He wakes to a pounding head and the feel of metal circling his wrists. His whole body is aching, muscles protesting at the act of breathing much less anything more. Clint groans inwardly, adrenaline bringing an abrupt awareness of the troubling black spot in his memory as his eyes fly open.
The room is dimly lit by a small lamp over by the far wall. He turns his head, taking stock of his surroundings, brain already flying through the possibilities of escape from his predicament … and then he realises that he is lying atop a reasonably comfortable mattress, his hands cuffed to a pair of ornate bedposts. Unease spikes only to be replaced by curiosity and anticipation because there's a lingering hint of perfume on the air that he recognises intimately.
"How's the hangover?" she asks from the shadows. Just the sound of her voice is enough to chase away the lingering uncertainty.
He tests the restraints and feels the bite of metal against his flesh. She knows exactly how he feels about being tied up in a wide range of circumstances, but particularly how he feels about being tied up by her. "Hell of a wake-up call," he remarks, flexing one hand so that the metal chimes gently against the bed frame. "Alcohol explains the brass band in my head but what about the aching muscles?"
"The party continued a while after we got back here."
Natasha rises from her chair and moves towards the bed, each step graceful as if she is floating on air. A raspberry silk nightgown covers her body, flirting with the tops of her thighs as she walks. The colour looks good on her, sets off her newly blonde hair nicely. He's still getting used to the new look but then Clint has always been a sucker for a redhead. Of all the looks he's seen her with, the natural one is still his favourite.
"I did think about waking you up but I thought you probably needed the sleep." A subtle reminder that she's always been able to hold her liquor better than him - Natasha is rarely drunk, save the nights when she drinks vodka in catastrophic quantities to silence the screaming in her head.
Clint smirks, allowing her a moment to enjoy her superiority and then fixes her with a look that could burn through sheet metal. Apart from the Loki incident (which neither of them talk about if it can be avoided) Natasha has only ever restrained him when she has something in mind and right now a little hard plundering of the body under that silky temptation could be just the thing to loosen up his aching muscles.
"Don't look at me like that," she chuckles, green eyes wandering over the image he presents before her.
He wonders what he looks like in her eyes, spread out on this bed like a holy offering. If he had a free hand, he would give her a show, let her see the heat in his eyes while he worked his own erection, … alas no. "Looking is pretty much all I can do in my current condition," he replies lazily.
He's naked beneath the thin sheet that covers him to waist level and since his feet aren't bound it would be easy to draw it down and let her see the effect that just thinking about her touch is having on him. He waits though - not quite patiently - for her to decide how this will play out.
"You want to do more," she chuckles and it isn't a question. Natasha knows him, she knows what effect she has on him, knows what their time together - fleeting as it is these days - should be enjoyed.
He smiles. "You know that I do."
Slowly, he pulls up one leg beneath the covering, drawing it up in such a way that it would fully display him if not for the thin cotton barrier that stands between. Clint flexes his hips slightly, a slow roll that seems to capture his attention, grin still on his face. She watches him hungrily, one lip caught between her teeth. He can almost hear her breath catch as she exhales and it starts a slow fire in his veins.
She moves to the very foot of the bed, eight feet of seduction in a tight little five feet something package, a sinuous movement that speaks of the devil in her. With torturous slowness, she bends and grabs a fistful of the covers, fabric bunching between her fingers, and draws the sheet away from him until he lies bare and restrained before her.
Sacrificing the view of her approach, Clint allows his head to fall back against the pillows as she moves slowly up and over him. From ankle to inner thigh, she trails fingernails lightly across his skin, chasing them with the brush of lips. "Tell me what you want," she whispers, pausing so that every whispered word stirs the air in sensitive areas.
"You know what I want," he gasps breathlessly, shifting restlessly against the covers, anxious for her touch.
Against his thigh, she breathes her words through the smile of a seductress. "Doesn't mean that I don't want you to say it."
She drags her lower lip along his inner thigh, then locks her eyes with his. He's always loved the way that her eyes light up when they're together, the wanton stare of a woman secure in her own sexuality. Her gaze holds his and he isn't sure whether it's her movement or her bold stare that makes him weaken inside, which part of the scenario turns his blood to fire. He only knows that he wants her, wants the sense of reality that only she can bring him.
With a Cheshire Cat grin, her mouth brings a broken murmur to his lips as it swallows him, inching slowly down his length until she has taken all of him. As she rises back up so that only the tip of him stays within her, she looks at him again, a fire burning in her eyes that he can't get enough of, a look that makes him a slave to his own body, every nerve exposed to her mercy. Chains rattle as he instinctively tries to reach for her.
Slim fingers circle the base of him as she continues working him with her mouth. Clint watches, mesmerised, as her cheeks hollow out as she works him. Her unoccupied hand snakes upward, fingers curling against the muscles of his chest and stomach. The sounds, the sight, the sensations, all of it threatens to steal his control, hips moving instinctively in search of completion.
"Enough," he groans, voice ragged and breathless. It's always a struggle when she has him under her spell, always hard to relinquish the pleasure when she is so willing to provide it, but he wants more. He wants all of her.
Natasha lifts her head and then crawls up his body until she sits astride him, silk whispering across his skin as she moves. Leaning forwards, she slides her hands along the length of his arms, palms stroking lightly over his muscles until her fingers can slide between his own against the headboard. He arches to meet her as she swoops down to kiss him, lips slip-sliding against one another, temperatures rising, breath mingling.
She tastes of every indecent thought he's ever had, of every dark impulse. He is lost to her, drowning in the feelings that she brings out in him, drowning in her. He moans her name, voice muffled between kisses and she responds in kind, her body dancing over his.
Nails slide over his skin as she pulls back and rises up above him, positioning him so that she can take him inside her. Inch by inch, her body engulfs him, sweet heat and warm press of muscles around his cock. Metal screams as the cuffs scrape the bedstead. Clint strains against his bonds. Her head falls back on her neck, face tilted up towards the ceiling, a breathy moan escaping her as her hips come to rest against his.
When she moves again, her head falling forward, fingers turning his face up to hers none too gently, their eyes meet again. "Mine," she whispers.
He meets her gaze head on, flexes his hips to push himself deep inside her and hears the catch in her breath when he does it. "Yours," he agrees.
He lets her control it, lets her set the pace. She settles in for a slow glide, levering herself up and down on him, squeezing him ways that make him lose his mind just a little. Their eyes hold, bodies burning for one another. Much as he would like his hands free, she has his soul on its knees regardless of the position of his body.
In a single fluid motion, she whips the nightgown up and over her head and tosses it casually aside. Clint struggles again against his bonds, knowing that it is futile but unable to curb the impulse. Natasha's eyes drink in the sight of his straining muscles, the tension in his frame, and he feels her inner walls tighten in appreciation of what she sees.
They move together, bed dancing beneath them, Clint throwing his efforts into meeting the rhythm of her hips as she rides him because he can't do much else in his current condition. She holds his gaze as he moves inside her, letting him see exactly what she is feeling, increasing the pace as the urgency takes hold of them both.
Sweat forms on Clint's chest and in the hollow of his throat, trickling over exposed skin. He loves the slight weight of her on top of him, the expressions that flicker across her features. He watches the way that her breasts bounce, listens to the song of the bedsprings and the rhythm of her breathing. Pleasure shoots through him, building, building, swelling into a white wall of rapture that threatens to tip him into a sensory oblivion. The bite of her fingertips into the muscles of his stomach and chest only adds to the visual she provides him, the sheer shamelessness of her pursuit of physical implosion.
Occasional biting kisses and murmured provocations stir the embers, stoking the fire into an inferno. Natasha's hands grip his shoulders, one of them sliding in closer to circle his throat, and Clint growls in acquiescence, catching her lip between his teeth and tugging it gently to convey his growing impatience. She purrs and tightens her grip, just a fraction, just enough, a sugar coated warning that she can do much more if she chooses. He half hopes she will.
Natasha shifts her weight upward, rolling her hips in a slightly different rhythm, increasing the friction between them. Clint watches a bead of sweat roll down the column of her throat, relishes the glow that their actions bring to her pale skin. With her, sex is like fighting, brutal in its intensity, every shift and stroke a matter of precision; it starts an ache in his bones, his nerves vibrating to her exact frequency in pursuit of more, more, more.
She leans down over him as the urgency grows, blonde hair falling around her face. Her gaze is direct, challenging, her fingers flex against his windpipe. "Ready?" she asks breathlessly. Her body bounces atop him, the movement slapping their bodies together in all the right places. It's like being driven at high speed toward the edge of a cliff, knowing that what waits on the other side is devastating but being unable, or at least unwilling, to stop.
Clint manages to nod his agreement, fighting to maintain the rhythm that they need, to maintain the punishing pace that will get them where they need to be. "Ladies first," he tells her, but it's an effort to form the words.
When the sensation becomes too much, she rolls her body upwards. Words fall from her lips, falling end over end to crash into the continuous movement of their bodies, creative curses intermingled with his name and words of provocation, a bewitching melody that rises and falls with his thrusts and her own erratic breathing. And then she let out a moan that almost tips him over the edge. She tightens her grip on him and draws in a hissing breath; Clint throbs inside her on the very edge of losing control.
She tightens around him in a rush, muscles clenching as her orgasm washes over her. Head back, body still grinding atop his own, she is resplendent. Clint bucks his hips and curses as his own climax roars through him, straining again against the cuffs, this time with enough force to snap the binding around his left wrist. Natasha laughs wildly when she sees what he's done canting her hips into his grip, eyes alight with approval.
Clint brings his free hand, still adorned with the steel bracelet of his handcuffs, to her waist, digging his fingers into her hip bone hard enough to leave marks. Natasha bites her lip and swings her hips down as he slams his upwards, hitting that place deep inside her that makes her come harder. His arm curls up and around her, holding her at the base of her neck so that he can bring her in for a kiss that is all sharp edges and growls of appreciation.
Breathing hard, skin flushed and glowing with perspiration, they don't stop moving until the fire cools. Still atop him, Natasha allows her weight to settle over his chest as she kisses him thoroughly. She's still spasming around him, her temperature roaring in the wake of their exertions, but the storm has passed. "How badly do you want to kick me out of this bed right now?" she teases, stroking his cheek with the back of her fingers.
He considers his response, dragging his fingers down her back and making her arch her spine just a little in response. "Nat, the only reason I'd kick you out of bed is so that I could fuck you on the floor."
She makes a little sound that is quite promising but just as he's about to suggest that they tip themselves onto the rug and let him get both of his hands on her, her cell phone rings. Her sound of irritation and the eye roll are enough to make him feel slightly better, as is the way she plants another kiss on his mouth before she rolls off him.
Before he knows it, she's arranging a meet and heading for the bathroom. "Duty calls," she informs him with a hint of disappointment.
"That mean you're going to let me out of his cuff?" he asks. Nat stands near the foot of the bed, stares at him for a long moment as if memorising the image he makes.
Her lips quirk up into a little smile but she makes no move to toss him the key. "Or we could play another game," she suggests mildly, "in which you get yourself out of that cuff while I hit the shower."
"And what do I win if I achieve this feat?"
This time her smile widens. "I'm getting picked up in forty-five minutes so if you're quick about it …" she raises an eyebrow suggestively. "How about twenty minutes of whatever you want?"
She turns on her heel and strides into the bathroom. A few seconds later, he hears the shower start but Clint isn't worried about the timescale. He is already working on the cuff that still binds him to the bed.