Since the incident in Baton Rouge, for that is how they have come to refer to her near death experience, Natasha has been on the sidelines of all Avengers operations. As might be expected she had taken the news with grace and understanding. Eventually they agreed to her tagging along, although her involvement mostly centered around data gathering and hacking into security systems.
As she moves through the dim lighting of the club it feels good to be off the bench, to be active and involved in something that the team is doing, even if it is a night of undercover recon in a blues bar in Mississippi rather than a full blown HYDRA takedown.
She orders a drink and sips it, allowing the babble of voices to wash over her, waiting for the music to strike the right chord within her. Three songs and two drinks later, it happens. Though she favours post industrial rock when she's burning energy in the gym, her musical tastes span a wider spectrum than most people realise. It's a song that she knows that draws her out, one that she's heard and enjoyed a dozen different renditions of. It draws her, pulls at her, calling, and she follows the summons. "I Put A Spell on You" has always been a favourite.
Her movement is subconscious, a tapping of her foot that develops into something bigger, a longing to dance. He's there, burning through her like the blood in her veins. Somewhere within the dim recesses of the club, he is watching and she knows it. With a wiggle in her walk, she heads toward the dancefloor, drink in hand, a coy glance thrown over her shoulder into the crowd, inviting, as she moves closer to the dancers.
The beat of anticipation is in her blood as he circles ever closer to her, her desire fluttering lazily like fireflies within her as his eyes alight on her briefly only to disappear again into the crowd. The beat of her blood pulls her further into the music that fills the air around her, her body moving in time with it without conscious thought. Muted lighting allows her to blend with the crowd as she moves toward the edge of crowded dance floor, simply a redhead in a black dress and killer heels rather than an Avenger, and she enjoys the anonymity.
Closing her eyes she sways gently, humming softly to herself. Men drift into her line of sight, more than one casting her an appreciative glance or extending a hand in invitation towards her. She declines all offers with a smile and a shake of her head, sips her drink, content to wait. He will come; he always comes. Why settle for anything less than what she really wants?
A warm hand ghosts across her hip as he steps in close behind her, a familiar touch that is as comforting as it is arousing. Even with her eyes closed, she knows it's Clint and her body sighs in anticipation. Each brush of his skin is like fireworks, her blood warming for him, her realities washed away on tides of sensuality.
"You look lonely dancing here by yourself," he remarks, his words a caress against the outer edge of her ear.
Natasha shivers, leans into his front, sways with him. "My partner stood me up," she replies, playing the game.
"I hope you gave him hell," he replies conversationally, as if they really are two strangers meeting for the first time.
"Not yet," she replies lazily, "but the night is young."
Without looking at him she can tell that he's smiling. He takes the almost empty glass from her hand and puts it on the nearest table. "Will you let me make it up to you?"
She turns her face toward him, the heat of his body seeping into hers and taking every care in the world with it. He smells of rain water and whiskey, his dark shirt damp and bringing with it the smell of fresh air. Breathing him in, she nods. With Clint she can just be Natasha, her ghosts quiet, her smile genuine. He soothes away her pains, the memories, until she's just a woman losing herself in the arms of a man on a crowded dance floor, her hands not stained with blood.
There's a quiet seduction in his touch, far from deliberate. His hands stay on her hips, his body swaying with her own, not really dancing but falling into something more hypnotic. They move to the music, to the rhythm of each other, their bodies perfectly in complement.
"Is it done?" she asks, keeping her face turned toward his. They both know what she's talking about, they both know why she's asking; the job comes first.
Clint's hands move, guiding her arms so that they rest across her stomach and his own can circle her fully, his chin comes to rest on her shoulder. "It is," he replies, "we can leave whenever we're ready."
"And the others …?" she asks, wondering whether she has to face the possibility of Tony Stark's constant speculation about their relationship in the morning.
His lips twitch into a smile, soft, reassuring. "Willing to leave this part of the night to the less conspicuous," he tells her. "I told them that we'd stay in case anything noteworthy happens and report in tomorrow."
So, alone at last. Natasha parts her fingers to enable his to slip between them and the sense of safety floods her. As the crowd fades away, she breathes him in, reconnecting, savouring a quiet moment in plain sight. The quiet security that he offers, the normality of a dance between two people in a bar, reminds her why she always comes back to him.
For the remainder of the song, they remain silent, bodies moving in time with one another. She leans into his chest while he holds her close to the front, his head resting against hers, his arms offering her all the security in the world. Gently, so gently, they sway.
When the music changes he twirls her around, maintaining a grip on her hand. "May I have this dance?" he asks.
She can only nod in reply to the heat that she sees in his eyes, banked and smouldering. The song escapes her but the sleazy bassline brings an energy to the dance floor that is all about private places and secret longings. Clint leads, she follows.
"I've missed you," he tells her when he draws her close. Their bodies are close enough that she can feel the heat of him again, his hand on the small of her back, fingers fanning out across her spine. He isn't talking about physical proximity or even about sex, not having her at his back is hard for him. Not being at his back is hard for her.
She lets him pull her in closer, winds her arms around his neck and turns her face up to his so that she can look him in the eye. Their gazes collide, everything they aren't saying filling up the moment. "Want to get out of here?" she asks.
He smiles in answer, unwinds her arms from around his neck and twirls her again.
Natasha goes with the movement, turning with perfect grace and balance. As he draws her back in close, she lifts a leg and hooks it around his, letting her body fall into his. Up against him in all the right places they both feel the hitch in their breathing.
Clint adjusts his hold on her waist so that he can slide a hand downward and grip her thigh and Natasha feels that flutter inside of her that comes whenever he does something unexpected. Her hand clamps over his fingers, stilling his movement as those fingers ghost upwards leaving trails of fire in their wake.
He brings his face close to hers, mouths almost touching. "You are just asking for trouble when you look at me like that," he tells her, eyes dilating, hips shifting slightly against hers.
She raises her leg up higher, hooking it around his hip and pressing herself in closer against him, leaving little doubt as to her intention. He chuckles darkly and she rolls her hips, relishing the exhalation of breath that tells her that she can still surprise him. "Yeah?" she asks, a devilish look and open challenge in her eyes. "What am I asking for now then?"
Slowly, he releases her leg and she comes to stand on her own two feet. Both of them are breathing hard, both more than aware that it isn't the time or place for him to make anything of the offer she's put on the table. He keeps her against him, their bodies pressed close as their clothing allows, and they sway together through the remainder of the song, every step an exercise in passive seduction.
His hand holds onto hers tightly as they navigate a path through the crowds towards the rear exit of the club. She follows him without question, already anticipating what might follow, half drunk on the endorphins that he stirs within her.
The wall is cool against her back, the air heavy with the promise of rain. Natasha surrenders to the press of his body against hers as he backs her into a nearby doorway, the heat of his mouth on the skin of her throat. His body is a magnet to her pleasure, each brush of his lips against her skin resonating deep within her and causing ripples of pleasure to sweep through her.
"Say the word and I'll stop," he breathes, his hands moving reverently over her curves and toying with the hem of her skirt. He's wary of the new scars and the fact that they haven't been together properly since before she almost bled to death in his arms.
Fisting his hair, she pulls his head up so that their eyes meet. "Don't you dare," she growls, bringing her mouth to meet his, their tongues duelling for dominance of a kiss that quickly leaves them both breathless and wanting something more. Urgency replaces restraint, clothing suddenly becoming an obstacle in the quest to feel flesh against flesh.
Nipping at her mouth, Clint angles her body between himself and the wall so that he can reach beneath her skirt and find the tiny lace underwear concealed beneath it. Impatiently, he pulls her underwear down her thighs with such force that the fabric burns her skin while Natasha, equally impatient, works the fastening of his pants to free his erection. Strong hands work her skirt up her thighs and reach around to support her ass and then he's there, up against her in all the right places.
"Careful Nat," he warns as her hands reach between them, fingers closing around the length of him and stroking him experimentally. "I'm wound a little tight here."
"Mmm," she breathes appreciatively and brings her mouth back to his own, "let me help with that." She guides him with her hands and pulls him in even closer by tightening one leg behind his hips.
He works himself inside of her and they both shudder at the sensations. Clint's arm stays around her waist, her leg stays around his. He gives her a second to adjust, kisses her with all the attention of a starving man and then slowly he moves, drawing out of her until she feels the need to pull him back and then surging back to fill her body. Over and over he comes to her, knocking the breath out of her and making her burn.
Blood heating, hips surging, they collide. His hands roam over the fabric of the dress; her hands rip open the collar of his shirt seeking contact. The warmth of his breath against her skin, the growing pressure low in her abdomen, brings her ever closer to where she wants to go, to the place where only Clint seems able to take her. The sound of their breathing is the only accompaniment to their actions, heavy and hot and close in the confines of the doorway. Biting down on her lip, Natasha feels as though she is suffocating on the sounds that she dare not make.
"Jesus Natasha," he breathes, his hips pistoning against hers. She reaches for him, her hands gripping his shoulders and neck, nails biting into him, her breath coming in ragged pants. She's close to coming, close to dying and she wants his pleasure as badly as she wants her next breath, to own this moment and what it unleashes.
He kisses the way that he kills, devastating accuracy apparent in the caress of his mouth against her own. Rolling her hips, she fights the rising tide of her pleasure, knowing that the explosion will be all the sweeter if she can hold off for just a little longer. She can feel the difference in his body, the sharpness of his stroke as he thrusts into her and knows that he's close.
When she breaks in his arms, she lets him claim her mouth, swallowing the sounds that she makes for him. The hormone rush brings streamers of colour to her vision, the twin stimulus of him feeding at her mouth and pounding between her legs making her blood boil in her veins. Clint's hands tighten on her hips, his fingers biting into the bones, he slams his hips into hers one last time and it's just enough to have him spilling himself inside of her.
Breathing hard, she lets him hold her up, while he rests against her collarbone and plants featherlight kisses against her heaving chest. After a moment or two he pulls out of her and lowers her carefully to the ground, tucking himself back inside his pants. Natasha takes a moment to straighten her outfit.
"Any idea what happened to my underwear?" she asks, lowering her dress and adjusting the neckline to make sure that everything that should be covered is beneath the black material. She doesn't even want to know what her lipstick looks like.
Clint grins at her, a little boy grin, coy but with an edge to it that makes her pulse speed up just a little. "Maybe," he replies, pulling the wisp of black lace from his back pocket and swinging them around his finger. "Might hold them for ransom…"
She laughs, genuinely amused by the concept of him ransoming her underwear. "Hold on to them cowboy," she replies throatily. She takes a couple of steps away from him and glances back over her shoulder, "dress fits better without them anyway."