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It’s always a slippery slope trying to push Natasha. To push and get her to crack just a little bit, let go even if just for a second of that perfect mask she has modelled all around herself. Tony tries and has tried since the first day he met her. Needless to say he is the furthest from succeeding but Clint has to admit, he has enjoyed watching him try. Or well, fail. Clint has had many more failed attempts but he also has the odd success. Not that he ever really told anyone. He values his limbs and if the pointed heel digging sharply, a warning, into his ankle is the pointer he believes it to be, he knows to tread carefully now. Still though. It doesn’t even hurt yet, he still has wiggle room. Figuratively and literally speaking.
Smirking into his wine glass (some chilled white stuff. He mourned for a beer but Pepper had insisted) and focusing his eyes back on Thor’s story, the fingers of his left hand slipped just that bit higher, pads stroking over smooth skin and slipping under the hem of Natasha’s skirt. The heel dicks in a little deeper and Clint pinches Natasha’s thigh, lightly, before pushing on. It gets warmer the higher he gets, muscles start jumping minutely under his hands and by now the pressure on his ankle hurts. His eyes flicker to Natasha’s face for a second, trying to gauge her mood. He has no illusions that, if she really didn’t want this he’d already be on the floor bleeding from somewhere unpleasant, but just because she could doesn’t mean he thinks it’s valid to push her to that point. That isn’t what they are about after all.
Natasha has a glass of her own in hand, swirling the content in circles and listening intently. Clint pushes on, can practically feel the material of her panties with the tips of his fingers and -
Fuck, it hurts, she might have broken skin. He flicks in the general direction of her clit once, hides a pout by taking another sip and slowly drags his hand back.
If he didn’t know Natasha as well as he did, he would have thought he’d imagined the satisfied tilt to her mouth when she leisurely drags her heeled foot back from where it had left at least a bruise.
Hey, he had to try.
***
"Tasha, please."
It was hardly more than a breathy whisper, but that was all he managed right that moment.
"Look at me."
Clint bit his lip, breathing heavily through his nose and shaking his head. The gentle pressure on his perineum was immediately replaced by the sharp edge of a manicured nail. Clint’s bucked up hard, tried to twist away but he was still bound.
"Jeez, fuck, Nat," he gasped and looked up at her. Immediately the nail was replaced by the pad of her finger, slowly running up and down between his balls and his hole.
She was perched above him, hair a wild red halo around her head and nipples so dark from where he’d been sucking them before they looked nearly bruised. She had one hand wrapped around his dick, doing hardly more than just holding him while she hovered over him. He could feel how hot she was, how wet from when he’d gotten her off earlier and it was driving him fucking insane that she wouldn’t get going.
"Sorry Clint, but I have to punish you for dinner." She smirked, hips swaying just that bit lower. Clint tried and failed to swallow down the whine and tugged on the bindings to his arms and feet, tried to angle his hips up, tried to get some sort of friction.
"You liked it," he gasped out with a smirk. Yeah he was going to hell, but he also knew it was the truth.
Natasha’s face pulled into something like a disapproving frown for just a second, then she pinched his balls, hard but before he could so much as gasp in pain, she fell down, took him in in one go.
"Fuck!"
He saw fucking stars and they were climax-white and pain-blood red but shit, she needed to move, now.
He whimpered, tried to twist again, to move but she was a fucking stature above him and he knew she was the one smirking now, even with his eyes squeezed shut again.
"I’m sorry…"
He was fucking easy and she knew it. But she was all kinds of tight and hot and perfect around him, grinding her pelvis in the tiniest movements and he really fucking needed to come.
"What was that?" He could hear the triumph in her voice but good god, she clenched around him and he really didn’t fucking care.
"I’m sorry Tasha, so fucking … sorry just … please!"
"Shhhh, baby," she cooed, voice full of hot dripping sex and sprinkled with mockery. "It’ll be okay. If I know you’re going to behave …"
"YES!" There was hardly any breath left in his lungs, only the feeling of her minute movements and the one finger, hand twisted behind her back, that pressed down behind his balls and it was so good, but so not enough.
"Good boy," she murmured, her voice close now and Clint felt the ghost of a kiss to his throat. "Such a good boy."
"Please," he said once more when she remained motionless. He forced his eyes open, saw her watching him, face close to his.
"Come on Nat," he turned his head, teeth nearly scraping the shell of her ear "Fucking ride me."
And there it was, that little bit of the mask slipping. A low growl escaped her throat and in moments, she had her head thrown back, back arched and thighs shaking while she rode him, hard. Took herself high and then took him deep and it was fucking glorious.
And maybe he hadn’t won this time, had played her game and not his but really, why ever the fuck would he want to change anything? Because this was Natasha and in the end, it would always be her rules they played to and if sometimes, in moments like these, she let him see that little bit more of herself, showed him what others couldn’t see, then Clint was nothing if not fucking honoured.