Flying is exhilarating.
If it weren't for the fact that he wants to touch Emory without terrorists, SHIELD agents, or metal armor in the way, Tony would have flown the whole way from the city for the sheer bliss of the experience. He wonders if this is the closest he can get to understanding Emory's own power generation. Does the air she bends around herself feel as much like tangible joy as the air he rockets through?
He'd sent Pepper to learn Emory's schedule, but he doesn't know if Fury ignored that to catch Tony off guard, or if he really didn't know. When Tony sees there are two agents with Emory today, that former becomes more likely. He'd left Happy, Pepper, and the two vehicles key to his plan about thirty miles away. They should be far enough to avoid SHIELD entanglement, but close enough to get him the hell out of the suit ASAP.
Emory's comment about him is so charming that Tony burns off any worry about his reception in the process of landing behind her. Her companions' lack of surprise or concern about his appearance is disconcerting though, and so is Emory's attitude toward them. He'd expected the agents to be more adversarial on both points.
After their kiss, he decides to push the issue. "So. Tell me about your goons," His flipped up faceplate drops at the last word like he'd planned it that way.
"Tell me about that suit, and you might earn a vacation," the redheaded agent calls out. Thanks to his Heads Up Display, Tony notes that she's dipped her thumb into a hidden pocket that his AI suggests holds miniature concussion grenades. The other agent has his bow held in a tight grip at his side, which is either a concession to Emory's value or Tony's prominence.
"It is quite an upgrade," Emory whispers, lifting a hand to trace her fingertips along the metal protecting his cheek before turning to face the agents, hands fisted at her sides. She's shielding him, which is sweet but misguided, given that he's encased in metal. Then again, his first suit did fall apart, so maybe it's pragmatism. Emory's stance lasts all of thirty seconds before she twists her hands together and says, in a tone that tells Tony she actually likes the two people in front of her, "I had no idea that he'd- I mean, in retrospect, it was probably-"
"-predictable? Yeah," the man says, offering an insincere smile. He shrugs. "Less to destroy out here."
"Am I the only one who didn't know this would happen?" Emory asks, a little wild-eyed. The archer coughs to hide his amused reaction when Emory glares at him. Tony almost likes the guy.
"Emory, don't take this the wrong way, but you might be the most sincere person I've ever met," the redhead says.
"Well that was the whole point for the mission, right? Our target would never suspect the wide-eyed innocent-"
"Hold up, I don't want to get dinged for mission knowledge," Tony interrupts, his movements punctuated by some servo noises. He wants to be airborne with Emory before Tweedle-She or Tweedle-Bow decide to object and call in the one-eyed Cheshire Cat for backup.
"The mission needs me to seem destitute, without anyone who can help me financially- but the press knows the two of us were kidnapped together, don't they, Agent Romanoff?" Emory says, a little too earnestly. "If Tony disappears and I'm still missing, that'll get picked up." She turns and smiles triumphantly at him. "So they won't do anything too drastic, or your disappearance will screw up their plans!"
If Emory's right, Tony's on board, but her mixture of manipulation and naivete makes him nervous.
"Sir, Agent Natasha Romanoff is a highly skilled spy assassin last known to be working with the Russians. A quick scan of various databases reveals multiple reacquisition attempts by various Russian agencies were unsuccessful," Jarvis says quietly into his earpiece. "I'm listening for anything about the other agent."
That other agent leans over to say something into Romanoff's ear. She seems to think for a few seconds, then nods. It's enough to spur Tony's impulsive side.
"In that case," he says, stepping around Emory to hold his arms out beside him. "Long version: Metal armor, custom-built using proprietary Stark tech including power, propulsion, communications, and targeting software. I designed and hand-wired this myself, so you can tell your BFF Morpheus it's one of a kind. Short version: you can't have the software or the hardware, but no one else can either. Did I earn the cookie? And by cookie," he holds up an armored finger; "I mean that vacation. Two days, two nights minimum."
"Where?" Romanoff shoots back right away.
Behind him, Emory whispers, "It's that easy?"
"Thought about a campsite at first," Tony says, sauntering over to stand beside her. "But it turns out my father built a swanky bomb shelter into the NYC house. Should be enough to counter any… forces of nature that might spin up." He hardens his tone. "I assume you know the address." At that, Tony turns to Emory. "Put your arms around my neck?"
She's wide-eyed but he can tell she's excited, given the way her localized wind is whipping up the grass at their feet. After a nod, he lifts her up. Tony snugs his arm across her back with his hand against her ass, just because he can.
"Hey now," the male agent objects.
"Shut it, Clint!" she grits out.
"Hey, Stark!" Romanoff calls out when he fires up his repulsors at a low setting to let JARVIS gauge the differential weight. Tony turns the two of them so he can look at the agent, noticing she's no longer a half-inch away from pulling a weapon on him.
"Yeah?"
"It's important you two aren't seen together. You got a plan for a less visible mode of transport?"
Tony appreciates that the woman hasn't just called in backup and subdued him for his audacity. If he had to guess, he'd say it has more to do with her rapport with Emory than any desire to avoid putting him in his place. It won't do to let her know he's anything less than an adversary, though.
"You'll just have to find out when you activate her tracker. Where is it? In her arm? Her ass? Sewn into her bra?"
"Tony!" Emory hisses under her breath.
"Do not make a 'thorough inspection' joke, so help me," Clint says.
"Trust but verify, right? See ya," Tony says, and takes off.
"I can't believe that worked!" Emory says, her words sucked away by the wind. Tony's pretty sure only some of it is whipped up by his velocity.
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As they lift off, Emory keeps expecting a group of SHIELD agents to converge on them. It seems almost too easy, despite Nat's hints that they'd been ready, even hoping, for Tony to show up. Her big worry is that she's just earned Tony a ton of negative attention from SHIELD in exchange for a few days of freedom. The agency will want any and all information about his suit, but can the government seize it? Will Stark Industries have to gear up for war again, against US citizens this time?
The thing is, Tony's the smartest man she's ever met, maybe the smartest in the country. He'll think of something. Her best revenge is to enjoy every second she has with him, and figure the rest out when they're safe and alone.
Alone. Something they'd only had once, lost under the burning sunlight of Afghanistan.
The thought is distracting enough to let her put thoughts of SHIELD aside for now. Tony is clearly navigating somewhere specific, and he shifts in preparation for landing, angling towards a couple of vehicles parked in a lonely gravel lot. She stumbles when they land, but any unsteadiness is wiped away by the look on Tony's face when he rips his helmet off to grin at her.
"Pretty sweet, right?"
"A definite improvement on last time," she agrees. Her answer seems to deflate some of his enthusiasm, so she adds, "It was amazing."
"You met me at a low point. Nowhere to go but up, literally," Tony tells her.
The sounds of a car door opening draws their attention, and Emory sways closer to Tony. He's covered in hard angles and smooth lines that make her feel physically disconnected from him, but the suit in motion is fantastic. He looks like a real life hero. Given how much time the first one had taken to build, Emory knows Tony has worked miracles to come here. She's pretty overwhelmed by the implications of that.
Tony reaches down to take her hand like he can sense how she feels, but with the armor covering his hand, it's awkward and uncomfortable.
"I'd take off the gauntlet but I was basically bolted into this thing. It's like my own version of Marilyn Monroe's dress," he apologizes.
"Hopefully it doesn't cost as much!" she laughs up at him.
"It might," a woman says, walking into view around the box truck with a teasing smile on her face. She's gorgeous, her immaculate makeup and sleek clothing a direct contrast to the ratty black work gloves she's pulling off of her hands. "I never really understood the concept of driving gloves until today!" the woman says, holding them up in her left hand as she holds her right out to shake Emory's in greeting. "I'm Pepper Potts, Tony's personal assistant."
"Oh, wow," Emory says, completing the handshake. "Emory Autumn, former PA but currently unemployed." Tony had mentioned Potts, always with regret at what she might be dealing with in his absence, but Emory had pictured an older woman, a stuffy paragon of authority. This woman is delicate and competent-looking, the kind of person whole rooms of celebrities notice when she walks by. The politics of his choice are brilliant, really. Anyone wanting to get close to Tony would likely not be disappointed that they'd need to talk to Pepper Potts first.
"Thanks for keeping him sane in there," Potts says.
"That was more luck than anything else," Emory tries to assure her, but Tony replies at the same time.
"She drove me crazy in an entirely different way instead."
"I thought that was my job?"
The voice belongs to a stocky man in a black suit who seems to have come from the driver's side of the limo. He nods respectfully to her, and Emory looks at Tony to find that he's grinning.
"Happy Hogan, Emory Autumn."
Hogan's shake is firm but gentle, considering the size of his hand. Emory ignores the brief thought that she's just one among many women he's been introduced to over the years. "He missed you," she says as she lets go, suddenly feeling shy at the thought that she might be sharing Tony's private reactions without his permission. "Both of you."
"Yes, well," Tony says, clearing his throat. "Very heartwarming, but if you don't want to be crushed during the group hug, I think I should get out of this thing." As he speaks, Emory finally figures out what she'd been struggling to articulate to herself: Tony looks happy, but also healthy, so different and yet still the same man she fell for in Afghanistan.
"In that case, follow me," Pepper Potts says in the kind of tone Emory recognizes as 'let's get focused back on the business at hand.' The PA fishes a set of keys out of her suit jacket pocket and heads for the truck.
After carefully putting the work gloves back on, Potts fiddles with some things at the back of the truck until the bolts on the sliding door audibly release. Hogan comes over to pull out the steps and lift the door. Tony beckons Emory closer, and she sees that the inside space is flooded with lights, illuminating multiple robot arms arrayed around a central square with boot-shaped clamps. It's the kind of complicated machinery she's only seen in horror movies and disaster documentaries.
A heartfelt "Wow!" is about all she can manage. "I'm starting to think what you made in the cave with me was more like a junior high science fair project."
"Don't be silly," Tony says, using his repulsors to fly the short distance up onto the bed of the truck instead of using the stairs. "I built something way more complicated than that for my junior high science fair project."
"Oh, here we go," Potts says.
"Never mind," Emory tries, but it's too late.
"I wonder what happened to that patent," Tony muses, holding out a hand to lift her up onto the truck bed.
"You got a patent for your first science fair project?" She just stares up at him.
"Wasn't his first," Hogan says, behind her.
Tony shakes his gauntleted hand impatiently. "Third school fair. If it's any consolation, the other two didn't get patented."
She uses her accumulated power to lift herself up just high enough to walk from thin air into the inside of the truck. "Stop! I already felt inadequate."
"I'm sure you also did interesting things when you were nine." He says this like it should reassure her, before stepping onto the boot clips and hooking a wire from the assembly into his arc reactor. "You might want to stand back."
Emory watches Tony's armor come off piece by piece, revealing that he's wearing a t-shirt and cargo pants, both relatively tight-fitting. When the boots are unscrewed and he's able to step away from the whole contraption, she's impressed to see that he'd even designed the suit to fit around his shoes. Hogan hands him a flannel shirt that Tony starts putting on before he turns around for her to see that the t-shirt has a round hole for his ARC reactor to fit through.
"I'm working on a way to connect the power without having to mutilate my wardrobe," he says as he does up his cuff buttons. "I could run something up beside my neck, but wireless would be ideal, grab and go."
"Wireless? That would be amazing!" Emory says, impressed. Tony's unhappy expression confuses her until he responds.
"Yinsen suggested it. For after we got out."
All her accumulated power spirals down into nothingness as Emory's heart contracts with renewed grief. She rushes into Tony's arms. He presses a kiss into her hair and holds his lips there, his arms tightening for a full minute before letting out a ragged sigh of regret.
"C'mon."
Tony helps her down from the truck and holds her hand until they get to the limo. Despite her sadness, Emory lets out a little laugh, drawing both Tony and Hogan's attention.
"You kidnapped me from a shadowy government agency using something that had to cost more than most people's houses! It just hit me how bizarre it is- after all that's happened, we've ended up in an abandoned gravel lot in front of a box truck and a limousine."
"Kidnapping? It was a rescue!" Tony objects.
"I'll drive this back to the charter and see you tomorrow, then?" Potts says in a placating voice.
"Perfect," Tony tells his PA.
He leads Emory over to the car and opens the door for her. Once she's seated, he settles in beside her and holds his arm out for her to snug up against him. She does, blushing at how much her heart leaps from his nearness. With a long exhale, Tony drops his head back against the cushion behind him and stretches his legs out, like this is the moment he'd been waiting for all day.
Emory can feel her usual build up of energy, but it's lethargic, as if contentment is a natural de-energizer. The limo is sparse inside, almost surprisingly so. There's a good chance that's on purpose. She buries a grin into the fabric of his shirt.
"What is it?"
"You cleared this space out, didn't you? In case being with you made my powers go haywire." She lifts her head up to look at him. Tony looks smug. "That's very thoughtful.
"Very selfish," he corrects. "Fewer distractions." Right as he leans down to kiss her, his large fingers tangling in her hair, they hear the car door slam up front.
"Before I put on very loud music that will obscure any sounds from the back, where to?" Hogan asks through an intercom. Tony chases her lips as she moves back, but all Emory can do is think about how little she's practiced staying in control of herself around him. She doesn't want to jeopardize one of his expensive properties!
"Were you serious about the bomb bunker?"
"Mmhmm," Tony rumbles as he kisses her neck.
"Did you mention Yinsen so you'd feel safe driving me to your house?" Emory holds her breath. It's quite an accusation, but also a smart strategy on his part if she's right. Sadness and fear both seem to completely cut off her powers.
Instead of answering her, Tony turns his head and calls out to Hogan. "The house in the city, Happy, as planned."
"You got it." Before the intercom cuts out, there's a blast of music as if to reassure them he was serious about his discretion.
"Tony, D.C. is full of national landmarks, and even though I am really happy to see you-"
Tony's interrupting kiss steals the next words from her mouth and her mind. Emory grounds herself in reality by grabbing a handful of his shirt. It's softer than anything he'd worn in the cave, as is the seat beneath them, but Tony himself is warm, rough, and real. She slips up onto her knees for a better angle, but the car starts moving just as she does this, and a bunch of her hair falls down on both of their faces.
"Fuck, that smells amazing," Tony groans, muttering more profanity-laden endearments that trend toward complaints when she pulls away to look for a seatbelt.
Emory finds one by the window, and when she tames her wild hair into a quick twist tucked into her collar so she can peek at him, all she can do is laugh helplessly. Tony looks dejected, legs slack, arms slanted toward her, head resting sadly on the back of the seat, the rest of him slumped so far down he's an inch away from collapsing to the floor.
"I built a single-person flight suit to come see you, and you want to buckle up instead of kiss me? I'm hurt."
"It's the law, Stark."
"Not in Pennsylvania!" he argues resolutely.
"We're not in Pennsylvania."
Emory unzips the leg pocket holding her mostly useless flip phone and taps the button Clint told her not to touch because it triggers some ridiculous surcharge for 24 hours of internet access. Using the arrow keys, she navigates to the awful web browser.
Tony tsks at her. "I didn't realize SHIELD tech didn't extend past the Stone Age."
"Buckle up," she tells him, continuing the frustrating process of choosing letters via repeated presses of the number keys. Just as she hits enter on the search, Tony slips something between her hip and her own fastened buckle, and she hears a click. "What-"
He stops her with a quick, impudent kiss. "Seatbelt extender, so I can sit closer to you. Lemme guess: it's another hour and a half before we reach a state where it is legal to be unbuckled in limousines?"
Her screen confirms this to be the case. "You already knew and let me numb my fingertips looking it up anyway? You jerk!"
"Let me make it up to you."
Emory looks at Tony, then around at the rest of the empty limo. They are, for all intents and purposes, alone. Safe. There are no terrorists, no SHIELD agents, no army medics, and no paparazzi, even if anyone could see into the tinted windows at their speed.
A powerful yawn cuts through her. Emory claps her hands over her mouth, embarrassed. "I'm not bored, I promise," she gasps.
"No no," Tony says. He stretches his arms out along the back of the seats like they're on a couch instead of a bench seat. "I did that too. You're wiped all of a sudden, right?"
"But I want to talk to you, it's been-"
"There's time," he interrupts. "That's the point. You feel safe. That's not rude, it's a compliment." He takes off the flannel shirt and wads it up on his chest about where she'd rested her head before, and pats it. "Go ahead, sleep. This may or may not be on my post-Afghanistan bucket list."
Emory blinks at him. "Really?" she asks, even as the urge to take him up on the offer becomes nearly unbearable.
"There's time," Tony repeats.
"Okay," she whispers, suddenly shy.
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She falls asleep almost as soon as she settles into him, legs curled up on the seat, a handful of his shirt in her left hand at his stomach. Tony wills away the sting of aroused regret; Emory needs this the same way he'd needed the time alone in his own home that first night. Pepper had sent along some of the surveillance photos she'd taken of Em. In all of them she'd looked drawn and wilted, so much so that he'd really worried that SHIELD was breaking down all of the independence he'd seen her grasping for.
It had been such a relief to watch her blossom back to the woman he loves at the sight of him. Good for his ego, too. Fuck, he's stretching the plant metaphor into something ridiculous, which probably means he should sleep too, but Tony can't stop picturing her as a wilted flower responding to much-needed sunlight and water.
He settles carefully into a position that won't make his neck ache too much when he wakes up. Before he drifts off, Tony's sleep-deprived brain offers one more extension of the metaphor: he sure hopes she didn't sink too many roots into SHIELD.
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Tony wakes up right as the limo takes a sharper than normal turn. With the arm still curled around her, he leans Emory into the turn to keep her from stirring. Her grip on his shirt has been sleep-loosened, so her hand slides from his waist to his crotch.
Shit, he thinks to himself. She'd complained on their call about getting poor sleep, so Tony knows he shouldn't wake her up. He's not a monk, though, despite acting like one for far too long. All of his attention and energy had been devoted to building the suit, to the exclusion of most other thoughts. Now they're on the rebound with a vengeance.
He should distract himself so he isn't tempted to wake her up, but he doesn't want to. Tony wants to think about what her hair would look like spread out on his pillow- hell, spread out on his thighs. He's more satyr than savior right now.
Tony shifts his hips in the hopes that Emory's hand will drift to less inflammatory real estate. Instead, she lets out a tiny sleep murmur, almost a moan. The minor disturbance plays across her body; her shoulders shift, then her feet, her hips, and finally, devastatingly, that hand, the heel of her palm sliding against his clothed member as Emory flexes her wrist in her sleep.
It feels amazing.
"You're killing me," he mutters under his breath, a tiny concession to the fact that he shouldn't enjoy this.
Emory reacts to the sound of his voice, launching into a campaign to completely wreck him, or so it seems. She arches her back, dragging her arm across his now entirely erect and straining cock as she goes through the 'just woke up' motions. Emory slides her feet down from the seat and keeps sliding, somehow unbuckling as she goes. Tony reaches for her but is caught by his own seatbelt before he can stop her from ending up on the floor.
"Em?"
"That was on purpose," she says, sounding dazed. "Mostly."
Her flannel 'pillow' has fallen onto his lap. Tony could grab for it and make some much-needed adjustments in his stupidly tight pants, but just at that moment, Emory gathers herself up onto her knees and leans her forearms on the seat, derailing all rational thought.
"Can I make a confession?" She's avoiding eye contact.
"Only if I get to assign penance." He could come up with some very interesting variations on a hail mary.
Emory buries her head in her arms. "I woke up a while ago. I wanted to ramp you up and offer to… you know," she says, her voice getting almost too quiet to hear. "But I chickened out."
Tony tosses the flannel and pops the button of his pants shamelessly. "I am here for any and all confidence-building. How can I help?"
"I have no idea!"
She laughs, scrubbing her face with her hands and dragging her hair back so she can look up at him. Her minimal eye makeup is smudged, her lips have no stain or gloss on them, and he can see that a line of two pimples have formed near her ear. She looks nothing like the kind of woman his 'reputation' would say should be in this limo with him, but Tony's never looked forward to a woman's mouth on him more than he does right now. Given his habit of deliberately alienating one night stands so they stay that way, he's double-checking every instinct at this point. He does not want to derail this.
While Tony's tongue-tied, he watches Emory braid her hair in a hurried, tight line, letting go without securing the end. It starts to unwind immediately, and he can't help but picture it giving way mid-motion. He wants that.
She closes her eyes, looking nervous. "Oh, God. Tony, I think I'm just too-"
He launches forward and grabs her hands. "Wait. Don't freak out. It's just us, right? I want you. You want me? Go for it." Tony briefly kisses her and pulls back so he's not sending mixed messages with his next words. "No pressure."
Her tension dissipates in the form of shocked laughter. "Tony, that's like, 90% pressure! Does that actually work on anyone?"
"That was the first time, you tell me."
She tips her head to the side and looks at him for a long moment before squaring her shoulders. Reaching out a shaking hand, Emory places it on Tony's left knee, pulling it wide to make space for her to settle between his legs.
He'd been ready to encourage her out of her shy hesitation if necessary, but this resolute bravery is shaking him. Emory starts to lower his zipper, her eyes caught by the arc reactor in his chest. She pauses, clearly puzzled.
"Something's different, right?"
Tony looks down and taps at it. "I built a better version as soon as I got back, just like the suit." He twists the reactor to show her the improved design. "The armor chestpiece makes contact with the housing and transmits power without having to- aahhhhhh Em, Fuck!"
The little minx had used her question as a way to distract him. Without his eyes on her, Emory had mustered the courage to finish unfastening his pants, pull him out, and lick his cock from base to tip. Tony watches, riveted, as she takes a few inches in her mouth with steady suction, stroking the rest with one hand. Her other hand drifts to her chest and starts unzipping the fitted workout top she's wearing.
Tony closes his eyes and focuses all his attention on that last turn to lock his reactor back where it belongs.
"Mmm, good idea," Emory pulls off to say, her lips brushing flashes of pleasure across his cock between each word.
"Yep, I'm a genius," Tony manages. He opens his eyes and lets out a heartfelt groan at the sight of her. Emory's hair has wisped up around her face, the red tendrils framing her blush-pink cheeks. She'd opened her shirt until just past the swell of her breasts, and as he watches, she fits her lips around him, sucking in as she dips her head all the way down. Tony lets out a sound of strangled pleasure that has her humming in impish sympathy.
The next few moments pass in a blur of gloriously building tension as struggles to hold back the filthy litany of praise he wants to lavish on Emory. It's only by some miracle that he's kept himself to moans and mild swearing so far. Tony wraps one hand in the belt strap to prevent himself from touching her head, reluctant to take charge like he's done in the past. He doesn't want to use her like a plaything instead of a partner. It's difficult enough not to thrust up.
There's no looking away, not that he'd want to. From her hollowed cheeks and spit-slick lips to the way she angles pleased little glances up at him and invariably loses her rhythm, Emory is a Siren in the process of stealing away his soul. Fuck, Tony thinks. He's never telling her she's pushed him past profane into poetic.
As he'd hoped it would, her hair finally spins free, falling like a scarlet curtain that hides what she's doing from view. Without thinking, Tony reaches out to brush it back. He's unable to resist sinking his fingers into the bulk of it at the base of her neck.
"Ohh, mmm," Emory moans, her free hand flying up to hold him there. She squirms her hips and backs off, stroking him as she catches her breath. "Yes. Use your hands on me."
"I'm clumsy and barely sensate," Tony objects.
"Good," is Emory's shocking reply. "If I even got to do this, the guys would always hold back- but not because of me. Because of Rory. It might get back to her, you see, and they didn't want to risk the meal ticket!" Emory throws herself back and strips her shirt the rest of the way off, discarding it inside-out on the floor. Her bra is red. "I don't belong to anyone," she adds, but there's a bitter little twist in her voice that Tony hopes he'll remember to figure out later.
"You belong to yourself," he quickly agrees. Her thing with Rory will need to be dealt with, but right now she needs validation and he needs to come. "Maybe what you need is an extensive series of roleplay sessions to work through this. I'd be happy to offer my services. I'm sure I could rustle up a few wigs, maybe a handlebar mustache?"
Emory had pulled herself up to sit beside him, her hand in the process of reaching out exactly where he- but she snatches it back at his last statement.
Tony winces. "Too far?"
"No, I just didn't want to associate those two things. Ever." She arches up, clearly going for a kiss.
"Message heard," he says, and obliges her. Thankfully, gloriously, the kiss heats up right away. Tony gives in to the urge he's felt as long as he's known Emory's bra color, and drags the lacy straps down her arms so he can bury his face in their softness.
"Okay wow, make a note of that," she breathes appreciatively. "Beard hair on sensitive skin is a massive turn-on!"
"Even…" he dangles as he draws his chin across the nipple he'd just been tonguing.
Emory falls back against the arm he'd braced behind her. "Especially," she whimpers. "But you-" To Tony's surprise, she bats him away in an adorably cross manner. "I was doing something."
"So was I!" he blurts out, laughing. "If only there were a way to combine our efforts," he teases, taking the opportunity to remove his pants and briefs.
Emory shakes her head. Her grey eyes are amused, but her expression is serious. "I want this for you, if you still want to, but for me? I'm opting for something other than a confined space of limited comfort."
"You want me for my bed? Harsh, woman. Harsh," Tony says, but he reaches out and tugs on her arm, prompting her to lean toward him for a lush, filthy kiss. "No one is surprised, but I want this in the confined space and the mansion bedroom. Maybe the stairs on the way up, too, if you're game."
The ghost of something crosses her face for just a second before it's gone, but then Emory smiles. She scoots into a good leaning position, reaching over to stroke him before tipping her head to the side to look at him.
"If you want my hair out of the way, you do it," she challenges.
This time when Emory takes him into her mouth, the angle is much more intimate- her body is all within reach, and he reaches, slipping his fingers between her clothed legs to press against her core. He times it so she's not surprised, and her reaction is sexy as hell; Emory groans and speeds up from the slow, agonizing enjoyment she'd started with to a wanton desperation, complete with little panting pleasure noises.
"Em," Tony warns, and she clenches her thighs around his hand, adding something to her neck movement that makes him instinctively tighten his grip on her hair. This destroys the last of his resolve to hold on just a bit longer, thanks to the knowledge that she'd asked him to get a little rough, that she likes that.
Tony comes so hard he closes his eyes against the intensity of it. He feels her withdraw, but lethargy and joyful satiation persuades him to stay put and enjoy the high for a while longer. After a few moments, he has a strong sense that he's forgetting something. Tony can't figure out what it is, so he listens to the sounds of her moving around until she sits down next to him and starts to clean him off with some fabric. It turns out to be her shirt, not his.
Tony looks over to see that she's put on his flannel. "Good choice, I approve," he says, nodding at her breasts. One button is strained almost to the breaking point.
"You don't miss anything, do you?" she teases, reaching down to pick up his discarded clothes.
"I missed you," he says, yanking them on.
Emory watches him until he sits back down, then scrunches up her face and says something so quickly Tony almost can't parse it.
"Did you really? Or did you want to close that chapter by doing what the terrorists wanted you to be doing?" Emory flees to the farthest seat, her face pale and shocked. "No, wait, don't answer that! God, what a thing to-" she breaks off and shakes her head, lifting a shaking hand to her mouth.
Tony's reeling. "What did you do, spend a day googling 'Billionaire playboy Tony Stark?' If so…" He lets out a breath. "Fair. I did have a harrowing life event recently. That kind of thing changes people." Emory's body language is tense and rigid, but she'd spoken up for herself. "That was brave," he tells her. "Would you have said that five months ago?"
She shakes her head. "Five months ago I'd never have been here in the first place," she says, a wry smile sweeping away her regretful expression. "Ugh, there I go again," Emory sighs. "I've been psyching myself out, I guess. I told myself I had to be okay with it if you did the playboy thing."
"I don't intend to," Tony tells her. "I meant what I said in the desert." The uncontrollable urge to get up and walk away from this oblique love declaration is strong, but Tony forces himself to stay put. Her expression shifts from apologetic to pleased, and pleased to relieved; she melts into his side in a movement that reads to Tony as emotionally shy.
The thing he'd thought was missing before suddenly presents itself, and it's profound. He doesn't want to leave. He doesn't want her to leave. For once, Tony's not looking for an opportunity to duck out to his workshop and build something so he can avoid the inevitable, 'we've had our fun, but now it's over.'
He doesn't want it to be over.
It seems that Emory's equally introspective, because she says, "I'm just… not the person who gets to have this."
Tony folds his arms around her and breathes in the clean smell of her hair. "Neither am I," he whispers.
Emory laughs, a groaning, rueful sound that has him lifting his head to look at her. "What now?"
"'Gets to' is doing a lot of work in that sentence, no matter how determined I am to keep you!" She snuggles up against him again, and Tony lets her fierce tone of voice settle into his chest like a mini power surge.
"Can't be harder than building a flying suit of armor out of old missile parts in a cave in Afghanistan, can it?" he asks, infusing his tone with a hefty serving of arrogance.
"It might, if the part of the terrorist is played by Nick Fury," she says.