If he has to pick the one thing that he loves most about Natasha it's the way that she says his name. He loves the seriousness of those syllables when they come to him over comms, the way his name is the first she speaks when she's amused or hurting, but most of all he loves the way his name falls from her lips when they're alone together.
She knows that he's there, he can tell by the extra sass that she puts into her walk as she saunters into the alleyway. Anyone else who was assigned to watch her back might assume that the wiggle was for the benefit of the mark who is following fifty feet behind her, confident in the assumption that he remains unseen, but Clint knows better. This game that they play is familiar to them both and Natasha is more than willing to be stalked by the one man she'll always allow to catch her.
He follows, the rooftops allowing him a perfect view of what is about to unfold, the sight of her walking away from him exactly what he needs to remind him just why he keeps coming back to her. Putting the fact that he loves her aside, he knows that there are few men who would be able to ignore the way that her hips rock when she walks, the lean lines and smooth curves of her thighs or fail to imagine what it must feel like to have them lock around their hips. Clint doesn't have to imagine, he knows how that feels, knows that he will no doubt be feeling that exact sensation later in the night.
He tracks the sway of her hips as she walks, moving from rooftop to rooftop and staying out of sight, watches her would be date-rapist closing the distance between them. The temptation to bury an arrow in his chest is near to all-consuming but he waits. The mission isn't his, he is just along for the ride. He's too confident this man, too sure of himself and his ability to track and subdue a target. Clint almost feels sorry for him when he thinks of what is to come, almost. There's a certain sense of exhilaration that comes with seeing a man like the one currently stalking his partner realise that he is not predator but prey in this scenario, a pitiful mouse of a man to Natasha's cat.
"Come on Nat get this over with so we can go home," he grumbles to himself as she pulls her phone from her pocket and slows, pretending to check a message or an email. He knocks an arrow and waits, ready to take the shot in the unlikely event that she needs backup. He waits, blood slumbering with the promise of action, sees the subtle shift in her posture that tells him she is well aware of the man sneaking up behind her. He keeps his bow aimed at the guys head though, no sense in taking an unnecessary risk.
She moves like a dancer, fast, fluid, catching her attacker off guard and incapacitating him in moments. The brief struggle is hardly cause for concern, Natasha can take men like this one in her sleep. The adrenaline puts a spring in her step, a smile on her face as she drops yet another six-foot, two hundred pound, would be predator without breaking a sweat. She loves her work and he loves to see her in action.
Once the target is secure and she calls in the extraction team to collect him, she turns her face toward the stars. Lightning splits the sky, illuminating the alleyway and allowing him to see the half-smile on her face as she looks for him. He shivers, a reaction that has nothing to do with being cold, recognising the glint in her eye, knowing what it represents. Their eyes lock and he smiles, tipping his fingers in salute to her before she returns her attention to the task at hand.
He catches up with her part way back to her place, stepping from the shadows and into her path. If this surprises her she doesn't show it, simply offers him a slow smile and steps around him to continue on her way. He follows, playing the game, enjoying the show as she glances back over her shoulder in unspoken invitation. The view is one that he appreciates, particularly when the light drizzle of rain grows heavier and the world around them takes on the unmistakable scent of night rain in the city.
From overhang to overhang they move, clothes soaking up the downpour, hair sticking to their skin until she stops in the doorway of an abandoned theatre. She turns to face him, eyes full of invitation as she backs further from the sight of the street ahead. "Enjoy that did you?" he asks, already knowing the answer.
Natasha smiles at him, a suggestive chuckle escaping her. "You know me Barton," she replies, "I need a little action before bedtime or I'll never sleep."
Barton; she's teasing him, holding out on him. Natasha knows him as well as he knows himself so she knows just how much he loves the sound of his name on her lips in all its forms but his favourite, the ultimate thrill of hearing his given name tumble from her in a near incoherent rush, she will save for later.
"I can help with that," he replies, raising a hand to lift her chin, tilting her face up to his own and running a thumb along her cheekbone. She shivers, leaning into the touch, eyes bright with the promise of something he wants very much to take her up on.
"Right here?" she chuckles, shifting her body slightly closer, watching for a reaction.
Letting the hand that cups her chin drift around to the back of her neck, he threads his fingers through her hair and tightens his grip, pulling her head back. She doesn't fight him as he lowers his mouth to her skin, pressing a gentle kiss to her clavicle and tracing the column of her throat with the tip of his nose, maintaining a breath of distance between his lips and her skin. Her pulse hammers in her throat and heat floods him, answering the call of her desire. He's calling her bluff and they both know how it might end. He's entirely on board with that plan. She isn't exactly backing away either.
Her hand moves up his chest, palm flat as if to ward him off, and then tightens, bunching the fabric of his jacket as she fights to maintain clarity of thought. Gaze blazing, she looks up at him, her eyes darkening with want, fighting against the urge to take him up on his invitation.
He gets the reaction he hopes for, knows that it's only a matter of time before they finish what they've started. He stills, putting the power solely in her hands. He knows what he wants but he can afford to be patient; the decision is hers to make. She has only to make a move now, pull him even a hairs breadth closer, and his resolve will break. There will be no torturous cab ride back to her apartment, no opportunities to change her mind, he will simply pick her up, carry her back into the shadows and finish it.
She swallows hard and he sees the indecision in her eyes, the part of her that wants to take this back to the privacy of her own space warring with the part of her that is saying what the hell. That conflict, the knowledge that her need for him is that strong, is a kind of magic in itself. "Right here or inside and out of the rain," he tells her, "your choice."
Natasha stretches up onto her tiptoes, bringing her lips closer to his ear and gives him the answer.
Out of the rain and safely within the walls of her building, they waste little time, fumbling and groping on their way up in the ancient elevator. Kicking the door closed behind them, they shed clothing on the way to the bedroom, desperation driving them and buttons and zippers sacrificed for a greater good. Only when she stands bare before him, does she give him that look that sets him on fire. "Your move," she tells him, backing toward the bed.
He grabs her around the waist, lifting her and throwing her onto the bed, covering her body with his own before she can protest. Desperate for the taste of her he starts at her ankle, nibbling and kissing as he moves up her body, relishing the clutch of her fingers as she grabs his shoulders, winds her fingers into his hair, trying to find something to hold onto. The breathless, wanton sounds that she makes are music to his ears, the finest symphony ever conducted as he drives her ever further up the bed.
A twist of his fingers and flick of his tongue sends her over the edge, stomach muscles tightening, spine arching up from the mattress as she closes her hands around the headboard and surrenders. His name falls from her lips and he treasures it, every moan, every whispered plea, every sound more precious to him than diamonds. The heady scent of sex and sweat and Natasha fills his senses and it's perfect, just perfect, exactly what he wants, exactly what they need.
He kisses his way up her body, lowering his skin until it rests flush against hers as she comes back to herself. Natasha's eyes flicker open, bottomless pools in the darkness, lights dancing within like fireflies as she wraps her legs around him, pulls him closer, rubbing herself against him. Clint sighs, bites back the urge to pull back and sheath himself fully inside her in one sharp thrust. He wants to, God he wants to, knows that she will be more than ready for him, more than happy for him to do it, but he waits, takes things slowly, makes her melt.
He slows things down, savouring every movement, every expression, every sound. He uses his teeth, his tongue, his fingers, the slow grind of his body against hers driving them both beyond the point of sanity before he eases inside her. His name escapes her on something between a gasp and a sigh as she rises to meet him, welcoming him, fingers digging into his ass and pulling him in deep. Her lips find his, teeth pulling his lower lip as her body winds around his own. He rolls them over, placing her on top of him and cupping his hands beneath her knees to give her additional leverage, giving himself over to her completely.
She rises above him, body almost glowing in the moonlight, hair falling down her back in a sea of dark curls that tickle his thighs as she tips her head back and starts to move against him. He closes his eyes absorbing the sensations she calls from him, thrusting up to meet her as she rides him with slow, certain movements. A subtle shift of position and she leans back further, bracing herself against his legs until she finds the angle that she wants. His eyes snap open and he growls low in his throat at the sight that greets him.
"Fucking hell Natasha," he manages to grind out, eyes glued to the curve of her body and the sight of himself moving in and out of her with every thrust. She stares down at him, eyes once again darkened with lust and something inside him clenches, restraint slipping with every roll of her hips. That look, that knowing look that she gives him, is enough to burn through sheet metal. The look that she is giving him is the one that leaves him smouldering, a heat that builds and builds only to be cooled by another release.
He can feel the urgency in her movement, the change in rhythm that tells him that she's close. The words come in Russian, in Spanish, even in Latin, pleas for him to keep going, to move faster. He understands them all, knows that she's so far gone now that she probably no longer even realises that the words aren't coming in English. "Harder," she manages to gasp, "please."
He's happy to oblige, thrusting as hard and deep as two limber bodies can manage in this position, knocking the air from her lungs with each movement of his hips. She's close, he can feel it in the way she tightens around him, the way her head falls back, body presented for his viewing like a holy offering and surging in time with his own. "Say it," he manages to gasp, hitting the end of her and drawing cry after cry from her lips.
She meets his eyes again, teeth biting down on lips already red from being abused and does as he asks. It's the sound of his name on her lips that is his undoing, that and the squeeze of her muscles as she implodes. It starts with a whisper and grows louder with every repetition, the sound of his name punctuating the movement of their bodies as stars explode behind their eyelids.
The comedown is gentle, aftershocks shimmering through every muscle as she falls forward over him, hair falling in a soft curtain around them both. Breathless, they trade kisses and soft words while their heartbeats slow and the world around them remakes itself into a calmer version of its former self, no longer rife with urgency. Her eyes go on for centuries, impossibly soft in the darkness when they meet his own and he wishes for the gift of words to convey all that he wants to say.
"Yeah I know," she whispers, leaning down to press a soft kiss on his chest. Her grin is one of resignation, amused and sensual when she lifts her eyes to meet his own, "the next move is mine and it's going to take some effort to top that."