you are, you’re not alone.”
He shifts his angle, dragging a hand down between your bodies to stroke where you’re joined, thumb circling in maddening, perfect little patterns that make you jerk and gasp.
“Daddy’s got you,” he murmurs against your hair when you start to tremble, your rhythm becoming disjointed. “C’mon, sweetheart. Give it to me. Ruin that bad mood for good.”
The combined sensations—him buried deep, his thumb working you just right, his voice in your ear—are too much. You shatter around him with a soft cry, clinging to his shoulders like he’s the only solid thing left in the world. Pleasure rips through you, hot and blinding, every muscle tensing and then melting in waves.
He groans when he feels you clench around him, his own control finally snapping.
“Fuck, that’s it,” he growls, driving into you with a few more sharp, stuttering thrusts. “That’s it, doll. Just like that—”
He buries himself deep one last time and goes still, his whole body tightening beneath you as he comes with a low, guttural sound against your neck. You feel the shudder roll through him, feel him hold you tight, almost crushing, like if he lets go you’ll evaporate.
For a long moment, the only sounds are your mingled breathing and the faint rustle of leaves overhead.
The world slowly tilts back into place.
You sag against him, boneless, your forehead pressing to the side of his neck. His hands stroke up and down your back in slow, soothing arcs, fingers tracing the line of your spine through your polo.
“You okay, sweetheart?” he asks quietly, his voice rough but gentle.
You nod against his skin. “I can’t feel my legs.”
He huffs a soft laugh, chest vibrating under your cheek. “I’ll take that as a good review.”
“Best I’ve had in a golf cart,” you mumble.
He snorts. “There’s a scale for that?”
“Apparently.” You smile, eyes closed, soaking in the feeling of being fully, gloriously ruined and, for the first time all day, completely at peace.
After a few minutes, you reluctantly shift, wincing at the sensitivity as you lift yourself off him. He helps, steadying you, his touch careful again. You readjust your clothes, smoothing your shorts and tugging your polo back into place. He tucks himself away, zips up, and fixes his belt, all while stealing small, fond glances at you.
When you finally flop back into the driver’s seat, your hair a mess and your lipstick long gone, he whistles softly.
“What?” you ask, self-conscious.
“You look happy,” he says simply.
You roll your eyes, but your cheeks warm. “Yeah, well. Someone just bought out my cooler and gave me a very thorough… morale boost.”
He grins, teeth flashing white in the dappled shade. “Anytime, doll. Seriously. I meant what I said. You work too hard for people who don’t appreciate you.”
You snort. “You sound like you’re about to unionize the cart girls.”
“Oh, I absolutely am,” he deadpans. “First order of business: mandatory breaks with one James Barnes, who will personally oversee your stress relief.”
You laugh, reaching for the small clipboard you keep clipped to the dash out of sheer habit. Before you can reach it, he catches your wrist lightly.
“Hang on.”
You raise a brow as he reaches into his pocket again, pulling out the wad of cash he never actually gave you earlier. He flips through it, peels several crisp bills off the top—more than you usually make in tips in an entire day—and then crooks a finger at you.
“C’mere,” he says, voice dropping into something that makes your skin prickle.
You lean in automatically.
He takes the folded bills and carefully tucks them into the cup of your bra, fingers sliding under the edge of the fabric with slow, deliberate intent. His knuckles brush the soft swell of your breast, and your breath catches even though you literally just had him inside you.
“There,” he murmurs, smoothing your shirt lightly. “Hazard pay. For nearly gettin’ your head taken off by a ball, surviving the assholes on this course, and letting me wreck you in a company vehicle.”
You stare at him, speechless for a second. “Bucky, this is too much.”
He shakes his head. “No such thing. Take it, princess.”
You bite your lip, then sigh and sit back, fingers brushing the hidden wad. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Ridiculously into you, yeah,” he agrees easily. “Also ridiculously serious about taking you out sometime when you’re not technically on the clock and I’m not ambushing you with golf-cart sex.”
Your heart does a funny wobble.
“Like a real date?” you ask, hating how uncertain you sound suddenly. “You don’t have to feel obligated just because we—”
“Hey.” His hand finds yours, fingers wrapping around your knuckles, thumb rubbing over the back of your hand. “Look at me.”
You do.
He holds your gaze steadily, all the smirk and swagger dialed down into something quieter, more sincere.
“I don’t do anything I don’t want to,” he says firmly. “I wanted you before today. I’m gonna want you tomorrow. And the day after that. And every time you roll up in this cart lookin’ like sunshine and sarcasm. Today just… accelerated the timeline a bit.”
Your throat feels tight.
“I, uh,” you manage, trying not to melt entirely. “I’d like that. A date. With you.”
“Good.” His smile tilts warm. “Then it’s a plan.”
He lifts your hand to his lips and presses a soft kiss to your knuckles, the gesture surprisingly sweet after everything you just did together. It makes your chest ache in a different way.
You breathe in slowly, then glance at the time on the digital clock by the wheel.
“I should probably… y’know. At least pretend to work for another hour before I clock out.”
He chuckles. “Fair. Don’t want anyone gettin’ suspicious that you disappeared with the course menace.”
“You’re only a menace on the green,” you tease. “And apparently in secluded wooded areas.”
He winks. “You haven’t seen me at the driving range yet.”
You groan. “Terrible.”
“You love it.”
You do.
You guide the cart back toward the path, feeling his eyes on you, the weight of his hand resting comfortably on your thigh now like it belongs there. The course noise gradually swells again as you approach the fairways—the occasional shout, the whack of clubs, distant laughter.
But your bad mood?
Gone. Obliterated. Shredded beyond recognition by a man who noticed you were having a crap day, decided he wasn’t going to let that stand, and followed through with his words and his mouth and his body.
When you stop near the next hole, he reluctantly drops his hand from your leg.
“I’ll text you,” he says as he climbs out, adjusting his cap. “And, uh, maybe don’t tell management the exact reason you’re outta stock.”
“Oh, I’m absolutely writing ‘one very persuasive golfer’ in the inventory log,” you retort.
He grins wide, then leans back in for one more quick, searing kiss that leaves you dazed in the driver’s seat.
“See you later, doll,” he murmurs against your lips. “Try not to miss me too much.”
“Demanding,” you mutter, but you know your smile gives you away.
He laughs, shakes his head, and strolls back toward his friends, who are already mock-booing him for ditching them. You watch him go, the swing of his shoulders, the easy way he moves, then force yourself to turn back to your route.
Your cooler is technically empty.
Your pockets, however, are full—of cash, of the phantom warmth of his hands, of the echo of his voice calling you good girl. Your day started with a stray ball nearly taking your head off.
It’s ending with the memory of Bucky’s mouth on you, his body under you, and a promise of something more than stolen moments in a golf cart.
You can live with that.
You put the cart in drive and head off toward the next hole, humming under your breath, the worst day you’ve had all summer officially, thoroughly ruined.