A/N: Oh my gosh, I'm SO sorry for the delay. I know some of you probably think I stopped working on this but I didn't, I swear! I've been suffering from writer's block in regards to this story, as well as the fact that school is still kicking my ass, but we had a snow day today and I started writing last night, so here's a new chapter! I'm going to try to update a bit more frequently next time, haha. Anyways, here and I apologize for any typos/grammar errors but I'm rushing because I promised a friend we would cuddle and watch a movie. I hope you enjoy and as always, reviews are always appreciated! Sorry again!
It's been a few weeks since their dinner and despite wanting to spend as much time as they can together, Chloe's back and Clint's been moody. Natasha realizes it's not her fault that he's unhappy, but there's always that nagging in the back of her mind, a poisonous little voice that hisses in her ear and eats up her energy.
You don't deserve him. You're a dirty slut. Whore. He has a girlfriend—what an awful little girl you are. What does he even see in you?
Natasha wonders that too.
They don't flirt on the train, or even talk for that matter, because Clint's always afraid a friend of Chloe's will materialize and ruin everything. Chloe's been known to get jealous.
The tension between Clint and Natasha is palpable though, and a slight brush against her sends jolts through his nerves and his hair stands on end and he has to put space between them before he does anything rash. He can tell Natasha feels it too, the way she stiffens and breathes harshly through her nose; she avoids eye contact with him because all he'll see is black.
They text though—a lot. And if Chloe was the one that paid the phone bills, well Clint would be fucked and up shit creek without a paddle. He doesn't count because he thinks it'll make him seem love sick and clingy, but at least one text is sent between the two every hour and Clint is positive he talks to Natasha more than he does to Chloe.
Natasha sends him photos too, and Clint hasn't kept a single one because he's smart, or at least, he's smart about not getting caught. He's really fucking stupid for getting himself into this mess.
But the photos keep getting racier and racier and he keeps getting hornier and hornier. He's so desperate to get some alone time with Natasha, but when he's not working, he's at home trying to avoid Chloe even while they're in the same room.
She's noticed too, and the first time she says something Clint just about has a heart attack because she stops him before he goes to bed one night, latching onto his wrist and asking, "Is there something you're not telling me?"
Clint's never sweat bullets before now, except for when Natasha walked into the restaurant and his first thought was fucking her on their—
His eyes go wide and he stops himself mid-thought because this is absolutely the wrong time to be thinking about that.
"I don't know what you're talking about," he mutters, maintaining eye contact.
"You just seem so tired all the time," Chloe whines and Clint feels relief again. "You're always either working or sleeping and we don't spend any time together."
"It's just work, I've just had a lot of projects to work on," he says, gently pulling his arm from her grip. He leaves for work before she wakes up the next morning.
Half a week later, he and Natasha have fucked in the dingy Starbucks bathroom twice—once with the metal handicapped bar digging into Natasha's ass, resulting in a long bruise across her cheeks for the rest of the week, and another time with Natasha gripping the porcelain sink, Clint pounding into her from behind, gripping her hair so her back makes a beautiful curve and her neck is exposed. They fuck so hard that the sink begins to shake loose and they leave before it can break from the wall.
Clint's tried not to think a lot about his situation because every time he does, his head feels like it's going to explode and he ends up playing angry minesweeper on his computer, imagining that the little mines are blowing him up piece by piece.
The thing is, he really likes Natasha—a lot—but he's still unsure if there's actually anything there, if they have a future. Chloe still loves him and she's his comfort, his safety, and even though he's only settling for her, tolerating her, he likes knowing he can fall back on her if things with Natasha fall apart. So Clint keeps his mouth shut and his thoughts to himself and even if it's slowly eating at him from the inside out, he knows he can't do a thing.
She's not sure what it is, but Natasha can tell Clint's feeling especially stressed lately and so she finds herself standing in front of his office building, her neck craning to see the top. As she walks through the building towards the elevators, Natasha notices the various men in their slim fitting business suits and their slick backed hair. She pays attention to the handsomest ones, of course, but as she observes their features, her eyes flicking to each momentarily, Natasha realizes that she's comparing every one to Clint and she keeps finding faults with them. That thought sinks in but she's still not ready, not ready to think about the fact that they're faulty because they're not him. She steps into the elevator and can feel their gazes burning into her back.
As she exits onto his floor, the second from the top, Natasha sees his secretary and she really doesn't want to make contact with anyone but him so she hides around the corner and waits until the woman gets up to use the bathroom, only a few minutes after Natasha arrives, thank god.
She hurries into Clint's office, shutting the door quietly behind her.
"Lisa, I told you not to bother me unless—"
Natasha turns the lock.
"What're you do—"
Clint's eyes go wide when his eyes land on Natasha and the radiant smile on her face is enough to clear the lines from his forehead.
"Hi," she whispers, and her eyes are glinting with mischief. Clint is suddenly very glad for the frosted glass that makes up the walls of his office.
When he goes to push out of his chair, Natasha stops him, her hand held up as she walks towards his desk. She trails her finger along the smooth glass of his desk while she skirts the edge, coming to a stop between Clint and the desk.
"I was bored," she murmurs, looking at him through her lashes, chin tilted demurely. "I guess I missed you a little too."
She doesn't miss the way her heart starts pounding and her palms start to sweat—she's filled with the sudden need to hear his response.
Clint gazes up at her, stares at the way her lashes brush the tops of her cheeks when blinks, the way she bites at her lower lip, the way her chest rises and falls and he can tell that she's nervous, despite her best efforts to hide it. She's trying not to squirm under the scrutiny of his steely eyes but she's never felt so naked in front of a man and the way he's been making her feel has her pulse fluttering and her knees shaking.
He stands slowly, his hands coming to rest on her hips and he presses his lips to hers softly, their eyes remaining open. When he pulls back he whispers against her lips, "I missed you too."
The sincerity that laces his voice is so evident that it hurts—a sharp pain that twinges through her heart—and Natasha comes to the painful realization that she's falling in love with Clint. Has been since their date in the coffee shop.
She sucks in a breath, blinks back the stinging behind her eyes, and smiles at him until her cheeks hurt. Before Clint can kiss her again, she pushes him back into his seat and lifts herself onto the desk. He opens his mouth to ask what she's doing but the words that leave his lips are silent because she grabs at the hem of her shirt and pulls it over her head, the arch of her back and the push if her breasts towards Clint's face mesmerizing.
Clint loves delicacy; the frailty of a girl's wrist, the elegance of her fingers, the tenderness of her eyes, the coyness of her smile, the bow of her lips. The outline of Natasha's ribs as she stretches to get her shirt off has Clint licking his lips and he wants to lay a trail of kisses across her porcelain skin.
The bra she's wearing is sheer and chiffon and Clint can see nipples harden as they come into contact with the cool air of the office. His smile is predatory and Natasha can feel her panties dampen.
Clint's fingers grip at the arm rests of his chair and Natasha enjoys the way his veins become even more defined beneath his suntanned skin.
She drags her fingers across her abdomen, her nails leaving red lines in their wake, and she watches as Clint's eyes follow their path. When she dips them beneath the waist of her shorts, she laughs at the way his nostrils flare and she can hear his intake of breath.
Natasha works herself on top of Clint's desk, her legs spread wide but her ministrations hidden by the thin cloth of her shorts. She revels in the way Clint's eyes shift between her hands, or what he can see of them, and her face, because she knows that it's not just her sex that gets him off. The outline of his cock, big and hard in his pants has her licking her lips and she's really trying not to make loud noises but the look in Clint's eye is giving her butterflies and she's getting really fucking close, so she takes a hand out of her shorts, sucking herself off her fingers and biting down to keep from screaming. Heat floods her veins and her panties are soaked, a wet spot seeping through the crotch of her shorts. She looks down at Clint and sees how white his knuckles have turned. How severely his fingers are biting into the leather.
The chair squeaks as Natasha places a foot on the cushion, sliding it up to press against the bulge in Clint's trousers. She grins, teeth bared and she's about to rise off the desk and sink onto his lap when the tense silence is interrupted by a knock on the door.
Clint's eyes widen and Natasha would laugh if she didn't realize how fucked he is. She grabs her shirt from across the glass and slips into the cubby by Clint's legs. He supposes he shouldn't be surprised that she's so quick thinking in such a situation, but a second knock jars him from his thoughts and he hastily adjusts himself before stumbling to the door, unlocking it and peeking out. His assistant, Joel, is standing there with a notepad.
"Do you need anything?" Clint asks, and Joel mistakes his breathlessness for annoyance.
His hands grip the pad as he stammers, "Uh, well, uh, you asked me to update you every four hours with messages."
Clint groans, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger.
"Right, right," he sighs, ushering Joel in. He sits back down behind his desk before Joel can see the tent in his pants.
As Joel rambles on about one of the company's clients, Clint feels Natasha's hands crawl up his thighs towards the buttons of his trousers. H can't grab at her wrists without Joel noticing so he places his palms on the surface of his desk, palms facing down.
Natasha's breath is hot and moist on his legs and her movements are so quick that her soft hands are suddenly pulling him out and stroking him, her thumb spreading the precum.
A furrow forms between Clint's brows as he tries to keep from groaning. Natasha's got her lips wrapped around his cock and her tongue is practically milking him. Joel gives him a look and opens his mouth to ask if Clint is okay, but he just raised his hand, grunting out, "I'm fine, I must've had something weird for lunch."
She squeezes him with her throat and Clint hasn't gotten head in so long, he can already feel the coiling his spine slowly unwinding. Natasha can feel his thighs begin to quiver, tense with exertion.
"You know what, Joel, thanks so much, but how about you come back in an hour or so. My stomach seems to be acting up." His jaw is beginning to hurt from clenching so tightly.
As soon as Joel's left, Natasha wraps a hand around the base of Clint's cock and sucks hard as she pulls back and Clint's hands slam against the glass, his cheek flat on the cool surface. Natasha devours him, swallows him whole and Clint never wants this to end. He realizes he's even more fucked than before when her head pops up from under the desk, her lips red and swollen, cheeks flush, and a breathtaking smile spread across her face.
Clint loves her, or is falling for her, or something like that and he never loved Chloe but he's in far too deep to just break up with her. The thought of ceasing to see Natasha, though, creates a dull ache in Clint's chest and he realizes he's never going to stop-doesn't want to.
He's falling in love with the girl with fire for hair and the burning green eyes.
