LIX. Bucky

Goddamn her.

No—goddammit. I'm not stopping. I can't.

She just keeps pushing me, every chance she gets. She knows exactly what buttons to press, what lines to toe. I swear she's doing it on purpose, baiting me, dragging this twisted thing between us deeper every time.

And maybe, in the back of my head, I always knew I wanted her to.

Her mouth—sharp and wicked, but soft when it wants to be—drives me insane. That smirk, that flick of her tongue when she's trying to rile me up? Hell.

My hands are on her before I realize it, gripping her waist, her thighs—pulling her in like I've been starving for her. Her breath ghosts across my lips as she presses in, grinding against me, and my body responds before I can think. I'm already hard and aching, and she knows it.

Her hands are on me—hot, greedy, shaking.

God, I'm already in too deep.

She says don't stop, and every part of me obeys before my brain can catch up. Because logic's gone. Vanished. The moment her lips touched mine again, it all burned away.

I've had a thousand versions of her in my head. Fantasies. Memories. Nightmares.

None of them are like this.

She's real now—warm beneath me, eyes half-lidded, breath catching every time my fingers move higher under her shirt. Her pulse flutters under her skin, and I can feel it beneath my lips like a drumbeat that's only for me.

And that's the problem.

Because I shouldn't want this. I shouldn't want her.

She's everything I've fought to bury. A reminder of cages and programming and blood. Hydra's dirty little mirror held up to my face. She's everything I should hate.

But when she looks at me like that—like she needs this as badly as I do—it rips the hatred out of my chest and replaces it with something hotter. Hungrier.

I kiss her again—deep, messy, desperate—and she moans into my mouth like she's breaking open. Her nails scrape across my ribs, leaving trails of heat and pain. I welcome it. I want to feel it tomorrow. I want to remember this happened.

Even if it's just tonight.

Her legs shift, pulling me closer, and I groan against her jaw. "Emris..."

She whimpers. Actually whimpers.

I bite her earlobe gently, sucking it between my teeth, and her body arches under mine like she's begging for more. I grip her hip with my human hand, grounding her, and it hits me—how little I've touched her with the other one. The vibranium one. I don't even realize I've kept it away until I look down and see it clenched beside her pillow like it doesn't belong.

She notices.

Of course she does.

Her hand finds mine—the vibranium one—and pulls it toward her chest. Places it right between her breasts, over her heart.

My lungs stop working.

"I'm not afraid of you," she breathes.

I blink. Hard.

No one touches that arm without hesitation. Not Steve. Not Sam. Hell, I don't.

But she does. And not like it's a weapon. Like it's a part of me. Like she wants all of me—even the pieces I hate.

And maybe that's what undoes me. Maybe that's what finally shatters the wall between us.

I lean in, my voice gravel and smoke.

"One night," I say, just to remind us both.

She nods, but her eyes don't leave mine.

"One night," she repeats.

So I kiss her again.

And this time, I let myself fall.

God, I hate her.

I hate how much I want her.

She's got that look in her eye again—sharp, defiant, daring me to do something about the tension crackling between us like lightning. And I fucking do.

"You talk too much," I growl against her mouth.

She grins against my lips. "You think this'll shut me up?"

I kiss her so hard it steals the breath out of both of us.

Her body arches into mine, hot and alive, and I swear I can feel her pulse through every layer of clothing separating us. She bites my lower lip, just hard enough to sting, and then laughs when I groan.

I hate her.

I want her so badly I could lose my damn mind.

My hand drags down over her stomach, under her shirt, fingertips brushing skin that's already too warm. She gasps—softer than she'd ever let me hear on purpose—and that's it. That's the sound that shatters the last of my restraint.

That sound—real and raw—rips through me like a match to gasoline.

I bite her bottom lip and she arches into me, eyes dark and gleaming like she's already got me right where she wants me.

She's beautiful. Too damn beautiful. Skin like silk, hair a wild mess around her face.

I break the kiss, chest heaving, eyes locked on hers. I shove my hands into the waistband of her leggings and pause.

She watches me, green eyes dark and unreadable.

"This still what you want?" I ask, voice low, rougher than it should be. My thumb strokes against the soft skin just above her hip. "Say the word, Emris. I stop if you say it."

She doesn't blink. "Take them off, Barnes."

That's all I need.

I crouch in front of her, hands sliding down her thighs, and begin peeling her leggings off inch by inch, slow, like I'm unwrapping something I don't deserve to touch but can't resist. The material clings to her skin before giving way, revealing more and more of her bare legs—toned, scarred, goddamn perfect.

I swear under my breath as I reach her ankles and pull them the rest of the way off. My hands trail back up, deliberate and reverent, stopping just beneath the sliver of red fabric she's wearing underneath.

She's already wet. I can smell it. And fuck me, I've never wanted anything more than to taste her.

Her breath hitches when I glance up at her from between her legs. She's half-naked, shirt still on, hair wild, lips swollen from kissing—and the most dangerous thing I've ever laid eyes on.

"Lie back," I murmur, voice low and tight with need. "Now."

She does, slowly, without a word.

And I follow.

She lies back like she's daring me to break her.

One arm draped across her stomach, the other curled into the sheets. Her legs are slightly parted, not wide—never that easy—but just enough to tempt me. To test me. Like always.

The shirt's still on, but I don't care. I like it that way. Like this is something neither of us meant to happen, something violent and desperate we're both trying and failing to pretend we can walk away from after.

I run my hands up the inside of her thighs, slow and deliberate. Her skin's warm, twitching under my touch, but she doesn't move. Doesn't close her legs. Doesn't look away.

Her breath shudders out of her when my thumbs hook under the red lace of her panties.

"You're soaked," I murmur, almost more to myself than her.

Emris's jaw flexes like she wants to say something cutting, but her throat bobs instead.

She's trying to pretend she's not shaking.

Good.

I slide her panties down, eyes locked on hers the whole time. I want her to feel exposed. Seen. Because I know how much she hates it.

But I also know—deep down in my bones—she wants me to see her. The real her. Raw and wrecked and ruined.

By me.

Jesus, I'm fucking high. I've wanted this for so long, and I finally have her, legs spread on the bed, body begging for me.

I haven't done anything like this since the '40s. But that doesn't mean I forgot how to please a woman.

Her thighs tense when I settle between them, hands bracing just above her knees, spreading her open for me. She's glistening, flushed, already breathing hard. Like she's been waiting for this as long as I have.

And maybe she has.

"Last chance," I murmur, voice hoarse as I lean in. My lips brush the inside of her thigh, just enough to make her jerk. "Tell me to stop."

She meets my eyes. Her voice is low, broken, but sure.

"Don't you fucking dare."

So I don't.

I press my mouth to her perfect pussy like I've been starving for her.

Because I have.

I suck on her clit first, stretching it into my mouth and going back in again and again, making her squirm and desperate to come. I lick her up and down, swirling my tongue around over her nub and getting drunk on her scent and taste.

She gasps, one hand shooting to the back of my head, fingers curling tight in my hair. She tries to stay quiet, but I know her now—I know the tiny breathy moans she bites back, the twitch in her stomach when I suck just right, the way her hips roll once, twice, before she tries to lock them still.

I press her open, tongue swirling over her in patterns that make her shake and writhe beneath me. I know exactly what I'm doing—haven't forgotten how to ruin a woman, even after everything.

After a minute, I lose control, though, and I'm kissing and nibbling her everywhere. I curve my arm under her thigh and grip it for support as I feed off her, doing it as much for me as for her. Her back arches off the bed when I flick her with my tongue, and she moans.

I pin her thighs to the bed, tongue slow and relentless, savoring every reaction I pull from her. She tastes like sin. Like salvation. Like the end of me.

"Bucky—" she breathes, voice ragged, strained.

My name in her mouth sounds like surrender.

God, I'm drunk on her. I could die here and call it peace.

I hum against her, and she jolts, cursing, grinding down against my face. I let her. Let her take what she needs, what we both do.

When she finally shatters—writhing, panting, whispering something that might be my name or might be just another curse—I don't stop.

I drag it out of her, again and again, until she's limp beneath me and glaring like she hates how much she needed that.

How much she needed me.

I kiss the inside of her thigh once more. Then look up at her, lips wet, breathing hard.

Her fingers tug me up, and I crawl over her body, kissing every inch of skin I can reach. Her shirt's bunched under her arms now, her breasts exposed, and I dip down to take one into my mouth.

She shudders. "Bucky..."

I feel her heartbeat under my palm, and for a second—just a second—I let myself feel it too.

Right here, in this room, nothing else exists. No missions. No past. No guilt.

Just her.

I brush her hair from her face, and we lock eyes.

There's something in her gaze—need, defiance, vulnerability, all crashing together—and it hits me like a punch to the chest.

I'm falling.

I kiss her. Deep, slow, like I can tell her everything I've been holding in with just my mouth. I curl an arm around her back, anchoring her to me, as my other hand slips to her hip. I want to bury myself in her. Be inside her. Lose everything.

I kiss down her neck, dragging my teeth along her pulse, and she lets out this soft, broken sound that makes my restraint fracture.

"Bucky..." she whispers, almost like she's scared of what comes next.

I don't answer. I just lift her up, her legs wrapped tight around my waist, and carry her out of her room, down the hall to mine. Her mouth doesn't leave me once, and I almost lose it right there—because nothing, nothing, has ever felt this good.

I kick the door shut behind us and drop her onto the bed. She tries to pull me back in, but I hold back for just a second, taking her in—hair tangled, cheeks flushed, lips kiss-bruised.

Mine. Just for tonight.

I lock the door. Step closer. She watches me like she's trying to memorize every move.

I kick off my boots and slide the rest of my clothes off, standing up straight again. I look down at her, but her eyes have lowered to something else, her breathing growing shallow. I feel a smile tug at the corners of my mouth.

She reaches for me again, but I tease her—hovering, smirking, until she growls in frustration. That sound? It nearly finishes me.

I push her back and kiss her hard, pinning her to the bed with my body. I settle between her thighs, grip her hip, and line us up.

"Pull up your shirt for me, princess," I murmur, lips brushing hers.

She does it without hesitation, breath hitching as I kiss her again, trailing my mouth down until I'm kissing the swell of her chest.

Her legs fall open beneath me, and I can feel the heat of her as I press in, the head of my cock finding her entrance like we were made for each other.

Slipping my hand under her, I grip her ass and press our bodies together, the world spinning behind my closed eyes. Having her under me, skin on skin... my cock is so hard, I can't take it.

I pause. "Try to be quiet," I whisper, teasing her. "Wouldn't want Sam barging in."

"Yes," she purrs, "Sergeant Barnes."

Reaching down, I hold her eyes as I fit my tip at her entrance, and then I grab hold of her hip and thrust inside of her, immediately overcome with the feel of her and my body shaking.

She arches her neck back and closes her eyes, moaning, and her breasts bounce with the movement.

"Oh, fuck, fuck..." she cries. "James..."

"I know, doll." She feels so good.

We both groan at the same time. Her walls clench around me, and everything else disappears.

I thrust again and she clutches my waist to hang on as I slowly pick up the pace, sinking deeper inside her and mesmerized by her body underneath me. I dip down, sucking on her breast as she moans and whimpers.

I move slowly at first, dragging it out, watching every reaction. Her eyes flutter closed, her lips parting in soft moans, her nails raking down my back.

Coming back up, I kiss her mouth, and she does that thing where she licks my tongue, and I'm spiraling.

I thrust deeper. Harder. I kiss her again and again, our bodies crashing together until we're both breathing like we've run a marathon.

"Right there," she pants. "God, yes..."

"Emris, fuck," I breathe out, thrusting faster and harder until the only thing I hear is our bodies coming together.

Her moans fill the room, growing louder, and I kiss her, muffing the noise as she comes apart again, her pussy tightening around my cock as she orgasms.

Her body tightens, and she shatters around me.

I look up and see us in the dresser mirror, turned on by the sight of her legs around me. She follows my gaze, mischief flashing in her eyes.

She leans up, whispering in my ear, "I want to see."

I wrap my arm around her waist and flip us over so she's on top.

I grab her hips just so I can feel her body move as she takes me on. She stares down into my eyes, her hips rolling, her stomach waving, and her ass jutting in and out as she rides me.

Then she looks up, an instant curve to her lips, telling me she likes what she sees in the mirror.

"You're so tight," I groan.

She puts her hands on my chest and digs in, baring her teeth and breathing hard as she fucks me faster.

"Yes," she breathes out, her eyes falling closed. "Bucky-"

I grab her ass and arch up, taking a nipple in my mouth again, sucking and tugging and then moving to the next one in a frenzy.

She leans into me, never slowing her pace, and I can feel the sweat gliding down the small of her back.

I suck in air through my teeth, my muscles tensing, and I'm close. I flip her back over, hungry to be in control again, and her head falls at the side of the bed, too close to the bedside table. I grab the edge of it and whip it away, sending it toppling over, lamp and everything crashing to the floor.

She whimpers and kisses me, caught up in the madness of the moment, too.

"Don't stop," she pants. "Don't stop. I'm gonna come again." I press my forehead to hers, both of us damn near hyperventilating as I thrust over and over again.

"Oh, fuck," she cries. "Right there. Yeah..."

My muscles are burning, my head is spinning, but I don't break pace, because if I fucking die right now, this is how I want to go out.

"Mm," she moans, her body tensing and her breathing shaking.

She falls silent and then... she throws her head back and cries out. "Oh fuck, James!"

I follow—thrusting harder until I break, groaning her name as the pleasure overtakes everything, the way she said my name absolutely devouring my thoughts.

We stay like that for a while, tangled up, breathless.

And when I look down, her eyes are open. Watching me. A little dazed. A little amazed.

Like maybe, just maybe, she's falling too.

I brush the hair from her face and kiss her again—gentle, this time.

I know this will ruin me.

But for one night, I let it.

She falls asleep before I do.

Of course she does.

Like she didn't just rip the floor out from under me and leave me drowning in the aftermath. Like I didn't just betray everything I swore I wouldn't feel for her.

Her body's tangled in my sheets, one leg thrown over mine, her cheek pressed into my chest like she belongs there.

She doesn't.

Not in this bed. Not in my arms. Not in whatever the hell just passed between us.

I stare up at the ceiling, jaw clenched so hard it aches.

What the fuck did I just do?

I was supposed to stay away. Keep my head clear. Remember who she is—what she's done. I've bled because of her. Watched her tear through people like they're nothing. She's Hydra and Red Room and Black Lotus stitched into one lethal goddamn ghost. She was there, in my worst memories. Watching. Silent. Cold.

And now she's in my bed, breath soft against my skin, like none of that ever happened.

I should hate her. Hell, I do hate her. Or—I thought I did.

But every time I touch her, see her, I forget how to breathe.

Every time she looks at me like I'm the only one who can see through her mask, I lose track of who the real threat is.

I shift beneath her, and she murmurs something in her sleep, brows drawing faintly. Like, even unconscious, she's still fighting off shadows.

For a second, I don't move.

Just watch her. There's a bruise blooming along her collarbone—probably from me. She doesn't even care. Probably wears it like armor.

God, what is wrong with me?

With a quiet exhale, I slip out from under her, careful not to wake her. She stirs but doesn't open her eyes, just curls instinctively toward the warmth I left behind.

I grab the shirt I wore earlier, tug it gently over her head again. Then, without letting myself think about it too long, I scoop her up into my arms.

Her head falls against my shoulder. She mumbles something that sounds like my name, but I ignore it.

This doesn't mean anything.

Doesn't change anything.

I carry her down the hall, every step echoing louder than it should. The safe house is dark, quiet. Everyone else is asleep—or pretending to be.

When I reach her room, I nudge the door open with my shoulder and lay her down on the bed as gently as I can.

She shifts, arm reaching blindly for something. Maybe me.

I pull the blanket up over her instead.

And I leave.

Not fast, but not slow either.

By the time I'm back in my own room, the sheets are still warm. Her scent is everywhere. Vanilla and lavender. It's the only thing I can smell.

I sit on the edge of the bed, elbows on my knees, and drag both hands through my hair.

I hate that I want her.

I hate that I don't hate her enough.

And worst of all?

I think she knows.