FIC: with this secret kiss (MCU, Bruce Banner/Natasha Romanoff, PG-13)
with this secret kiss (MCU, Bruce Banner/Natasha Romanoff, PG-13)
title and inspiration from Tori Amos's The Power of Orange Knickers
Natasha took sips of her cocktail through her little straw. In the mirror behind the bar, she could see Bruce coming off the stairs-hair slicked back, trim in an inky black tuxedo with a white bowtie. Natasha’s painted lips stilled around the straw; she would have lost her breath, but that kind of thing was for amateurs.
“I have no idea how to go undercover,” Bruce had said, not a week earlier. “That’s your world, not mine.”
“I thought you said we’d share everything,” Natasha said.
Bruce had taken her entirely too seriously. “You know what I mean.”
“Well,” Natasha said, sidling up to him, taking his collar in her thumb and forefinger and using that gentle pressure to pull him closer, “you should know that I’m an excellent teacher.”
“And that I have no choice in the matter,” Bruce said.
“Exactly.”
Bruce approached the bar. Natasha watched him in the mirror, his hands shaking slightly-barely perceptible, but still a tell. Natasha smiled as she saw Bruce’s eyes caught on how her blush pink silk dress bared her back, the knuckles of her spine visible, all that perfect, private skin there for anyone to see. In the mirror, Bruce’s hand twitched, which was another tell, this one of how much he wanted to touch her.
Bruce sat beside her at the bar. Natasha kept her eyes on the mirror.
“Did you get it?” she asked. “Don’t show it to me, just nod.”
Bruce nodded. Natasha smiled. She picked up the alcohol-sweetened cherry from her drink, holding it by the stem. Bruce was watching her, she was aware, and she took her time taking the fruit into her mouth-slowly pressing it to her lips, licking a drop of whiskey from its taut skin, then letting the firm flesh give to the pressure of her tongue.
Bruce was sweating a bit. Natasha swallowed the cherry, and then the rest of her drink, and she turned to him, a slight smile on her lips, her fingertips tracing the smooth wood of the bar.
“You’ve done a great service to your country, Dr. Banner,” she said. “How should we celebrate?”
They only made it to the elevator, but there were thirty-one floors in the hotel, so they had some time. Bruce’s hands circled Natasha’s ribcage, their mouths together, Natasha’s lipstick smearing.
“Have I told you how much I like your outfit?” Bruce asked.
Natasha grinned. She pulled at his bowtie. “I like yours, too. You look like a spy.”
“You couldn’t look less like a spy.”
“That’s the idea.”
The elevator had reached the penthouse. Natasha pushed the close door button, and then hit the button for the lobby. Bruce’s hands under her skirt, his fingers on her pelvis, and Natasha was so done waiting, she used Bruce’s shoulders for leverage and pulled herself up on his leg-delicious friction-and she found the zipper to his fly. And then, on eleven, the elevator door came open, revealing what looked to be half a wedding party.
The father of the bride tugged at his collar.
“Uh, going down?” he asked.
“Shortly,” Natasha said, and hit the close door button again.