"Black Widow," he murmurs, and she feels her body respond to his voice, "Who are you mourning, my dear widow?"
She watches him move around the perimeter of the room, positioning her body to accommodate for his changing positions, noting his hands and the way they trail across the spines of the books on the shelves like he is acknowledging old friends.
"Did you hear what I said, Loki?" she asks, she refuses to play his games. She is a professional, and this is the man who stole Clint.
He smiles at her, "Not one for stories, Natasha?" he comes to stop in front of the fireplace, empty but for the ashes and embers of last night's fire. His hands grip the backing of an antique leather chair, and she has to fight through images of those hands gripping her body.
Swiftly, she reviews her briefing from last year's incidents with the Chitauri.
"My brother knows powerful magic," Thor had warned them, "Avoid listening to him speak, he can bend your will to his easily - Silver Tongue, he has been called."
She adjusts her strategy. Men who think they have the upper hand are easily to manipulate. She knows that better than anyone. She releases the tension in her stance and allows her body to lean against a bookshelf, her hand idly resting on one of the upper shelves. The library is in the east wing of the mansion she found Loki in, the rest of the house guests are in the west. They've plenty of time to play his game. No one in S.H.I.E.L.D knows she left, and no one else saw the report on Loki Laufeyson's whereabouts come in. She made sure of it.
He smiles, subtly, and she wonders fleetingly if he's ever smiled completely. He rounds the chair and folds his long frame into it, crossing his legs in a show of unperturbed confidence. Good, if he's confident than he's bound to miss some small detail and she will be sure to catch it.
"If you aren't one for stories, my dear, than I'm afraid we don't have much to speak to each other about," he spreads his hands in front of himself, the very picture of decorum, of the attentive host.
She smiles winsomely and cocks her head to the side, crossing her arms over her chest, "Why should I listen to your stories, Lie-Smith, when you haven't even answered my question?"
He chuckles and she feels herself tighten in instinctual response, "Correct," he murmurs, "How rude of me. I did hear you, Ms. Romanoff. You are going to kill me tonight."
She lifts an eyebrow at his nonchalance, being a god must have its perks - arrogant belief in immortality being one of them apparently, "You're not afraid?" she asks.
He inclines his body toward her, "So direct. How refreshing. No. I am not afraid. Why should I be?"
She pulls herself off of the bookshelf and walks toward him, trailing one finger along the desks placed in the center of the room, "You should be, you know. Gods die just like men."
She stands in front of him, utterly calm. She learned how to use her body as a weapon long ago and as he raises one pale, long-fingered hand and trails it up her wrist to the crook of her arm she notes dispassionately that her skin rises in bumps in the path of his fingers, like some cold wind of her homeland sliding its way up her arm. She catches his green, green eyes with her own and slowly, achingly slowly, moves her hand from her side to caress the side of his face, sliding her thumb down his perfect jaw line to cradle the soft hair at the back of his neck. He tilts his head to the side, never breaking eye contact, and presses a smirking kiss to her wrist.
She feels the arousal building in her stomach, between her legs, a heady heat that makes her heart beat faster and her breath come harder. She knows he can see it, and knows that watching her self control slip is tipping him down the same path; he's slowly losing control. She parts her lips slightly, watches his eyes flick downward towards them, then brings them down to his. She feels him respond, feels his lips move against her's, feels his tongue flick forward to meet her own, feels herself begin to lose the control she gained by making the first move, and retaliates, clenching her hands in his hair like a fist and viciously yanking down to pull his head back. He snarls at her and she smiles at him before ghosting her lips up his exposed jugular, "Play nicely, Loki," she murmurs against his pale white skin, "and maybe I'll kill you quickly."
She's lying, they both know it, but she says it anyway, and they both ignore it. She presses an open-mouthed kiss on his collar bone, just visible through the open top two buttons of his black dress shirt. She splays her hands across his chest, feeling his heart beat quicken as she bites down on the small bruise her lips left on his skin. She tenses as he grips her hips, pulling her against him as he stands.
He is much, much taller than she is.
He smirks down at her as he lifts her against him. Her legs wrap around his waist, her arms twining around his neck as he kisses her. The dress she wore to the party is bunched up between them, nothing between her and him but her panties and his suit.
She hadn't even noticed he was moving them back against the bookshelves until her spine is shoved against the backbones of the books, one of the shelves digging viciously into her lower back. She braces herself against the shelves, digging her heels into one near the floor and lifting an arm to grip the one just above her. She wraps her other arm around Loki's shoulders, catching his gaze before lifting a leg through the slit in her dress to wrap it around his waist. He slides a hand up her thigh, pausing briefly at the gun in its holster, before moving up.
He pushes her back against the books (she'll have bruises to explain tomorrow) and grips her thigh against his hips with one hand, sliding the other up her straight inner leg, teasing against the thin fabric of her panties, cupping her, and sliding one long finger along her folds through the fabric. She bites her lip, letting her eyes flutter shut briefly before snapping them open again as he ducks his head to her exposed neck, sucking, licking, biting, as his fingers slip past her panties to push inside her.
She hisses in his ear and the answering grin against her pulse has her clenching around his fingers, rocking her hips against them. She curses him in Russian, he licks a trail up her neck and whispers in her ear in some long dead language that never existed in her world. He slides his fingers out of her and she pushes against his hand against her cunt, demanding something to fill that void inside of her, and he obliges, unbuttoning and unzipping his dress pants in one fluid motion. Then his cock is hard against her and he's thrusting inside of her. She lifts her leg from it's perch on the lower shelf and wraps it around his waist, pulling him closer, matching his thrusts with small movements of her own. She lifts her arm from his shoulders and grips the bookshelf above her with both arms, biting her lip to keep from moaning.
Its quick, and it's violent. She comes quietly, the heels of her stilettos digging into his lower back as she holds him within her, contracting around him and bringing him over the edge with her. He comes just as quietly as she, his head falling to the curve of her neck and biting there, leaving deep grooves where his teeth had been. She brings one hand down to cradle the back of his head as he slips from inside of her. Her legs falling loosely to the floor, as her other hand grips the knife she had hidden on the bookshelf earlier. He exhales against her skin once as she slips it between his ribs. She holds him against her as she slides it out then stabs him once more, just to be sure, then releases him. She watches him crumple to the floor dispassionately.
He doesn't look like much of a god, bleeding out on a floor with his cock out.
She bends to wipe her knife's blade on the carpet, when his body shimmers and then he's gone.
She crouches, the blade held tight in one hand, the other resting on the gun, ready to pull and fire at the slightest movement. Her heart pounds in her chest, filling her ears, drowning every other sound out. She breathes deeply trying to regain control.
She closes her eyes for one moment to focus herself, when she feels it. His lips against the curve of her ear, she tenses to bring her knife up to where his throat should be but feels her muscles spasm. He's locked her within her own body.
Her heartbeat races as she begins to panic, when he whispers quietly, "Well done, Black Widow. You almost killed a god."
And then he's gone, and her body is her own. She nearly tips forward with the sudden release, but stands quickly instead. She straightens her dress and exits the library to return to Tony's party.
Natasha Romanoff can admit when she's been outmatched. She has not been outmatched.
She's been matched, and she'll win next time.