I don't think this one is as sexy as the first one, but I had fun writing it. It was a lot harder to write a fantasy for Clint, especially in his voice. It was a precarious line between the playful banter I wanted to keep and a sufficiently sexual masculine scenario. Does it work? That's what's the review button is for.
"I told you mine the other night. Now you tell me yours. What's your dirtiest fantasy." She folds her arms over his chest and props her chin on her hands, regarding him.
"No."
"Why not?"
"Won't be any good at it, for one thing," he says. "You were so descriptive. Not really my forte."
"Don't pull that man-of-action bullshit on me, Clint." She sits up, "I've heard you talk a good game undercover."
"In that case, I would just make up some shit with candles and rose petals."
"Like American Pie?"
"American Beauty," he corrects. "Whole different fantasy."
"Either way, I wouldn't have believed you."
"Right. You tell me another one." He draws her close back down on the bed and caresses her throat with his mouth. "You were so good at it. I want to hear more about what gets you off."
"You know plenty about that. Your voice is sooooo sexy," she purrs, "you could make anything sound erotic." She adds in a more conversational tone. "That and I want to interrupt you with a thousand questions."
He smiles against her hair. He's suddenly self-conscious of making his voice 'sooooo sexy' for her. "How about this; let me tell you a little about a fantasy I have and you tell me the story."
"You want me to tell you your fantasy?"
"Mm-hmm."
"I don't think I even need you to describe it - I think I know one of yours."
"Really? Alright, let's hear it. What do I fantasize about?"
"You're in Prague, waiting for the go-ahead on a mid-level dealer. But you aren't even looking at that building. Instead, you are watching the woman in the flat across the street."
"What's she look like?"
"Well, she has ivory skin," she trails her fingers along her collar bone, "dangerously red hair and obscenely full lips," she kisses him, hard, hand at the nape of his neck . "Green eyes..."
"I can see her eyes from there?"
"Hawkeye," she reminds, "it's kind of your thing. And you have a scope. Which is actually kind of creepy, even for you."
He ignores her jab and adds, "She has, without a doubt, the most incredible body: it's perfection, lithe and firm, all curves and strong lines. Like work of art sculpted in white marble, but soft, warm and alive with inviting promise. And her ass... And her tits..."
"Tits? Really, Barton, really?" she scoffs.
"Like that? I didn't even need a thesaurus."
"At any point, does her twin-sister-roommate show up?"
"Nat, you are the one with the three-way."
"Can I go on, or are you telling this story now?"
"Please continue."
"She's several floors up and your nest is the only vantage point from which she can be seen so she's putting on this show just for you. She opens the bathroom door and slips out of her clothes, treating you to the briefest glimpse of her body as she steps into the shower. You imagine the water sluicing over her skin, soap sliding over her like hands; like your hands."
She tilts her face and runs her fingers through her hair, mimicking the ecstasy of hot water coursing over her body. He begins to explore her, starting with feather-light caresses along the lines of her back.
"She emerges in just a towel. You watch transfixed as she pulls it away and begins drying her hair; her breasts quiver with the movement. Resting on the edge of the bed, she extends a shapely leg, rolling on silk stockings and attaching them to a black lace garter belt." She smirks at the noise he makes at the mention of the garter belt; he always seems fascinated whenever she wears one.
Calloused fingers grow more urgent and insistent, massaging sinuous shoulders and proceeding to the narrowing of her waist and the swell of her hip.
"She puts on no panties. She faces the window as she slowly draws her bra on, knees slightly apart. You want so much to see between those creamy thighs, but she's turned just out of view. " She shifts her hips away from his questing, denying him.
She rests her cheek on his chest and takes him, already growing hard, in her hands. "She slips into her dress, arches her back as she zips tight the fabric encircling body. She sways to unheard music and takes a sip from a glass of wine, baring the curve of her throat for you. Ok, your turn."
He swallows thickly. "Yeah," he nods. "Ok. She ... Oh, god, I'm not sure I can ... with you doing that." He rises into her touch.
"Do you want me to stop?" she arcs her thumb over his most sensitive spot and his sharp intake of breath answers her question. "I want to hear what happens next, so I'll stop distracting you."
He quickly continues, "She steps lightly to the door and emerges on the street a few minutes later. Impulsively, I drop a line from my nest and rappel down, leaving my bow, commlink, everything. "
Continuing to slowly stroke him, her lips leave a trail of soft kisses and warm breath on his neck and face.
"She sits alone at a bar, demurely siping a drink, her legs crossed lady-like. As I walk in, she gazes at me over the rim of her glass. Jesus, that feels good. I slide onto the stool beside her."
She halts her progress along his jaw. "In your tac-gear?"
"What? No, I have a suit on now, the grey one you like."
"Where did you..."
"It was under my gear. James Bond can do it, why can't I?"
"What do you say to this mystery woman?"
His mouth goes dry in mild panic. In his head, the scene skips from a little mutual eye-fucking followed by her leaving the bar with him without a backward glance.
"Hi."
"You say, 'hi'" she says dubiously.
"Sure, it's my fantasy, I just have to imagine I'm suave, I don't actually have to be suave. We talk, I buy her a drink... Mmm, please don't stop." He pauses to grope for the next sentence. "This is harder than you made it seem," he grumbles.
"She seems pretty easy," she observes, dryly.
"Oh, not at all. She's sophisticated and engaging and funny, and she's so much sexier up close." He brushes a lock of hair away from her face, and holds her gaze. "But when she meets my eyes, I see she wants me as badly as I want her. She throws a glance over her shoulder at the door, a sly, knowing smile on her lips."
"We stumble through the door of the flat, she grips my tie to keep my mouth on hers. I fumble to close the door and to kick off my shoes without releasing her. We fall back onto the couch with her laying on my chest. She kisses me, all urgent lips and tongue." In one smooth movement, she finds herself on his chest, his hardness insistent against her, his mouth crashing on hers.
"Now what?" he says, breathless, sometime later.
"Leading her to the bedroom, you let her push you against the pillows. She guides your hands back to the ornate metal bed frame where she expertly binds your wrists among the bars with a scarf. You test the knots - they hold firm.
"She unbuttons your shirt and loosens your tie before returning to the foot of the bed. With painstaking attention, she removes her dress, now just in her bra and garter belt.
"'I know you were watching me,' she says, 'Did you like what you saw?'
"You nod.
"'Well, I think I've let you look long enough.' She removes your tie and secures it over your eyes.
"You feel her breasts crush against your face as she leans toward your bound hands. She takes a finger into her mouth, sucking and swirling her tongue. She nips at the hardened flesh.
"'You obviously work with your hands,' she purrs, "I love a man who can put his fingers to good use.'"
She lays back on the pillows and huffs a disappointed sigh, "This is getting sort of soft-core, isn't it?"
"I asked you to tell me a story. This is a story. It's kinda hot," he shrugs.
"Kind of? I asked for one of your real fantasies, not some made-up American Hustle crap."
"It's American Beau... It doesn't even have anything to do with... You are the one who started... Never mind. Ok," he concedes. "I don't know how appealing you'll find this, but this is one of my favorites. The mission that went south in Sarajevo..."
"The one where HYDRA agents beat the hell out of you and we got out about five minutes before they were going to shoot us?"
"Yeah, that one."
She flashes back to that ill-fated debacle. The only survivors of a fierce ambush, they were confined in a windowless, steel-doored closet in a dank basement, handcuffed. Before she could maneuver enough to access the lock picks hidden in the palm of his archery glove, they dragged him away for 'interrogation'. After a sickening 45 minutes, they tossed him back in, bound hand and foot to a metal chair, beaten and bloody. They took his flak vest, but they left his gloves. She managed to get the lock picks and subdue the guards just as their would-be executioners rounded the corner. The ensuing shoot-out still might have ended badly if not for the SHIELD extraction team.
"What could possibly be sexy about that?"
They lay so their noses nearly touch. This close, she can see the scars on his face he earned on that mission. "We know we are about to die, and all we want is one last time together."
"Oh," she says, voice small.
"It's dirty and desperate and extremely hot."
"Ok, let's hear it."
"I'm tied to the chair. They've underestimated you—your hands are cuffed behind you but you are otherwise free. You examine the extent of my injuries. I know they are bad. You know they are bad, but you try not to let the concern show." His hands skim over her flesh, a shiver of anticipation runs through her.
"You kiss around the worst of the cuts. Your lips are so soft on my bruised skin." He cups her breast, flicking his thumb across her nipple as it pebbles at his touch. "You find all the undamaged places and offer relief to the bruises with your warm breath.
"You sit across my thighs. I bury my face against your neck. You smell so good; gunpowder, sweet sweat, whatever the hell it is you put in your hair, your own Natasha smell. I trail my tongue from your collar bone, along your beautiful neck and up to your ear, nipping at your earlobe." Emulating this, the account stops while his hand drifts down her belly, coaxing her thighs farther apart. She opens to him, arching her back and curling into his kiss.
"You grind your center against my torso; it hurts—they hit me in the stomach a lot—but I press into you anyway, feeling your heat." The heel of his hand against her draws a sound of need and promise. "You moan like that, and I'm suddenly straining against you.
"You slip off my lap, crouching between my legs, and slide your cheek along my inner thigh. You use the tip of your tongue to pull the zipper into your mouth. You hold it between your teeth, and draw it down. A deft movement with your lips and I'm free, fully erect and waiting.
"You pause before taking me into your mouth, meeting my eyes with such hunger, such desperation, my hands ache to explore your body, to pull you to me. When you finally touch my cock with your lips, it's, well, it's always awesome, but this time, it's mind blowing."
"Is that what you want me to do now?"
"Yes," he breathes, "please."
"Say it."
"I want you to put your mouth on me, Natasha."
He twines his fingers in her hair as she slides down his body. He groans when the warmth of her mouth envelopes him, scorching pleasure washing over him.
When he's gasping, she ceases her ministration, prompting him to continue. Her smile quirks up at his moan of loss.
He exhales his aching frustration. "I come but am ready for you again almost instantly. And before you comment on that—fantasy."
She arches one eyebrow as if to say, did I say anything? Now you are interrupting yourself?
He draws a deep breath and tries to resume his seductive tone after the moment of self-depreciation. "You return to straddling my lap, kissing me like its the last time, because it is. You take my lip into your mouth, your talented tongue soothing my broken skin." He pulls her back up onto his chest, kissing her hungrily.
"With painstaking care, you slide..."
"How did we get my clothes off?"
"What was that you said? In a fantasy, you aren't limited by the laws of anatomy or spatial relations? Well, I'm not limited by barriers as inconsequential as pants," he says smugly.
"Fair enough."
"Your strong legs support you as you..."
"Do all the work."
At his look of irritation, she adds, "it's annoying to be interrupted during the good part, isn't it?"
He reclaims her mouth and rolls them over by way of an answer, keeping most of his weight on his elbows, but still pressing heavily on her small frame. "Maybe I'm done talking. Man-of-action, right?"
"Do you have other in-the-line of duty fantasies?"
She half-expects a juvenile response, but he simply asks, "Like what?"
"Like in the decon chamber, or against a tree in the Columbian jungle or undercover in an arms dealer's strip club?" *
"No, but those do sound pretty hot."
"So, how was it to tell the story?" she asks.
"Pretty damn hot," he admits.
"Not your dirtiest fantasy, though."
"Not by a long shot."
*apologies to Michelle. Go read her works. After you review this.
8/2/13 update: can I tell you how excited I was when American Hustle was announced so I could use it in place of American Splendor?