The bite of restraints against her wrists makes her aware that she's going exactly nowhere. Expertly tied knots, elaborately arranged so as to make escape all but impossible, hold her firmly in place. She doesn't intend to simply wait for what might come though, if she can get out then she will. Experimentally, she tests the bindings only to stop when the pressure increases.
As if in response to her struggles the pulley to which her restraints are attached begins to rise upwards. Without option, she moves with it, her upper body lifting from the flat surface beneath her until her weight is partially absorbed by the ropes. Her heartbeat speeds slightly, anticipation of the unknown making her stomach flutter. Sweat prickles against her scalp.
She can hear him moving around behind her, soft footsteps as his feet land on the floor, almost silent. Not knowing where he is is more than she can stand so she turns her head and glances over her shoulder. Through the copper curtain of her hair, she sees him and finds herself biting down on her lower lip to hold back the reaction.
Illuminated in candlelight, his body is a monument to perfection. Flames dance around the room, painting everything in the golden glow that suits him best and her eyes lock onto his bare chest and the way that his jeans sit low on his waist. Light and shadow carve him of something other than flesh, something wild and yet very, very real, something that she wants.
"Have you any idea how much I like that on you?" he asks.
Natasha shivers, a flash of desire shooting through her at the tone of his voice, the way that his mouth forms the words, every syllable dripping with a honey that could trap her in tides of erotic sensation. Of course he's told her. More than once. She wears the lingerie for him, purple and lacy and everything he likes, the corset skimming her curves and accentuating her breasts, but the fishnet stockings and suspenders she wears for herself.
When she offers him no response, the mattress dips behind her and his fingertips caress the back of her neck. Natasha bites back the urge to answer because deep down, as much as he might like to dominate her, Clint is just as turned on by her defiance. Fingers tighten in her hair, pulling her head back to expose the clean white line of her throat.
"I asked you a question," he tells her with deceptive mildness. His grip is just on the right side of painful, just enough to speed the pulse in her throat. "Do you know how much I like this on you?"
Natasha licks her lips, breath emerging in an audible gasp. "Yes I do," she replies. It's tempting to put the word 'Sir' on the end of the sentence but she settles for lowering her gaze in a show of subservience instead.
He chuckles when he notices, his grip loosening and fingers ghosting over the exposed skin of her shoulder, light as a feather. "Good girl," he whispers.
The brush of skin is replaced by blunt fingernails, just enough that she can feel it. Natasha shudders slightly and undulates her body, pulling against the bonds at her wrists so that she can press back against him.
Before she can think about how best to capitalise on the friction, her vision is stolen away by a silk ribbon which is tied at the back of her head. This time, his touch is teasing, light. Bed springs creak as he shifts his weight and the silence builds, builds, anticipation warring with desire.
It isn't skin that touches her when he returns but leather, the seams and edges tracing a path across the exposed areas of her skin. He starts at the back of her neck, pulling the crop gently down the line of her spine and over the silk and lace of her corset, a gentle caress which he chases with his hand. Impatiently, she tries to move closer only to feel him tap the back of her thighs with her own riding crop. The gentle sound of leather on skin is a warning.
"Don't make me beg," she groans, body already awakened to the pleasure that awaits her.
Another tap, this one harder than the first reminds her that she is not in charge of what is transpiring between them, Clint will allow her whatever pleasure he decrees appropriate when he thinks that she has earned it. Until then she can only surrender to whatever he will allow her.
The mattress shifts beneath her as he moves to her front, the crop following the top of her stockings and lingering at her inner thigh. She tracks him by sound, by the heat of his body. The magnetic field that always seems to surround them resonates on the air and she waits.
Slowly the crop traces up from her stocking top, over the bones of her hip and then up her front until he can use its tip to tilt her head back. The roaring heat of him comes up against her front and then the rough leather is replaced by his mouth.
When things are like this between them, a very specific need being addressed, she never shies away from the roughness of his touch or the flare of his temper. The heavy weight of their combined need on her tongue is enough. Violence might be their skillset but he makes it into an art form just as she does, the bite of restraints, the lash of the crop against bare skin. Delicious.
His fingers explore the fastenings of her corsetry, lingering at the laces that hold the bodice shut. Slowly, ever so slowly, he pulls on the laces, releasing them just enough that she spills out of the top, his fingers teasing her exposed nipple while his mouth continues its progress up her throat. Natasha can feel her arousal building, that ache deep inside of her that can only ever be fully chased away when he's seated deep taking hold and gradually warming her blood.
Just as she's losing herself in a gradual tide of impatience, he drags the crop across the front of her body and presses it against her swollen centre, giving her just a hint of friction through the lace of her underwear. Natasha whimpers at the sensation, flexing her hips instinctively upwards and towards him.
"Uh-uh," he chuckles, and it's a dark sound, a sinful sound; he moves away from her. "Not until I say so."
Frustration sets in pretty quickly with all stimulus removed. She listens intently for the slightest of movements, the movement of sheets beneath her, the sound of the crop coming towards her, but there's nothing to hear. Whatever Clint is doing he's doing it absolutely silently.
Her first indication of where he is in the room is the feel of his breath skating across the back of her neck. Heat floods her, just the awareness that he is there, watching her, controlling her, sets Natasha on fire. Warmth pools inside of her and she feels herself growing wetter at the thought of what might follow. Anticipation and imagination have always been friends to her, knowing that she has a lover who can deliver on any possible fantasy that she might have only serves to stoke the flames even higher.
He nudges her knees further apart, stroking the seam at the back of her stocking with the blunt end of the riding crop, the barest caress against her calf and the sole of her foot, as he backs away. Breathless, she waits.
Using the crop, he eases her backward until the back of her head rests in his open palm and her hips are elevated from the bed. Hands still chained, she is entirely at his mercy. "Think you can hold this position?" he asks.
She considers the question - it won't be the easiest of positions to maintain, but the years of ballet and gymnast training, not to mention her recent devotion to yoga, will certainly be helpful. She'll no doubt ache if she holds it too long, but she can hold it. Natasha nods, both because she can't trust her voice and because it's worth it to hear Clint's sudden exhalation of breath when she stays silent. His hand moves through her hair, fingers tracing lightly down the front of her body as he moves around her. She can only imagine what she must look like to his eyes, contorted, splayed and restrained in front of him.
A fraction of his weight hovers over her and Natasha bites her lips to prevent the moan that is bubbling up inside of her from escaping. Her pulse hammers in her throat while she waits to see what his intentions are. She feels his breath as he brings his face down to hers, his nose nudging into her own to give her a frame of reference before he kisses her. It's a good kiss, slow and warm, building into something more. Clint's hands stroke slowly up and down her sides, dipping lower with every stroke until they move from the hollow of her throat to mid thigh and back.
He works his way down her body, stroking here, planting a kiss there, until he reaches the juncture of her thighs and there he pauses, stroking his thumbs softly along the insides of her thighs. Natasha begins to shake, limbs quivering beneath the onslaught of sensation and he's barely even touched her yet. His fingers move to trace the edges of her underwear and she fights the urge to move, understanding on some level that to do so now will only make him pull away and tease her further.
She's caught in the spell of his movements, absorbing every little nuance of pleasure, so she doesn't notice the shift in his body until she feels his nose nuzzle up against her and the warmth of his breath against the fabric of her underwear, directly above where she wants him most. A low groan rumbles through him and she feels the vibrations of it almost painfully. This time she can't hold back the sound she makes.
She hears the shuffle of movement atop the sheets and assumes that he is altering his position. Clint's hands slide down her thighs to toy with the lace at the top of her stockings, but it's the movement of his tongue that makes her bow upwards, even through the lace it is exquisite. The rumble of his chuckle against her thigh is another sweet caress as one palm spreads out across the skin of her stomach and pushes her gently back down to where she started.
What follows is a perfect example of how to deconstruct a human being one movement at a time. Clint utilises the friction provided by the lace, the nudge and bump of his nose against her clit, the occasional sweep of his tongue through fabric, to drive her ever upward until the only thing that seems to ground Natasha at all is the grip of his hand on her thigh and the palm that holds her down. She's already a quivering mess when he moves her underwear aside and sweeps his tongue against her in one broad stroke.
"Stay down," he whispers, sliding his hand from her stomach so that he can ease the wet fabric away from where he wants to be. There's nowhere for them to go, not when her legs are bent back beneath her and her body is taut as a bowstring, but she raises her hips a little to help him gain access, earning a murmur of approval. Underwear no longer blocking his view or his access, Clint proceeds to make her see stars.
Unable to see him, or touch him in any meaningful way, Natasha is a slave to the sensations he calls from her body. The alternation of fingers and tongue, the way he pulls back enough to chase the warm wet sweep of his tongue with a cool breath, only to repeat the action over and over, all of it pushes her toward that place where restraint is little but a memory. She whispers his name over and over in her head, chanting it with every ebb and flow of his movement, until it is the song under her breath, the scream that is waiting to break over her.
The slight shift of his body as he circles her clit with his tongue and the growl that follows tells her that he likes the view as he looks up the line of her body. Unable to contain herself, she moves her hips against him and he renews his assault. Natasha can't quite hold back the sounds that tear their way up her throat, amazed at the way her voice sounds when she's on the very brink of shattering apart beneath his ministrations.
His words are another sweet caress when he speaks again, hot and wanton against her most secret skin. "Come for me Sweetheart," he tells her, reading the signs of her body. As if she's been waiting for the consent, she feels the orgasm swelling through her, building, building. It's a final glorious embellishment that tips her headlong into rapture, the slight scrape of teeth where she needs them most, that tiny, glorious hint of something sharp amongst the velvet of his lips and the silk of his tongue.
Natasha shatters and it's a holy experience, one that she seems to have waited her entire life for. The sounds that escape her are inarticulate, fireworks explode behind her eyes, every part of her turning to flame. In the aftermath she is breathless and aware of the racing of her heartbeat, sweaty and aching for him to rip off the underwear and fill her completely.
He climbs her body slowly, maddeningly slowly, pushing himself up on his elbows and then his knees, kissing the exposed skin that he passes as he helps her back up into a kneeling position. She can feel the protest in her thigh muscles as she releases her iron control on them and knows that she will ache tomorrow. Tonight she simply wants more. She wants him to ensure that she feels him with every step she takes when she walks out of this building, to remember in every whispered ache what he did to cause the signs that linger.
One hand snakes around her to support her spine while the other pulls the blindfold loose. The first thing she sees, blinking against the candlelight, is his face right in front of hers. He leans in and very deliberately claims her mouth, bringing with him the taste of her pleasure and the urgency that tells her all she needs to know of his enjoyment.
"I had to work damned hard not to tear that underwear off you," he tells her, his voice low and tight, desire riding him hard.
She manages to get her cuffed hands around him, her arms circling his neck, and smiles at him. "I have three matching pairs," she kisses him again, softly, temptingly, "so feel free."
He slips away from her, moving to position himself at her back again and she shudders with anticipation as she hears the clunk of belt buckle and denim hitting the floor. He traces a palm down the line of her spine and edges in closer, letting her feel the press of his erection against her lower back. Natasha bites back a groan and undulates against him, pleased with the reaction she elicits.
The press of steel at her outer thigh only speeds her pulse further and she sighs at the soft tearing of fabric as he cuts away her underwear. Clint moves in behind her, positioning himself carefully as he nudges her legs a little further apart. Natasha has to bite back another moan as he thrusts gently between her legs to coat himself in her juices and then pushes himself fully inside her.
She's still tight from her orgasm and the feeling of him moving inside her, stroking her more deeply, is enough to send sparks of pleasure skittering through her entire body. She shudders at the sensation, tipping her head back and stretching her spine. So deep. So good.
"Jesus Christ," he groans, lowering his forehead onto the back of her shoulder, allowing himself a moment to adjust and allowing her the same. "So tight."
She holds back on the urge to move against him, knowing that if she doesn't give him this moment, they'll both lose out on something special. The need to move claws at her though as the seconds tick by, stretching endlessly into something fluid, her awareness of that ache deep inside her only growing.
Finally, he moves. Clint draws his hips back just a little and pushes back inside of her, his face still pressed to her shoulder blade, breath warming her skin as he exhales on each thrust. Natasha waits until he finds his rhythm and then turns her face toward him letting him claim her mouth, his tongue stroking against her own while he moves inside her.
Experimentally, she leans forward, testing the restraints and finding that they will hold part of her weight. The change in angle seems to suit him and he makes a small sound of appreciation, hands sliding down to her hips so that he can hold her still while he increases his pace just a little. Shamelessly obscene, she moves against him, matching her dance to his own, arching her spine again as Clint's hips slap against hers. A fist winds into her hair and pulls, tightening that line of her spine into something far beyond erotic.
Clint's hips are picking up pace, every thrust hitting her deep and knocking the breath out of her. He hammers his hips forward with enough force to shake the mattress beneath them and Natasha laughs low in her throat. "Harder," she whispers, "make me scream for you."
He takes it as a challenge, pushing her knees a little wider and pushing her down with a hand on the back of her neck. She finds herself resting on her elbows, face inches from the sheets, breasts bouncing with every thrust and brushing against the cotton in a way that sends bolts of hedonistic satisfaction through her, just another touch that pushes her toward sensory implosion.
A sound escapes her, some combination of gasp and groan which Clint echoes. Her exclamations come thick and fast as he pistons his hips against hers, turning to pleas, to broken moans and gasps of breath as he pounds into her. This is Clint at his rawest edge, she can feel it in the grip of his hands on her waist, in the punishing thrust of his hips. This is the Clint Barton that nobody else sees, the darkest, most bestial side of his nature, and it thrills her that she alone can pull this from him, that he trusts her enough to let her see this.
In a sudden movement, he releases the pulleys that hold the cuffs in the air and Natasha crashes to the mattress. Knowing that he is watching, and because she wants to give in to the wild abandon that courses through her, she writhes against the bedding, ass in the air, fingernails curling into the linen with every stroke.
She's close, dangerously so, the heat inside her building to something white hot and molten. Clint groans her name, gravelly, almost pornographic in tone, hips surging, hand winding into her hair again. He falls silent again, thrusting into her with a brutal precision that rattles her to the core and brings her screaming to completion within minutes.
He shatters above her, fighting his body for every stolen moment as his climax tears through him, she tumbles with him, headlong, losing herself in the fire, raw nerves too close to the flame. The ecstasy scorches them both, leaves them gasping and spent, bodies limp and sweaty.
He comes back to himself relatively quickly, lifting himself off her so that she doesn't have his weight pressing down on her a second longer than necessary. He moves slowly, pulling free of her and then crashing to the mattress at her side. Natasha turns her head toward him and lets him kiss her, his fingers more gentle in her hair now that the urgency of their mutual greed has passed.
He frees her from the cuffs, rubs her wrists gently to make sure that she's okay. Boneless and sated, she just watches him, still shimmering with the aftershocks of her second orgasm, already knowing that she'll feel the silken bruise of good sex riding her body tomorrow.
Clint is gentle with her, moving her around until she's comfortable and tenderly running his fingers through her hair. His skin glows in the soft light, even more beautiful after his exertions with a slight gleam of perspiration to enhance the overall image. "You okay?"
"Better than okay," she replies, shifting to run a finger along his jaw. When he catches her hand and kisses the inside of her wrist, she leans over and plants a kiss on his mouth. She lets some of the tenderness that they abandoned back into their interaction and then snuggles up against him, letting the heat of his body hold off the chill. "What time's the flight tomorrow?"
"Ten," he replies, already edging toward the fringes of sleep. "Alarm is set with enough time for us to pack and make it to the airport."
She shuffles closer, leans up to whisper in his ear. "Pack the cuffs. I'll show you a few variations on how to use them when we get there."