An arm wraps around her waist, pulling her back against a muscular chest. Lips brush the skin of her neck, a gentle touch that sends a shiver down her spine. "Hi Beautiful," he murmurs.
Six weeks since she last heard those tones, since she felt his touch. Just the thought of him making up for those lost nights, makes Natasha weak with anticipation. Angling her head back and leaning into him, she lets out a contented sigh.
"Did you miss me?" he asks, letting the words escape against the side of her neck.
Words are overrated. Natasha presses her back more closely to his front, lifts an arm up to wrap around the back of his neck. He has caught her fresh from the shower, hair still damp and dressed in only a pair of leggings and one of his baggy tank tops. Already her mind is turning to just how easy it would be for him to get access to her body.
Strong hands move upward from her waist, stroking across her stomach and up towards her ribs. His touch is light, teasing, barely making contact and yet it speeds her pulse. Each movement is slow, torturously so but she doesn't want him to speed up. So long as he's feeling playful all she wants him to do is keep moving. And move he does, upward until his hands cup her breasts through the soft fabric of her shirt. His thumbs brush her nipples lightly and she lets out a tiny, breathless moan.
"Cat got your tongue Nat?" he asks, breath trailing across her skin in a manner that steals all rational thought away from her. "I asked if you missed me …"
When his hands stop moving against her, Natasha realises that he's going to force an answer from her. Two can play this game, Natasha knows that he's probably spent the last few days thinking of little more than getting back to her. "Sorry," she tells him breathlessly, "I wasn't listening. I was too busy thinking about having sex with you."
His groan is a sound of pure need, hot against her skin. She can feel the press of him against her buttocks, the sudden hint of tension in his muscles. It's intoxicating.
He reacts in just the way that she hopes he will, spinning her around with hands on her waist so that they are face to face. Backing her up against the wall, he uses his knee to edge her thighs apart and leans in closer. His hands slide up from her waist, trailing her sides until he can lift her arms and pin her hands to the wall. Clint adjusts his grip so that he holds her wrists with one hand and pushes still damp hair away from her face.
Natasha knows her limits and he is pushing her right towards them. Still, she lets him have his fun knowing that the payoff will make it worthwhile. Clint is particularly inventive when he's been away for a while.
He tilts her face upward and looks her directly in the eye. The slow slumbering inside her ignites when their eyes lock, Clint's gaze communicating his desire to devour her quite clearly. He leans in, leaving just a fraction of space between them, eyes holding hers, daring her to look away, and then he closes the gap, lips brushing against hers. It's sweet and it's gentle, a perfect reunion kiss that swiftly deepens into something that awakens every part of her body when his tongue finds hers.
The slower the kiss the faster the heartbeat and Natasha's heart is racing a mile a minute. Her wants have gone beyond thinking of specific scenarios of spectacular reunion sex and narrowed down to nothing more than the hunger for that moment when he pushes inside her. Still holding her hands with one of his, Clint moves the other hand to the juncture of her thighs, pressing the heel of his hand into her and moving it in slow circles. She finds herself fighting back a soft mewl of arousal.
"I think you did miss me," he announces, pulling back just far enough to form the words and staying close enough that every movement of his lips brushes hers.
Natasha, caught between the urge to laugh and the urge to strangle him, arches her body into his. It's a game of theirs to make the other admit that separation doesn't work for them, even in the short term. "No more than you missed me," she replies with a smile.
His next kiss is a claiming, deep and rough enough to steal her breath. He releases her hands and moves to push the waistband of her leggings down her thighs, humming in appreciation when he finds that she isn't wearing anything beneath them. Demonstrating a patience that is maddening, he rolls the fabric down her legs, moving down her body as he does so until she can step clear of them.
Strong arms catch her as he comes back up to claim her mouth, lifting her off her feet and balancing her weight easily in his arms. Mouths fused, they stumble through the apartment to the bedroom, Clint's hand tangling up in Natasha's hair while she wraps her legs around his hips and tightens an arm around his shoulders. "Too many clothes," she tells him between kisses, pulling at the t-shirt that covers his chest.
He laughs, the kind of laugh that makes her stomach flip. She doesn't have butterflies in her stomach but shooting stars, such is the effect that he has on her. Setting her down on the edge of the bed, he kneels beneath her parted knees and removes the shirt that was the cause of her protest, slowly. Inch after inch of lightly tanned skin is revealed, ropes of muscle and the occasional scar that reminds her to be thankful that he's home safe.
Impatient fingers tug at his belt, ripping the canvas free of the belt loops and tossing it to the empty side of the mattress. She has no idea of where this is heading, best to be prepared. The way that his head falls back on his shoulders and the muscles in his chest tighten tell the story when her fingers find what they're looking for. Natasha bites down on her lip to hold in the sound that bubbles up within her at the sight, committing it to memory as proof that her power lies not only in intrigue and assassination. She'll take the power that she has over Clint in these private moments over all of the notoriety in the world.
His eyes are liquid mercury when he looks back down at her, molten. "Move up the bed," he tells her and goes to work shoving his pants down his thighs.
She knows what he likes, how to strain the leash of his control, so Natasha follows the instruction in the way that suits her purposes best. She flips onto her stomach and crawls up the mattress, emphasising the wiggle of her behind as she does it. Clint is particularly partial to this view, his hand often straying to her ass when they are alone together, his gaze often locked on it as she walks.
She is caught before she makes it to the pillows, strong hands grabbing the curve of her waist and pinning her down. The tank top edges upward, revealing her skin to him and Natasha lifts her upper body from the bed so that he can pull it off over her head, catching his lips in a kiss as it is pulled free and thrown aside. She undulates her body gently against his, enjoying the contact, hoping for more.
"Patience," he whispers, fully aware that in this context patience is a virtue Natasha lacks.
Slowly, he moves his way down her back, kissing every notch of her spine. Still propped up on her elbows, Natasha surrenders to it, letting the brush of lips against her skin ripple outward and add to her arousal. The slight brush of fingertips down her sides is a secondary caress, beautiful in its simplicity. He moves lower still, the width of his body stretching her thighs wider as he curls his torso over hers, arousal still pressing against her skin. Oh the temptation to shift her hips and ease him inside of her, the anticipation of that first joining …
Without warning, he nibbles at her butt cheek. The press of teeth is sharp and welcome, bringing another aspect of the spectrum into play. She gasps, unable to hold back the sound and swears she can feel his smile against her skin. Lower still he moves, until she can feel the warmth of his breath between her thighs. Natasha quivers beneath him, legs suddenly weak. His tongue is the first touch where she wants him most, slow and teasing, sliding across already slick flesh.
"Oh my God," she gasps, surrendering to the sensations, immediately awash on a tide that threatens to drown her. He's only just started and already she's too responsive, too hungry for what he offers.
Clint laughs, breath hot against her most secret skin. "Flattery will get you everywhere Nat," he whispers, the words almost lost amid his ministrations.
She arches her back and tries to regulate her breathing. "I'll say whatever you like so long as you keep working your magic." And he does. With lips and teeth and tongue, he works her into a frenzy. Her hips move without conscious thought, desperate to prolong the touch, to increase the pressure.
He ramps up the pleasure, fingers stretching her open as his tongue continues its work. When he stops, pulling away all stimulus but the shallow press of his fingers, she is maddened with desire and has to fight the urge to push herself backward onto his hand. She knows what is likely coming and she's more than ready for it.
That first shallow thrust, that joining, is enough to make her gasp, enough to make her arch her spine in that way that she knows he likes. Repeating the action, he lets out a sigh of his own, hands trembling slightly with the effort of his restraint. He holds her steady, stops her from taking charge, and slowly pulls back until only the tip of him remains inside her. He pauses. He waits until she lets out a small growl of impatience and then he relents. With a deliberate movement of his hips, he pushes in deep. The moan escapes her before she can stop it, that feeling is something she can never get enough of, that fullness.
"I thought about this a hundred times when I was away," he tells her, lowering his mouth close to her ear and winding his hand into her hair.
Natasha twists upwards, bending her spine like a competition gymnast, and relishes the prickling of her scalp as he pulls her hair taut. His free hand snakes around her front, moving upward as he kisses the side of her neck. "Me too," she admits, "a thousand times."
"Is this what you want?" He flexes his hips at the end of the question, stoking the fire in the pit of her belly.
She bites her lip and answers truthfully, "This is just the start of what I want," she tells him. "I want to feel this long after it's over, I want you to make me beg for it."
The next thrust is hard enough to rock her forwards, enough to make her groan. Clint's hand tightens in her hair and he lets out a sound of his own, more a harsh breath than a cry. His voice is rough. "I won't stop until your legs are shaking and the neighbours know my name."
If he considers the process a challenge, he makes every effort to excel. Still curved upward, still on her knees, she lets her head hang down so that she can watch the movement of their bodies. The sight of his length moving in and out of her, the slickness that coats his skin, the rhythmic movement of his body moving in time with hers, brings her first orgasm barrelling down on her.
Whatever sounds she makes, they please him, as does the way her body reacts around him. He stills for a moment, riding out the pulsing of her body. He hasn't made her scream yet and he's more than determined to live up to his promise. When the tide of her climax ebbs, he picks up where he left off. Harder, stronger, deeper, he pushes her towards another.
The bed squeals beneath them, the mattress dancing in time with the movement of their bodies. Body slapping against her own, he makes each thrust count, knocking her forward on the palms of her hands but pulling the line of her throat tight, grip holding her head so that they can see each other. He holds her gaze while he moves inside of her, a challenge. That free hand finds her clit, stroking slowly but firmly, pushing her toward implosion. He fucks her until she loses all control, until she is nothing more than a convulsion in his arms, incoherent wails spilling from her mouth in time with his thrusts.
His grip cranks tighter, the hand working her clit moving to steady the movement of her hips. She can feel the tension singing through his muscles, the internal fight against biology. That attempt to hold back, knowing that he is trying to prolog her pleasure, is enough to set her screaming. A tightened fist in her hair pulls her up onto her knees so that her shoulder blades rest against his chest. "Say it Nat," he growls, lips brushing the outer edge of her ear. "Let the world know who it is that's ruining you right now."
So she does, God help her she does. She couldn't stop it even if she wants to and it's as much the sound of her voice as the tightening of her body that steals his control at last. He comes hard, slamming his hips hard into hers and grunting out a curse against her shoulder. She's always loved the moment after his climax, the way that he pulses inside her after filling her up.
They come back to themselves slowly, breathing hard. Clint's grip becomes gentler, his head resting against her shoulder as his breath warms her skin. She can feel the laughter bubbling up in her and doesn't even try to hold it back.
Fortunately, he accepts the reaction as a compliment rather than cause for concern. He pulls out of her and she whimpers slightly at the loss of contact, causing him to crawl up the bed and prop himself up on an elbow beside her, one fingertip drawing meaningless patterns on her back. "What's so funny?" he asks.
Natasha props herself up on her elbows and turns her face to look at him, enjoying the view. The exertion has brought a glorious glow to his skin and the thin sheen of sweat on his skin is practically an invitation to go for round two. She shoots him a devilish grin. "Just thinking that I'm a very lucky girl," she tells him. "Not everyone has such good sex that the neighbours need a cigarette afterwards."
His laugh is one of the most welcome sounds she's ever heard and she throws herself at him, pinning him to the mattress by straddling him. She leans down close to his chest, close enough to lick the sweat off his skin. She plants kisses on his skin, working her way up to his mouth, and then lets her tongue slide into his mouth, relishing their mingled flavours. "You say the nicest things," he mumbles between kisses. "But if you're hellbent on making sure they know who's giving you a good time, we might need to give them more evidence…"
"Well, Mr Barton, if you could read my mind you'd already by having an orgasm," she informs him, kissing her way down his chest and drawing another sound from him that is more animal than human. "Let's see if we can teach anyone who might be listening to us a thing or two."