Unrepentant PWP with a side of feels to tide you guys over while I'm out of town and away from computer access. I hope you all enjoy this!
Many thanks to the Hive for looking this over and helping me fix this thing!
There were many things that were beautiful about Natasha Romanoff's body, but if Clint had to pick just one thing that stood out, he'd go with her legs.
It wasn't so much the shape (well muscled yet softly curved), nor was it the texture of her skin (so distractingly smooth and cool and firm), nor even the way she filled out a pair of jeans. It was that he knew what she could do with them, how she ran and jumped and killed with her legs, but she could just as easy squeeze tightly, trapping him between them, choosing not to harm him.
Thus, it came as no surprise to him that he was thoroughly distracted by her legs sticking out under the hem of his discarded button up as she frustratedly whacked at the tiny coffee maker in their hotel room. He should be getting out of bed, he should be helping her with it (he'd been in enough hotels in his life that he had a deft hand with such devices), but instead he just kept looking at the way her muscles tensed and relaxed as she cursed under her breath.
Watching her was a welcome distraction after the hellish day they'd had yesterday. SHIELD had sent them out without backup, and while that sort of thing usually wasn't a problem, they'd ended up surrounded and outnumbered, having to fight their way out of a warehouse teeming with HYDRA goons. When they'd finally lost their tails and made it to the hotel SHIELD had arranged, they'd discovered that their room had been let go accidentally.
A quick call to Tony Stark later, they'd found themselves in one of the nicer suites of the hotel. Money might not buy happiness, but it sure did buy action in sleazy hotel clerks.
After one particularly annoyed shout, he peeled himself away from the softness of the bed (SHIELD never sprung for such nice digs, but apparently Tony Stark did if you pulled his ass out of the fire often enough). He pushed the sheet back and reached for his boxers.
"Hang on, let me take a look before you shoot the damn thing," he said.
Natasha turned her head slightly, the gesture reminding him nothing more than of a cat pretending not to notice the human in the room. She smacked the top of the coffee pot for good measure.
"I can make a fucking coffee pot work, Barton," she said, and he wondered if she'd even noticed that she'd slipped into Russian (he knew she had noticed, of course, but it was nice to think that her anger could distract her so thoroughly).
"Yeah, I know," he said, coming up behind her. "But maybe this one has a thing against Russians."
She rolled her eyes dramatically and slipped out from underneath his arms, which was really too bad because he was already half hard just from looking at her, and it would have been nice to grind up against her ass while he got the machine working.
She was perched on the side of the bed, tapping away at her phone by the time he got the water going.
"Fury wants to see us," she said offhandedly as he approached, and she didn't look up at him. "He wants us to fill out our reports before something else happens."
"Nothing is going to happen, Tash," he said, which wasn't strictly true, since he definitely had plans for what was about to happen, if he had any say in the matter.
She looked up, and he could tell from the curve of her eyebrow that she'd been perfectly aware of what he was thinking, that she knew what the sight of her wandering around the room in his shirt would do to him.
"What?" she asked coyly. She uncrossed and parted her legs, and he took the opportunity to step in close to her, invading her space and towering over her.
"I think you should put the phone down," he said, his voice already rough.
She licked her lips and tilted her head so that she was looking at him from under hooded eyelids.
"I think you're going to need to give me a good reason," she challenged.
"Yeah?" he said, and he bent forward, resting his palms on the bed next to her hips.
"Yeah."
He wanted to kiss the smirk off her face, to suck on her lip the way she liked until she forgot to be playful, but the moment his thumbs brushed the tops of her thighs, he had a better idea.
He pushed her backward, toppling her to her elbows, and as he sank to the floor between her thighs, he could see the anticipation growing in her eyes. He tugged her left leg over his shoulder, pressing kisses by her knee and rubbing his stubble against her sensitive flesh. He felt her shudder delicately at the friction.
She squirmed in his grasp, trying to tilt her hips toward his face, encouraging him to put her out of her misery and bring his mouth down on her, but he remained firm, steadfastedly teasing her. He ran his hands up and down her legs, ghosted his fingertips along the insides of her thighs, and chased the path with his tongue. Growing impatient with his ministrations, she grabbed a fistful of his hair.
"You're going to have to do a little more than that," she said through gritted teeth. He was happy to go along with the pressure of her hands because the teasing torture had been getting to him, too, and he could smell her, could see that she'd already soaked through her panties. He let her push his face down against her pussy, and he let her hold him there for a moment. It was only for a moment though, because he darted his tongue out, tasting her arousal through the fabric, delighting in the way he could feel the outline of her swollen clit even through the barrier.
She cried out, a guttural, uninhibited noise of pleasure that echoed in the room, and he wondered idly if the people on either side of them heard her, half hoping that they did. They didn't get a chance to fuck often, not like this, not without worrying about whether they'd be called up to take care of some emergency, and it was deeply gratifying to hear her wordlessly reaffirm how much she appreciated his attentions.
She was already grinding against his face, using those shapely legs of hers to hold him in place, and he peeled aside the ruined panties to fully taste her, to draw his tongue along the length of her wetness.
She cursed in a language he only half-remembered, and he looked up to find her propped up on one elbow and staring at him as he sucked. He held eye contact with her as he slid two fingers into her, watching the flush on her cheeks and neck deepen and her mouth fall open in an attempt to get enough air. He pumped harder, twisting his tongue in time with his fingers, and she bit her lip, the edges of skin going white.
Her legs tightened around his neck and shoulders, and he couldn't help it, couldn't stop the hand that wasn't buried in her cunt from sliding down to palm his cock through his shorts. She was so fucking hot like this, riding his face and in perfect control of the situation even as she let her body go, and he fucking loved that about her, loved the way she could multitask and be so fucking competent at goddamn everything, and . . .
And if he didn't stop jacking off, he was going to come before he had a chance to fuck her with his cock, which would kind of ruin the ideas that were forming somewhere in the back of his mind.
He slowed the motions of the palm in his lap even as he increased the speed with the other, and it wasn't long before Natasha was making the familiar grimace that signaled her rapidly impending release. She sat nearly upright as she fucked his face, grinding on him as hard as she could given the angle, and she stared at him, his face, his mouth, watching him pleasure her, watching him eat her out. He hummed a wordless tune and traced patterns with his tongue until he felt her stiffen, her entire body freezing and her breath catching in the back of her throat.
"Oh, fuck!" she shouted, louder than before, and she fell backward as she erupted, quaking around his fingers and gushing against his face, and he fucking loved that he could make her do this, that he could make her shout as she came apart at the seams.
She recovered quickly, though, and she was already reaching for him by the time he'd wiped his face on her thighs. She pulled him up onto the bed and toward her, collapsing backwards and kissing him filthily, all teeth and greedy tongue searching out the corners of his mouth. She groaned happily against his mouth, chuckling a little at the end.
"That wasn't too bad," she said, but she was smiling and this was Tasha, so he knew what she meant to say was, "Good work, Barton." He met her eyes and grinned, but her own smile turned wicked, full of promise that he knew she would make good on. His stomach tightened in response.
"My turn," she said, and then she pushed him off her. He fell to his back, and she straddled him, gyrating on his lap until he couldn't think straight, couldn't even remember his name. He grabbed her hips instinctively, pulling her down against his cock, wanting nothing more than to bury himself inside of her.
She shook her head.
"Ah ah, no touching," she said, wagging her finger, and then she grabbed his wrists and pulled his arms up over his head. "Stay."
He did because she was using that voice of hers that brooked no argument, because she looked really good there in his lap, wearing his shirt, because he liked doing what she told him, no more so than when they were together like this.
She braced her hands on his waist as she moved, rubbing her wetness against his cock, and he could feel her through the layers of fabric, could feel her soaking through his own underwear.
He gripped the sheets harder.
She unbuttoned the shirt, his shirt, exposing her breasts and teasing her nipples as she undulated, and he was just starting to really get into the swing of things, just about ready to say to hell with the not touching her when the phone rang.
He, for one, was willing to ignore the telltale buzz because if it was really fucking important whoever was on the other end could leave a goddamn message and she could get back to them after he'd fucked her until she screamed.
Natasha had other ideas.
Leaning to the side, she reached for the handset, and in a strained voice, she said, "It's Coulson."
"Don't answer that," he said, but it was too late because she was already greeting their former handler.
Greeting Coulson, and still rubbing herself against his cock.
Jesus.
She said something that didn't quite register, and his brain hadn't fully caught up with what was going on because he actually said, "What?" aloud.
She frowned prettily at him, mock pouting as she pressed her hand over his mouth to keep him quiet.
And she kept moving.
He had no idea how she did it, how she kept her face and voice so impassive as she rolled her hips, but he knew that she was affected, could feel the heat she was generating, the slickness that kept surging, and he could see the flush on her face spread down to her tits. She got wetter as she kept up her conversation, and if at first he thought it was an accident, just a byproduct of her motions, the little moan that slipped through confirmed otherwise.
She hastily struggled to explain herself to Coulson, and he sucked one, then two of her fingers into his mouth, biting lightly to distract himself from how she felt and looked atop him. Even if it was something of an open secret amongst the higher ups in SHIELD that he and Natasha were an item, there was no sense in flaunting it in front of their faces.
Besides, they were professionals.
Well, sort of, he thought when she stood, depriving him of her sweet weight. He was about to protest, but she dropped his shirt and stepped out of her panties, and oh fuck, he was so not going to make it through this in one piece.
" . . . no, I don't know where Agent Barton is right now," Natasha said, and she raised her eyebrow at him, as if daring him to say otherwise. For her trouble, he reached out to the juncture of her thighs to caress her clit.
She bit her lip. "Yes, I'll be sure to let him know," she ground out, and he circled his thumb faster, pressed just a little harder.
He actually saw her thighs start to shake as she begged off the phone call, and the moment she said, "Goodbye," he grabbed the thing out of her hand and threw it across the room where it landed with a clatter.
"You're such a goddamn tease," he said, and he sat up. He reached down to free his cock, and she moved to help him, grabbing hold of his dick, straddling him once more, and guiding herself down onto him. He impatiently bucked against her, pulling her down as far as she would go, gripping her thighs, her ass, her waist, everywhere to gain purchase.
Every angle was wrong, though, he could see that from the frustrated look on her features, and even though it killed him, he stilled her movements.
"Go to the window," he ordered, and she must have been out of her mind with need because she went without comment, turning around and exposing herself to him. Normally, she would have pretended not to understand; as much as they were open and honest with each other, as much as they could share anything and everything, there were certain things that Natasha liked to pretend she didn't feel.
The excitement she got from the chance of being discovered was one of those things.
He'd found it out by accident, really, when they were on a mission somewhere in Eastern Europe. They'd needed a distraction and plausible deniability to boot, and the newness of their sexual relationship hadn't been a hinderance to fucking on the desk of the government official whose party they were crashing. She'd been wet like this then too, soaked through and flushed all over, and he'd had to carry her panties away in his jacket pocket.
She waited for him impatiently, spreading her legs and leaning forward, and when he came up behind her and thrust up to the hilt, the hiss she let out shook him to his core.
She would never admit it later, but she began to beg as he fucked her, began to cry out and ask him to fuck her harder, deeper, faster. The litany of requests only increased when he started to whisper in her ear.
"I bet you wonder if someone's going to look up and see us," he said, and she nodded, her assent coming out as a wild sob. He grinned ferally and slid his hand from the small of her back to the other side of her body. He slid his fingers between the folds of her pussy, stimulating her further, though by all accounts she hardly needed it.
"Anyone could look up," he said, and she started to tighten. He moved methodically, carefully, then, but he held nothing back, forcing her forward until she was nearly upright against the glass, her upper torso and face pressed firmly against the window. She panted harder, clenched more tightly, and her hands twisted up uselessly over her head.
"Imagine what all those people would see if they caught us fucking like this, Tash. Imagine what would happen if Coulson had known what we were doing when he called," he said, and fuck, if he wasn't aroused by the idea, too, by the idea of getting caught, by the idea of someone watching him fuck Natasha like this with her tits pressed against a hotel window while she begged and sobbed for him to pound her pussy.
He gritted his teeth, determined not to come first. Thankfully, he didn't have to wait long because she started to contract around him at that very moment, convulsing and shaking and crying out until her voice grew hoarse. He let himself go, gave himself permission to come, and he did, pumping into her a few more times, bottoming out inside of her. He felt himself explode in the backs of his teeth, the base of his spine, in his very toes, and if he ever had to think again, it would be too soon.
He caught his breath against her shoulder.
"Fuck me," he said at last, dropping a kiss onto her shoulder.
"Just did," she said, and then she twisted away from him, like she could have at any time because this was Natasha and she could always kick his ass. The lizard part of his brain took deep pleasure in the simple fact of that knowledge, that she would let him take her apart so thoroughly, that she would let him know the kind of things that really got her hot and bothered.
She slipped out of his grasp, sauntering away as if she were utterly unaffected by what had just happened.
"Shower?" she asked. "Fury is expecting us at 1900 hours."
He glanced over his shoulder to the clock. If they hurried, they'd make it.
As he followed her into the bathroom, he looked at her gait and grinned. Maybe he'd revise his earlier assessment about Natasha's legs. Sure, he loved the shape and the feel and even the damn scent of her legs. Sure, he could die happy having felt those limbs twine around his neck, his waist, his own legs.
But the best sight in the world had to be watching those legs wobble on the way to the shower and knowing beyond a shadow of a doubt that he was the reason behind it.
He tucked that thought away to take out and examine later, preferably when he was alone and lonely. For now, he was about to take a shower with his super hot partner, and he was going to need all his considerable focus to get out of there on time.