Finkle

So because I am a professional, I did inspect Fury's arm first, and what I found was kind of astonishing—no wound, no scab, no scar. For a minute I thought I had the wrong arm, but no, neither had any injury to it. There he sat in all his furry-chested glory, grinning at me as I kept running my fingers over his muscles.

"Care to explain?" I finally asked.

"Highly classified, but nothing dangerous and nothing you need to worry about," Fury told me. "Let's just say I'm healthy."

"Apparently," I muttered. S.H.I.E.L.D. was turning out to have a lot of quote classified unquote stuff and I wasn't sure I could deal with knowing any more of it. "I still think it's disconcerting."

"Gonna be all right with it?" He actually looked concerned, so I scooted closer and gave into my desire to run both hands over that big curly chest of his.

Niiiiiice.

He gave a little rumbly purr, like a jaguar.

I laughed. "I'll be fine. I understand I don't get to know all the secrets, but I'm glad you're healthy."

So yeah, we didn't do a lot of talking after that. At least, not a lot of conversation, but it's safe to say both of us were communicating very well. I learned a lot of things about Nick Fury pretty quickly, all of them breathtaking.

First of all, he likes to kiss and he's damned good at it. Frankly my gears were already shifting upwards and I was ready to head to his bedroom, but the colonel pulled me on his lap and took his sweet time making me melt like a stick of butter in a microwave. I have never been so deliberately kissed, ever. Not even on my wedding night, oy!

Patience is something I've cultivated most of my life, but Fury was pushing those limits along with my buttons, so I was stuck between gasping and growling, calling him a few choice names in Yiddish while he chuckled against my neck, and then against my collarbones, and lower. I had been worried about him seeing my body—that first time is always difficult, especially for a woman my size. I wasn't ashamed of myself, but had taken a long time for me to accept who I was, let alone anyone else.

But Nick Fury drew in a deep breath, let out a slow 'daaaaaaaammn,' and then proceeded to become Very Good Friends with my breasts. And let me tell you, they appreciated it. A lot. So much in fact that I ended up climaxing right there in the conversation pit.

Of course I was completely mortified by that, but in my defense it was pretty clear that the director of S.H.I.E.L.D. knew his way around a set of knockers. When I could catch my breath I apologized, but he gave me that soft smile of his—the really rare one—and pulled me up to him, chest to chest. "Shhhhh. I think we need to move this out of my living room, Josie."

No argument from me. Fury kept his arms around me and we made it down a little hall and through a doorway to his bedroom. Not quite as austere as the living room but the bed was one of those low platform types of polished wood with a huge mattress and a lot of pillows.

Huh. I had no idea that Fury was a secret hedonist, but I wasn't in any place to complain and I had other matters on my mind anyway, so turned my attention to divesting the man of his clothing.

Boxers. I expected commando to be honest, but the sight of his good old American boxers made me grin until I saw how distended they were. Then I got a little nervous because there seemed to be a lot of Fury in them. More than I'd seen before, and in my line of work I've seen my share of schlongs. Once I had him out of those shorts, it was easy to confirm that yes indeed, Colonel Nick Fury was in possession of some dangerous personal weaponry, no longer concealed.

This made me think that I might actually need that ibuprofen later, but for now I simply slid next to him under the sheets and gave myself up to more kissing, rubbing, and touching, which wasn't exactly difficult.

We didn't need to discuss birth control since Fury had already seen the transdermal patch behind my shoulder earlier, and by now most of our verbal exchanges consisted of moans, groans, and punctuated gasps because yes, I am distressingly loud during sex. That didn't seem to faze Fury a bit, thank God; he was apparently on a 'search and seduce' mission over my entire body, proving once again that the man certainly knew how to multi-task.

Finally though, we managed to wrap ourselves close to that lovely tangle that makes it all worthwhile, and I tried not to look anxious, but Fury caught my expression and stopped.

"Second thoughts? Talk to me, Jo-seph-ine," he whispered.

"No second thoughts, it's just . . . you're big. Bigger than I've had before," I blurted. "I'm a little chicken."

"We," he kissed me again, moving towards that one area of my neck that always makes me whimper, "have all night. I can go slow, bubelah."

Damn it. I don't know what thrilled me more, the assurance or the endearment, but things were a lot simpler after that. I did a little guiding, he did a little pushing and then it was ohmyGODDDDYESMOREOF*THAT!* time. Apparently my slick and eager body decided that it was more than ready to accommodate as much of the Colonel's howitzer as it possibly could. That's not to say that it didn't hurt a little, but the spine-melting orgasm that seared through me shortly afterwards sure as hell made up for that.

I managed to cling to Nick through his climax, which was impressive too, and afterwards we sort of lay there in a damp hot twist of limbs, both of us blissed out. He was gentleman enough to slide his ass over the wet spot and pull me close, tucking me against his side and purring.

I swear he does that; purr I mean. It's the most fabulous sound in the world, especially when you've got your cheek on his fuzzy chest.

"That. Was. Incredible," I confessed in a sleepy whisper. "Totally incredible."

"That," Fury murmured back, "Was just round one. We can do better."

I know I was grinning as I fell asleep.

Fury

It would be safe to say my weekend was looking pretty good, particularly since I had Doctor Josephine Finkle in my bed. Despite my earlier admonition to her, it was clear we were both more than ready to step things up, umm-hmm.

The woman was incendiary. Flat-out incendiary from the first kiss, and let me tell you I did my damnedest to re-light her fuse throughout the night, which meant by about nine the next morning both of us were exhausted and starving. Not that I had too much to bitch about other than a damp bed and some claw marks around my ribs.

Still, it was time to refuel, so I hauled myself up and managed some poached eggs for us, along with coffee. I had no idea how she took her coffee but figured I'd find out soon enough. I did not put anything on a tray because that shit only happens in the movies, but I did take the plates back to bed.

Watched her wake up, all tousled and yawning was damned nice, especially when the sheet slipped down and gave me an inspiring view of her chest. Despite the fact we'd already had four rounds of lovemaking, I found myself immediately interested in a return engagement. Apparently the sight of me was too much for Finkle and she laughed.

"Nice kielbasa, darling," she told me. "The eggs look good too."

"Pull that sheet up unless you want breakfast to go Jackson Pollock all over this bed, woman," I told her as I handed over one of the plates.

Finkle took it and looked surprised. "You cooked?"

I had to give her the glare for that one; she laughed again.

"Sorry, sorry, and thank you. It looks wonderful—I'm starving!"

I handed her the coffee as well and slipped back into bed, making it a point to start in on my own food before I asked what she had planned for the day.

"Well I've got a lunch date with my practice partner that I've already postponed twice so I feel obligated to keep it," Finkle told me. "Have to reassure her I'm coming back, and she needs my signature on a few things. For the afternoon I promised mom I'd sit in on one of her practice sessions because I'm the unofficial team doctor, and after that, nothing in particular."

"Practice?"

"Roller Derby. Mom's team is the Hot Flashes."

I remembered her mentioning roller derby before and nodded. "I've got enough to keep me busy until three or so; where's the rink?"

That startled her. "The rink? You want to watch the practice?"

I shrugged. "If that's where I'm picking you up." Had to make it clear that if we were doing the weekend together then that meant at least through Sunday.

"Umm it's the Roll-a-Rama in South Amboy," Finkle murmured around a mouthful of toast. "But you don't have to go out of your way, Nick."

"Worried I'll stand out?" I've never been the sort to blend in; usually I don't give a damn but this was different, being personal and all.

"Worried my mom will start asking a lot of nosy questions and drive you away, more like. Seriously, she's got interrogation skills that even Coulson doesn't have. She'll embarrass us both!" Josie wailed.

That's when I caught her chin and made her look into my good eye. "So what you're saying that you don't think I can handle a conversation with a woman of my generation, is that it?"

"What I'm saying is you don't know who you're dealing with, Nick. She'll nice you to death, and right when you think it's all small talk and strudel, wham!"

I waited. Finkle sighed and continued, giving her voice a slight accent. "So what happened to your eye? Were you married before? Do you have intentions towards my daughter? How much do you make, anyway? You know interracial children have a hard time, especially when they're raised Jewish."

Had to admit it was enough to give me pause but I wasn't going to show Finkle any of that. "I see your point, but the amazing thing about questions is that they don't have to be answered."

"Ten bucks says my mom will have you talking inside of half an hour," Finkle predicted glumly. "There's a reason a Jewish mother is a stereotype, sweetie."

"Ten bucks," I agreed, and set my plate aside before pulling her down into my arms again. "And since neither of us have anything on the agenda until noon . . ."

"I knew there was an ulterior motive behind breakfast," she murmured, snickering. "It's a good thing you're damned near irresistible, Colonel Fury."

I defy any man not to gloat at a compliment like that. Hell, woman could have asked me for the keys to the helicarrier and I'd probably have handed them over now. So we started getting busy again, kissing, and suddenly she caught my face in her hands and asked me the question.

THE question. The one they all do, eventually.

"So . . . how did you lose it?"

"SOG mission into Vietnam back in sixty-two," I told her, turning to kiss her fingers. "Da Nang. Bullet hit the binoculars I was using. Would have gone through my brains if the casing hadn't slowed it."

To her credit she didn't flinch, which was gratifying. ""I'm sorry."

"I'm still breathing and walking around. Lot of good men aren't."

"I get that, yeah. I'm glad you are," Finkle told me, and that was the end of the discussion.

Gentle this time, and slow. Didn't need to rush anything, savored all that soft, sweet skin of hers, and put her on top of me, like a blanket. I loved the way she tried to stay quiet and couldn't, the way she moaned and clung to me.

And that ass—big, firm, ripe as a damned peach. It's not every man who gets a shot at something that fine and I was going to make sure Josie Finkle knew I appreciated it, even if it meant putting up with an interrogation by Miriam Bergman Finkle.

Or as Coulson's background check had called her, Captain Miriam 'The Desert Wolf' Berman, retired sniper for the Israeli Defense Forces.