I'm just a girl

It wasn’t the first time you’d sneaked into somewhere you shouldn’t. As an elite S.H.I.E.L.D spy, infiltrating high-security zones was practically your Monday routine. But tonight, you weren't looking for Hydra blueprints or access codes. This time, the objective was far more complex, dangerous, and damn tempting: convincing Captain America himself to walk right into the lion's den with you.

Tony Stark’s lab was officially closed after 9:00 p.m. "Sacred ground," he used to repeat down the hallways in his misunderstood-genius tone. "Don't touch anything, don't look too much, don't breathe near the prototypes." For someone with your reputation—rebellious, unpredictable, and with an alarming resistance to authority—those prohibitions weren't warnings; they were a formal invitation. A flashing neon sign screaming: *enter here*.

And you, of course, weren't going in alone.

"Come on, Steve," you whispered, turning around halfway down the Tower's dimly lit corridor. You stepped closer to him with a feline grace, stopping just inches away from his broad chest. You had that half-smirk plastered on your lips, the one you always wore when you were plotting something that defied common sense. "I just want to show you something. I promise it doesn’t bite."

Steve groaned, his jaw tightening. His blue eyes, usually steady and serene, scanned the hallway looking for any active J.A.R.V.I.S. cameras or any sign that you were joking. He knew perfectly well what you were capable of; he’d been trapped for months in this game of heavy glances, clandestine encounters in the shadows, and electric touches that left him breathless. But Tony's lab was crossing a very clear line.

"It's Stark's lab," he warned in that deep voice meant for the leader of the Avengers, though the slight tremor in his hands gave him away. "We shouldn't be here at this hour. If Tony finds out..."

"You? Worried about breaking Stark's rules?" you said, feigning dramatic indignation as you rested a hand on his chest, feeling his accelerated heartbeat beneath the fabric of his t-shirt. "What happened to the man who defied the entire government for what he believed was right? What happened to the soldier who threw himself on a grenade at Camp? Don't tell me a couple of motion sensors scare you, Captain."

Steve let out a silent laugh, looking down and shaking his head. That damn laugh that you hated because it humanized him way too much, completely disarming the living myth to reveal the man from Brooklyn. God, he was gorgeous when he surrendered.

"You are a dangerous woman, you know that?" he murmured, taking a step forward, closing the distance you had been provoking. "Alright. Ten minutes. Only ten."

When the heavy reinforced glass doors slid shut behind you with a pneumatic hiss, the air in the lab changed completely. It grew different. Denser. Heavy with a magnetic tension that had absolutely nothing to do with the static of the servers or the security systems you had deftly hacked five minutes prior.

The twilight of the workshop was dappled by the glow of holographic screens floating in the air and the blue LED lights of the workstations. You walked among the metallic benches with the innate elegance of a spy who knows her territory, sliding the pads of your fingers over the freezing edges of the consoles. You passed a half-assembled metallic gauntlet from Tony's new armor, then a holographic keyboard... and finally stopped in front of the main table, the largest one, where a latest-generation industrial robotic arm prototype rested.

You turned slowly, leaning your hips against the edge of the metal workstation, crossing your arms and holding his gaze. Steve had stayed a few paces back, standing in the center of the lab with his arms at his sides, looking imposing, massive amid all the technology, but with a rawness in his eyes that took you in from head to toe.

"Have you ever thought about doing something you know perfectly well you shouldn't?" you asked in a whisper, dragging out the words with deliberate provocation.

He didn’t answer with words. The good-boy, Boy Scout facade crumbled in a split second under the blue light of the workshop. Steve took a firm step. Then another. The distance between you vanished before you could even blink. His hands, large and warm, traveled directly to your waist, gripping you with a possessiveness that instantly sent your pulse skyrocketing.

"All the time," he whispered against your lips, his voice broken by weeks of suppressed desire.

And then he kissed you.

It wasn't one of those sweet, tentative kisses from your first hidden encounters in the dark hallways. It was a hungry, demanding kiss, taken without permission and without a shred of guilt. A total collision of lips and tongues that felt like opening a high-pressure valve that had been forced shut for months. You let out a muffled whimper that was lost in his mouth as your hands slid up his neck, tangling in his blonde hair, pulling him even closer to you, if that was even possible.

Steve nudged you back gently, arching your back over the cold metallic surface of the workbench. The contrast between the freezing metal and the scorching heat of his body made you shiver. His hands slid down from your waist to your thighs, squeezing tightly, and with a fluid movement powered by impressive physical strength, he lifted you to sit completely on the edge.

Your legs instinctively wrapped around his waist, pulling him into your center. You could feel every line of his rigid body against yours. Steve broke the kiss only to trail down your jawline, leaving a path of wet kisses and light bites that made you throw your head back, panting his name in the dim light.

"Steve... God, Steve..." you gasped, digging your nails into his well-built shoulders.

"You're going to drive me insane," he replied against your skin, his ragged breath hitting your neck as his hands slid underneath your clothes, seeking direct contact with your burning skin. His fingers were rough, calloused from training, but they touched you with a deliciously desperate urgency.

The space around you seemed to vanish. You were a spy trained to maintain control in any high-risk scenario, but with him, control was an illusion. You let yourself be carried away by the adrenaline of the danger and the pure intensity of the super-soldier. Your body moved in perfect sync with his, seeking to close any remaining gap, getting lost in the friction of clothes, muffled gasps, and the echo of kisses bouncing off the glass walls.

In the midst of the urgency, your hands clawed to rid yourselves of any obstacles, yanking his t-shirt upward while he helped you strip out of yours, letting the garments fall forgotten to the floor among precision tools and digital blueprints. Steve's skin glistened under the dim light, every muscle defined and taut from the effort and passion. When your bodies finally joined completely, the outside world ceased to exist.

You clung to his back, burying your face in his neck to smother the sounds that threatened to escape your throat. Steve moved with a mix of overwhelming strength and a protective tenderness that drove you wild, taking you on the table with an implacable rhythm that made you see stars. His hands planted firmly on either side of your hips to support both of your weights, pushing with total surrender.

It was right at the climax of that blind urgency, when the breathing of both of you was a chorus of erratic gasps, that your hands blindly searched for a point of leverage on the table behind you. Your fingers closed over a manual control panel—a console full of levers and buttons that was clearly not designed to withstand human passions of such caliber. Your weight and Steve's thrust pressed the wrong switches.

ZAP!

A bright spark exploded right behind your head, illuminating the lab for a fraction of a second. A sharp, electrical hum began to wail from the base of the robotic arm beside you. The holographic screens flickered violently, switching from blue to a warning red, before shutting down completely. A thick stream of smoke smelling of burnt wire began to drift out from the inside of the mechanical droid, followed by a metallic crunch as a spring popped out and bounced across the floor.

Steve stopped dead in his tracks, his chest heaving heavily, his blue eyes locked on the smoke rising from the damaged apparatus.

"Was that... normal?" he asked between gasps, a mix of genuine panic and suppressed amusement in his voice, without moving a single inch away from you.

You let out a breathless laugh, throwing your head back against the metal, still catching your breath as you felt his heartbeat thumping against your chest.

"If the lab catches fire, we’ll know it wasn't," you replied with a mischievous smile, tracing his lips with your index finger. "But look on the bright side... at least Stark's insurance covers it."

Steve let out a resigned sigh, resting his forehead against yours as a guilty smile crept onto his face. He knew he was in deep trouble, but looking into your eyes, disheveled and with flush lips, he couldn't care less.

Hours later, the harsh reality of the day after (or rather, the morning after) came knocking. You were in your room at the Tower, dressed in clean clothes, quietly checking the mechanisms of your shock gauntlets and humming a tune. Meanwhile, on the floor below, Steve was trying with all his might to maintain his impeccable Captain posture, though the stubborn blush on his neck completely gave him away to anyone who knew how to look.

Then the intercom buzzed. J.A.R.V.I.S.’s voice, usually serene, had an almost apologetic tone: "The presence of the Agent and Captain Rogers is requested in the main workshop. Mr. Stark... insists."

When the lab doors slid open this time, the vibe wasn't passionate; it was a crime scene. Tony Stark was waiting for you right in the center of the workshop. His arms were crossed over his chest, a coffee mug in one hand, and an expression of absolute disbelief etched onto his face. Behind him, on the workbench that now sported an obvious scorch mark, rested the five-million-dollar robotic arm—completely fried, wires hanging out, and a faint column of grey smoke still lazily drifting toward the exhaust fan.

"Do you have any idea," Tony began, his voice dangerously calm before spiking up three octaves, "how much that robotic arm you ruined costs? FIVE million! Five! And that’s not counting the invaluable hours of my brilliant mind's work that just evaporated!" he yelled, pointing his coffee mug at the smoldering remains of the droid.

Steve stepped forward, snapping into his automatic military stance, lips pressed tight, serious and firm. His back was so straight he looked like he was about to salute the flag.

"I take full responsibility, Tony. It was my—"

"No!" Tony whipped a finger dramatically into the air, cutting him off mid-sentence. "Don't you dare cover for her, Rogers. Don't look at me with those star-spangled puppy eyes! This has her signature written all over it! I know her destructive methods."

"He's not covering for me," you said, stepping forward and crossing your arms with total indifference, enjoying every second of the drama. "I dragged him into it. Literally. He just... went with the flow."

Tony ran his free hand over his face, rubbing his temples as if he were having a live aneurysm right then and there. He looked at the ceiling, then at you, and finally locked his eyes on the Captain.

"Do you know what really breaks my heart, Steve?" Tony asked, using a falsely wounded tone that deserved an Oscar. "You were my good one. My golden rule. My straight line in this group of misfits. The man of unbreakable morals. And now it turns out you’re part of the hormonal chaos destroying my private property in this Tower! She corrupted you!"

Steve lowered his head for the first time in his military history, the crimson rushing up his cheeks all the way to his ears.

"I'm sorry, Tony. We'll pay for the damages if necessary."

"And you," Tony turned to you with narrowed eyes, pointing his finger. "Don't look at me like that, with that damn 'I'd do it again' face. Because I know you perfectly well, and I know you'd do it again tonight if I left you the keys!"

You, maintaining your unbothered spy posture with that rebellious spark gleaming in your eyes, simply flashed him a cheeky wink.

"I was just testing the durability of your materials, Stark. Clearly, they need improvement."

The next evening, the tension migrated from the lab to the communal dining room on the main floor. The massive wooden table was piled high with enough food to feed an army: steaming pizza boxes, giant platters of pasta, garlic bread, and a couple of salads that no one had bothered to touch. The background music played softly, but the atmosphere was strangely charged with a playful energy. Everyone was laughing... way too much. And the glances didn't take long to lock onto the two of you.

You sat down with absolute composure, serving yourself a slice of pepperoni pizza. Beside you, Steve tried to keep his eyes glued to his plate of pasta, eating with a comical rigidity, as if he expected an alarm to go off at any second.

"So..." Clint started, reaching out to grab another slice, with an innocence so forced it was ridiculous. "Did anyone else hear a bizarre short circuit in the lower levels last night? Around eleven. A sharp pop... followed by what I would swear was a whimper."

Bruce, who usually stayed out of the teasing, looked up from his wine glass with a restrained smile, his eyes twinkling behind his glasses.

"I thought it was the Tower's reactor having a technical power glitch," the doctor added in an analytical tone. "But then I went to the kitchen for a glass of water and saw Steve walking down the hall with his t-shirt completely inside out and his laces untied. A statistical anomaly for the Captain."

Peter Parker, who was at the far end of the table, choked spectacularly on his soda, coughing hard as Thor slapped him on the back with enough force to almost face-plant him into the table.

"Is *that* what happened?!" Peter gasped, his eyes wide open and completely red-faced. "I thought... I don't know... that the lab had exploded from an enemy attack or a failed experiment by Mr. Stark!"

Natasha leaned back comfortably in her chair, crossing her legs with that lethal elegance you shared with her. She looked at you sideways, raising a perfect eyebrow while holding her wine glass, wearing a knowing smirk that only another spy of her caliber could understand. She knew exactly how hard it was to soften up the soldier.

"Do you have any idea how hard it is to get Tony to yell at and scold Captain America like he’s a disobedient teenager?" Nat commented, taking a sip of her drink. "Agent, you need a SHIELD Medal of Honor just for achieving that. You broke the system."

Steve looked like he wanted the floor to swallow him whole. He sank a bit lower into his seat, the flush spreading from his neck to the tips of his ears, avoiding the teasing stares of everyone at the table. He was experiencing for the very first time what it was like to be the center of team gossip.

"I'll just say," Sam Wilson chimed in from the other side, gesturing toward Steve with a fork full of pasta and a smirk stretching from ear to ear, "that if starting tomorrow the workshop robots start talking dirty or disobeying Tony's orders, we'll know exactly who corrupted them with their bad habits. You're a bad influence on the youth of this Tower, Cap."

Laughter erupted around the table. Tony, sitting at the head, just muttered things about invoices and a "lack of respect for science" while chewing his food.

You, remaining completely unbothered, with that tough and confident attitude that defined you, took a slow bite of your pizza, savoring the moment just as much as the food. You let the team's laughter die down a bit before speaking, breaking the silence with absolute confidence.

"At least it was worth every penny of those five million," you said, shrugging with a smug smile.

The table erupted into roars of laughter again, with Clint applauding and Nat shaking her head in proud amusement. Steve, beside you, finally looked up from his plate. He shot you a look that was a perfect blend of murderous, embarrassed, and completely surrendered to you. He knew you were a hazard to his discipline, to his reputation, and to Stark's budget.

But when his hand sought yours underneath the wooden table, squeezing your fingers hidden from the rest of the team, you knew the truth. He would do it again. Because for you, even Captain America himself was more than willing to throw the rulebook out the window.

.

.

At nineteen, the world is a canvas with wet paint; a single touch is enough to stain your hands with colors that never wash off. You didn't fully understand what love was back then. To you, love was an abstract concept read in college theater scripts or heard on the vinyl records you inherited from your mother. It was something that happened to other people.

Until the audition that changed everything came along.

The project was a romantic drama with a massive budget and a renowned director. You, a complete nobody who had barely done a couple of commercials, brief appearances in small projects, and a student short film, walked into the audition room with your hands shaking inside your coat pockets.

And there he was.

Chris Evans.

Not the actor on the posters, but the real man, sitting in a folding chair with a ceramic coffee mug between his hands, wearing a grey cotton t-shirt that betrayed his thirty-eight years in the maturity of his shoulders and the light stubble framing his jawline. When you walked through the door, he looked up. It wasn't a condescending look toward a rookie; it was a clean, curious gaze. His blue eyes, which seemed to change with the studio lights, narrowed into a smile before his mouth even moved.

"Hi," he said, and his voice, deep and textured by years of smoke and stage, seemed to occupy the entire room. "Don't be nervous. We're just going to read."

The chemistry wasn't an explosion; it was a slow, absolute sinking. During the chemistry read, Chris stepped closer, following the script's directions, and took your chin between his fingers. Your breath caught—not because of the script, but because of the electric jolt that shot down your spine. He noticed. A tiny spark of amusement and something deeper flashed in his eyes.

Two weeks later, you were signing the contract.

You had landed the role of a lifetime, still unaware that the price to pay wouldn't be calculated in filming hours, but in broken heartbeats. The leading man off-camera ended up becoming the invisible director of your heart.

Filming began during a golden autumn just outside of Boston. The air was cold—the kind that freezes your cheeks but keeps you wide awake—and fallen leaves crunched under your boots as you walked toward the set.

"You have a talent that's going to take you very far," Chris told you one afternoon.

They were on set, waiting for the lighting crew to readjust the reflectors for the final shot of the day. The golden light of the magic hour filtered through the high windows of the abandoned studio they used as a location, suspending dust motes in the air like stardust. Chris was leaning against a wooden table, watching you with an intensity that always left you defenseless.

A blush crept onto your cheeks as you looked down at the worn script clutched against your chest.

"I'm just trying not to ruin your scene," you whispered, trying to sound playful.

Chris let out a short laugh, a raspy, honest sound that you absolutely loved.

He took a step closer, invading that personal space that was already beginning to feel more his than anyone else's.

"You couldn't ruin it even if you tried. You have something... a truth that takes many actors decades to find. Don't lose it."

Rehearsals would stretch on for hours, often at Chris's suggestion, as he insisted they needed to "polish the scenes." Work conversations shifted imperceptibly into midnight confessions. You would find yourselves trapped in dressing rooms, sharing takeout; he would talk about his fears of plateauing in the industry, of the overwhelming loneliness that fame sometimes brought, and you would tell him about your childhood, your notebooks filled with writings that no one ever read, and how small you felt in such a big world.

Inside jokes arose that no one else on set understood, muffled laughs when the director grew hysterical, and accidental brushes—a graze of fingers while passing a water bottle, Chris's hand on the lower part of your back to guide you through the crew. Subtle caresses that left a trail of electricity burning your skin for hours.

By the time the third week of filming wrapped, you were already too close to turn back. The abyss was right in front of you, and both of you jumped with your eyes closed.

In the beginning, everything was pure magic, a dazzling blur that blinded any trace of doubt. It was the kind of love that made you believe the laws of physics and society didn't apply to you.

Since you were both single, there was no legal or moral obstacle, but the industry was a monster hungry for narratives. Chris, who had already been through the media ringer multiple times, was clear from the start:

"We have to protect this. If those wolves smell blood, they’ll destroy what we have before it even gets a chance to bloom."

And so, the secret trips began. Chris would drive you in his car to coastal towns in Massachusetts where nobody knew you. He drove with one hand on the wheel and the other intertwined with yours over the center console, singing along to seventies classic rock songs that you barely recognized but learned to love just because of the way he smiled while singing them. You checked into small motels under fake names, wearing baseball caps and dark sunglasses.

You remembered with a painful sharpness one night in a rented cabin in Maine. The winter wind battered the wooden windows, and there was no TV. Chris had brought a small portable projector and beamed black-and-white movies directly onto the white plaster wall. You were curled up on the floor, sharing a heavy wool blanket that smelled of pine and his woody cologne. You leaned against his chest, listening to the steady thumping of his heart, feeling like the most protected woman on earth.

He looked at you as if he had never encountered anyone so fascinating before, brushing strands of hair away from your face with a tenderness that made you want to cry. You admired him with the blind devotion of a nineteen-year-old; to you, he was the sun, and you were just a lucky planet catching his warmth.

The pinnacle of that innocence happened during Thanksgiving break. Chris invited you to his family home on the outskirts of Boston. It was a quick, almost impulsive trip. You were terrified; the thought of meeting a Hollywood superstar’s mother made your stomach churn. But the moment you stepped into the house, the scent of roasted turkey and pumpkin pie enveloped you.

Chris's mother, a woman with kind eyes and a smile identical to her son's, welcomed you with a genuine hug.

Later that night, while Chris was helping his siblings in the kitchen, you were left alone with her in the living room by the fireplace. The woman watched you in silence for a moment, holding a cup of tea in her hands, and then said softly:

"I’ve never seen him like this with anyone. Chris is usually very private about his life, very protective of his space. But when he looks at you... it’s like the rest of the room disappears. Thank you for bringing him back down to earth."

In that moment, you felt your chest bursting with pride and happiness.

That night, Chris lent you an old wool scarf that smelled of his detergent and his skin. You wore it all the following day, feeling like you belonged to that place, to that family, to that man.

But love, no matter how intense, doesn't always know about timing. And sometimes, two stars collide, shattering each other even while burning at their maximum brightness.

The age gap, which at first seemed like an insignificant detail or even something romantic, began to silently seep through the cracks of the relationship. It wasn't a physical divide, but a divide of realities.

You were just discovering the world; every red carpet, every interview, every photoshoot was an exciting novelty you wanted to scream to the world. You wanted to hold Chris’s hand in public, you wanted to post a blurry photo of your silhouettes on Instagram, you wanted to validate to the universe that this immense love actually existed.

Chris, on the contrary, preferred to keep everything in the shadows.

"It’s not out of shame, babe, really," he explained to you one night, his voice heavy with frustration as you walked through his backyard. "It’s for protection. You have no idea what the press is like. They will tear you apart. They’ll say you’re with the older actor just for fame, they’ll dissect every feature of your face, they’ll invade your privacy. I don’t want you to go through that."

"Protection for me, or protection for your reputation?" you snapped at him once, the doubt planted in your mind by malicious comments from industry people who had already begun to notice the lingering glances between the two of you.

You were starting to feel like you lived on the fringes of a love that deserved the light of day. It felt like a dirty secret, an anomaly that had to be hidden when the cameras turned on or when Chris's industry friends hosted dinners. While he moved with the ease of a man who had already seen it all, you felt like a little girl trying to wear her mother’s high heels, stumbling around in a world that didn't belong to her.

The fights didn't give a warning; they rolled in like sudden storms in a summer sky—the kind that darken the day in a matter of minutes and leave the ground flooded. Filming wrapped, and with physical distance, the emotional breach widened. Chris had to fly to Europe to promote another movie, and you went back to your tiny apartment, dealing with the loneliness and the uncertainty of your career.

The trigger could be any insignificant thing: an unanswered call at three in the morning due to the time difference, a TV interview where the host asked Chris if he was seeing anyone and he, with a practiced, charismatic smile, replied, "No, still single, waiting for the one," while the audience laughed. You watched that clip on your computer, alone in your bed, feeling your stomach twist into a knot.

The arguments became a daily occurrence. Words spoken in low voices, but with sharp intentions meant to wound right where it hurt most.

"Not everything can be like your teenage dreams," he told you once over the phone, his voice sounding tired, exhausted by hours of press junkets and complaints he didn't quite understand. "The real world isn't a romantic comedy. I have responsibilities, contracts, an image to maintain. I can't be calling you every five minutes to reassure you that I love you. You should know that by now."

In that moment, you felt tears burning your eyes, but you swallowed the sob. His condescending tone—that subtle reminder of "I am the experienced adult and you are the immature girl"—infuriated you.

"And you can't keep running away from things just because they feel real," you shot back, gripping the phone so hard your knuckles turned white. "You hide me because you're terrified of the world seeing you vulnerable, or worse, judging you for being with a nineteen-year-old. You're not protecting me, Chris. You're protecting yourself from having to give explanations."

Sometimes, you were too emotional; your feelings were fueled by the insecurity of knowing you were replaceable in an industry overflowing with gorgeous women. Sometimes, he was too cold—a built-up stone wall that no matter how hard you tried, you couldn't tear down.

Pride began to weigh more than the "I miss yous." By the time Chris returned to Los Angeles, the encounters were no longer magical. They were heavy with a thick tension, an elephant in the room that neither wanted to name. You looked at each other and no longer saw the accomplices from the Boston set; you saw your own ghosts. Both of you hurt each other without realizing it, or sometimes, with all the intention in the world, using the secrets you had confided in each other during those Maine nights as weapons to throw.

"Maybe you're just too young to understand what a real relationship requires," he said during your last major argument, a sentence that drove into your chest like an icicle.

"And maybe you're too old to remember what it feels like to love someone without barriers," you spat back before slamming the door.

And one day, just like that... it was over.

There was no grand scene worthy of a movie script. No shouting in the rain, no broken promises against a melodramatic soundtrack. There was only a heavy silence at the end of a phone call that had lasted barely three minutes. Chris said he needed space to think; you said you were tired of waiting.

He didn't call again. You, gathering every ounce of dignity you had left, didn't push.

Days before the final silence settled between the two of you, you had gone to Chris’s house to pick up the few belongings you had left. Before closing the door, you left a small folded note on the coffee table, right next to his scripts. A note that read:

*"Thank you for teaching me that real life can also hurt beautifully."*

It was your last line of dialogue in a movie that would never premiere in theaters.

Now, at twenty-five, you walk the streets of New York. Autumn has once again painted the city in that color that reminds you so much of Boston, and the November wind whips through your hair. You wear dark sunglasses even though the sky is overcast, with wireless earbuds snug in your ears.

A song plays on your device that squeezes your chest, a melody that feels like it was written by extracting the memories straight from your brain: *All Too Well*.

You don’t need to close your eyes to see it all with a terrifying clarity. Time passes, but memory is a temperamental projector that never breaks down.

You still keep that old wool scarf he lent you at that house in Boston tucked away in the back of your closet. You never gave it back, and he never asked for it. Sometimes, on New York's coldest nights, you pull the garment out and bury your face in the fabric. The scent of Chris has long faded, replaced by the smell of storage and your own perfume, but the rustic texture of the wool still holds the power to transport you back to the fireside living room, the pumpkin pie, and his mother's words.

It's all right there, mapped out in your mind in high definition: The muffled laughs in the backseat of the car while the police drove right past without recognizing you. The bitter tears cried over your kitchen counter after seeing another magazine cover. The first "I love you," whispered by Chris against your neck in the dark. And the last time you made love in your apartment, a rainy afternoon where words were no longer enough and your bodies sought each other with a painful desperation, knowing perfectly well—without having to say it out loud—that there was no "after." That you were building a memory while destroying the present.

Sometimes, in the loneliness of your routine, you wonder if he remembers it too.

If Chris, now a forty-four-year-old man, with more grey in his beard and a gaze a bit more tired from the relentless passage of time in Hollywood, ever watches a trailer for your new movies and thinks to himself: *she was absolute fire.*

If he ever, when crossing paths with a nineteen-year-old girl full of hope on a set, feels a twinge of guilt for the way he handled your innocence.

If he listens to a seventies rock song in his car and his mind inevitably drifts back to those Maine nights, where he kissed you as if time didn’t exist and ages were just numbers on a page.

Every detail, every inflection of his voice, every unfulfilled promise is etched in stone.

The lights of Avengers Tower flashed, reflecting off the expensive champagne and the tailored suits of New York's elite. Tony Stark had spared no expense. Officially, it was a charity gala to attract investors and philanthropists; unofficially, it was the ultimate victory party after the team's latest and most grueling battle.

As Tony's new assistant, she should have been checking the guest list or making sure reporters didn't wander past the designated media zone. Instead, she was hidden behind a marble column, her heart hammering in her throat, watching the man who had been stealing her sleep since the first day she stepped into the compound.

There you were, staring right at him. Steve Rogers looked unreal. His usual uniform had been replaced by a black tuxedo that fit his broad shoulders to perfection. He was chatting with a group of diplomats, smiling with that polite, old-fashioned charm that defined him.

She let out a heavy sigh, tightening her fingers around her glass. *“Just another friend.”* That’s what she was to him, and you knew it all too well. The nice girl who helped him set up his tablet, the one who brewed his coffee when he stayed late in the gym, the one who listened to his stories about the 1940s with genuine fascination. Steve was incredibly sweet to her, but he always maintained that invisible line of respect and camaraderie.

But she was sick of that line. She wanted to cross it, set it on fire, and watch it burn. Your determination that night was absolute.

"If you keep staring at him like that, you're going to burn a hole through his jacket with your mind, *kiddo*," a drawling, amused voice interrupted your thoughts.

She startled, nearly spilling her drink. Natasha Romanoff appeared at her side, looking spectacular in an emerald green gown. The spy gave her a knowing smirk, crossing her arms.

"I don't know what you're talking about," she tried to lie, her cheeks flushing as you tried to maintain your composure.

"Please. I'm a spy. And besides, Tony is blind to a lot of things, but I'm not." Natasha took a sip from her glass. "I know exactly why you spent the last two weeks sneaking into my room, asking for advice on 'the classic tastes of men from another era.'"

She gave up, letting her shoulders drop. You remembered the exact desperation that had driven her to Natasha a week ago. She was tired of the platonic glances, of the "good morning" greetings that sounded entirely too brotherly. She needed an impact, something to erase the idea from Steve's mind that she was just his teammate's sweet assistant.

Natasha, who knew Steve better than anyone, had laughed at first, but then her eyes flashed with that competitive, mischievous spark. She gave you precise advice: *“Steve is a textured man, the kind who appreciates quiet but lethal details. And he is painfully slow to notice when a woman is interested. You have to be explicit, but with class.”*

That was where they found the secret weapon. *The dress.*

She looked down, contemplating the fabric that now hugged her body. I assure you, you looked stunning. It was a piece of liquid silk in a deep wine hue, almost black under the shadows, but flashing with a dangerous shimmer under the party lights. It was sleeveless; the back was completely bare down to the base of her spine, held up only by imperceptible straps that crossed in a delicate design. It clung to her waist and fell to the floor with a free-flowing drape that shifted with her every step, revealing a high slit on her left leg. It was elegant, but eminently magnetic.

"You did a good job," Natasha murmured, snapping her out of her memories. "That dress was designed for sin. Now, go and make Captain America forget his last-century manners. I'll make sure Tony doesn't look for you for the next hour."

With a wink and an encouraging pat, Natasha vanished into the crowd, leaving you alone with your target.

She took a deep breath. The lyrics of the song that had been trapped in your head for days echoed in her mind like a private mantra: *I don't want you like a best friend. Only bought this dress so you could take it off.*

It was time to make a move.

----

She walked with a firm step toward the group where Steve was standing. With every movement, the silk brushed against her thighs, giving her a jolt of confidence that you channeled into every stride. When she was just a few paces away, Steve politely excused himself from the diplomats and turned around.

Catching sight of her, Captain America froze. His blue eyes, usually calm, widened slightly as they took a slow, almost involuntary journey from her heels, up the slit of her skirt, detailing the curve of her waist, until they met her gaze. For a fraction of a second, you managed to make the unshakeable soldier facade crack completely.

"Wow…" his voice sounded a bit deeper than usual. "You look… you look incredible. Truly beautiful."

"Thank you, Steve," she smiled, tilting her head slightly, allowing a strand of her hair to fall over her exposed shoulder. "You don't look so bad yourself. The tuxedo suits you much better than combat gear."

Steve rubbed the back of his neck, an oddly boyish gesture that betrayed his nerves in your presence.

"Yeah, well, Tony insisted. He says the public needs to see we don't just wear vibranium. How is the organizing going? Isn't he driving you crazy?"

She took another step closer to him, closing the standard social distance. She could smell his cologne: notes of wood, leather, and something purely masculine that made her vibrate inside, igniting your own desires.

"Tony is always a mess, but tonight I've decided to stop being his assistant for a few hours," she said, locking her eyes onto his. "Tonight, I want to focus on other things. Or other people."

Steve blinked, nodding slowly with an innocent smile that almost made you lose your patience.

"That seems fair. You deserve a break. If you want, I can grab you something to eat—the buffet in the corner has some excellent appetizers."

She suppressed a laugh mixed with frustration. You thought about what Natasha said: *he really is dense.*

"I'm not hungry for food, Steve," she replied, lowering her voice to a seductive whisper as she reached out. With the tips of her fingers, she adjusted the lapel of his tuxedo. The contact was brief, but she felt the muscles of Steve's chest tighten beneath the fabric as he felt your touch. "But I would take a drink."

"Right, of course," he said immediately, turning toward the bar. "I'll go get it."

She watched his broad back as he walked away. You knew it was going to be a long night, and that you were going to have to be much more direct if you wanted to break down the boy scout's defenses.

----

Half an hour later, the music at the gala shifted to a slower rhythm, a smooth jazz that invited intimacy. Steve had returned with the drinks and stayed by her side, subtly turning down several heiresses who tried to ask him to dance. He preferred to stay right there, talking with her about recent movies he was still trying to understand.

However, she wasn't about to let the conversation stay in safe territory, and you were ready for the next step.

"This music is perfect," she commented, setting her empty glass down on a nearby table. "Let's dance, Steve."

He smiled timidly, looking toward the floor where a few couples were already moving.

"I don't know. I'm a bit old-fashioned for these modern rhythms, and my 1940s steps don't really fit in here. I wouldn't want to step on your dress. It would be a shame to ruin something so beautiful."

"Take a risk," she insisted, taking him by the hand.

Steve's palm was large, warm, and calloused from training. Feeling her grip, the supersoldier's eyes locked onto hers. Without giving him time to protest, she guided him toward the dim shadows of the dance floor, far from the bright center where Tony was monopolizing the cameras.

When they stopped, Steve placed a hand with extreme shyness on her waist. As he made contact, his fingers directly touched the bare skin of her lower back, due to the deep plunge of the dress you had chosen with such intent.

Steve gave an imperceptible jolt. His eyes went wide as he felt the softness and warmth of her skin beneath his hand. He tried to readjust his posture, moving his hand up toward her shoulder blade to be more gentlemanly, but she didn't let him. She took a step forward, pressing her body against his. Her breasts brushed against Steve's firm chest, and with deliberate slowness, she tangled her arms around the Captain's neck.

"You're very close," Steve murmured, his breathing altering slightly.

"Does it bother you?" she asked, looking up at him with parted lips, challenging him with her gaze.

"No, it's not that. It's just… people are watching, and I don't want anyone to think something that disrespects you."

She let out a soft laugh, a sound that vibrated directly against Steve's chest. She leaned in a bit closer, resting her chin near his ear. The brush of her lips against Steve's jawline made him catch his breath. I assure you, you had him cornered.

"Steve, you're a brilliant soldier, but a terrible detective," she whispered, letting her hand stroke the hairs at the nape of his neck. "I didn't buy this dress to impress Tony's guests. I don't care what people think."

Steve tensed, stopping his dance steps entirely. The music kept playing around them, but for the two of you, the world had shrunk to this exact space. His hands on her back tightened with a bit more firmness, a purely instinctive reaction.

"What do you mean?" he asked, his voice turning suspiciously husky. Steve's pupils were dilated, devouring the features of her face.

"I mean I'm tired of being just your friend, Steve. Of being the good girl who helps you with technology. I bought this dress with only one purpose." She pulled back just enough to look him in the eye, with an intensity that made him falter. "I wanted you to look at me the way you are right now. And I wanted you to want to take it off."

A heavy, electrically charged silence exploded between them. Steve looked at her, processing the words. Captain America, the man who led armies, seemed completely disarmed by her and her silk dress. His gaze dropped to her lips, and for the first time, there was no shyness in his eyes, but a flash of an old, hungry fire. You had won the first battle.

"Don't play with me," his voice was a low growl, a warning. "I'm not the kind of man who takes these things lightly."

"Neither am I, Steve. That's why I waited so long."

Steve glanced around quickly. The party was still going, but the air between you was no longer fit for a public place. Without another word, he took her firmly by the wrist—not to hurt her, but to secure her—and guided her off the dance floor, straight toward the tower's private elevators.

----

The ride up in the elevator was an agony of sexual tension. Neither spoke. Steve stood with his back straight, but his eyes never left her. His breathing was heavy, and the veins in his forearms stood out beneath his rolled-up tuxedo sleeves. She, for her part, leaned against the glass wall, holding his gaze, deliberately licking her lips to tempt him even more.

When the elevator reached the floor of Steve's private quarters, the doors had barely slid open before he took her by the hand, pulling her down the hallway to his bedroom. They walked in, and Steve slammed the door shut, turning the lock.

The dimness of the room was illuminated only by the city lights filtering through the large window. You had made it to his territory.

Steve turned to face her. The boy scout was gone. The tuxedo was still on, but his posture was that of a man who had finally decided to claim what he wanted. He stepped toward her with slow, predatory strides.

"Are you sure about this?" he asked, stopping inches from her. His voice was pure gravel. "Because if I take one more step, there's no turning back. I won't be able to go back to just being your friend."

"God, Steve, shut up and kiss me already," she pleaded, closing the final distance.

Steve didn't make her repeat it.

His large hands flew to her cheeks, cupping her face with a mixture of desperation and possessiveness, and his lips crashed against hers. It was a hungry, deep kiss that made her legs go weak. Steve held her by the waist, pressing her against his body with a strength that reminded her of a supersoldier's power.

She groaned into his mouth, tangling her hands in Steve's blonde hair, pulling slightly to deepen the kiss. Steve's mouth moved with urgency, devouring her, exploring her with his tongue with an intensity that would have left you breathless.

The Captain broke the kiss only to slide down her jawline, leaving a trail of wet kisses and soft bites that made her arch her back. His large hands traveled down the exposed skin of her back again, caressing every vertebra, making her shiver under his control.

"This damn dress," Steve growled against her neck, his hot breath sending goosebumps over her skin. "I've been holding back all night. Watching you move in it… seeing how everyone looked at you. I almost went crazy."

"I told you," she gasped, as Steve's hands slipped down to her thighs, finding the slit of the dress to caress the bare skin of her legs. "I only bought it for you."

Steve lifted her up in the air without the slightest effort. She let out a small gasp of surprise that dissolved into a sigh as her legs instinctively wrapped around his waist. I assure you, at that moment, you were completely in control of the situation. Steve carried her to the large bed, depositing her onto the dark sheets with a gentleness that contrasted with the fire in his eyes.

He hovered over her, supporting his weight on his forearms, looking down at her. He shed his tuxedo jacket with a swift motion, tossing it to the floor, followed by his tie. He unbuttoned the first few buttons of his white shirt, revealing the base of his muscular chest and collarbone.

She stretched her hands out, tracing the muscles of his arms, feeling the heat radiating from his body toward yours.

"Take it off," she requested in a whisper, looking at the dress.

Steve smirked, a dark, sensual smile she had never seen on him before.

"With pleasure."

His large hands moved toward the thin straps crossing her back. With deft fingers that trembled slightly with desire, he slid the first strap off her shoulder, then the other. The liquid silk began to give way, sliding down her chest.

Steve took his time, savoring the moment you had envisioned. He slid the fabric down slowly, letting his eyes appreciate every inch of skin left bare. When the dress pooled around her hips, Steve let out a ragged breath.

"You're perfect," he murmured, his voice heavy with reverence.

He leaned down to kiss her breasts, his lips moving with a devotion that made her bury her nails into his broad shoulders. Every touch from Steve was firm, confident, commanding. The contrast between his usual gentlemanly nature and the fierce passion with which he claimed her in bed was driving her wild. You were living exactly what you had wanted.

"Steve… please…" she moaned, moving her hips against him, feeling the hard evidence of his desire through his trousers.

Steve came back up, catching her lips in a scorching kiss as his hands moved to rid her of what remained of the dress and strip out of his own clothes. Moving with an urgency that could no longer be repressed, he discarded the barriers separating them.

When their skin joined completely, the heat in the room became suffocating. Steve looked into her eyes, lacing his fingers with hers against the mattress, pinning her beneath his body so you could feel all his strength.

"Look at me," he requested, his breath hitching, his blue eyes burning in the dim light.

She looked at him, completely surrendered, her heart beating wildly.

Steve drove forward, sinking into her with a firm, fluid motion. She let out a loud gasp, hiding her face in Steve's neck as he began to move. The rhythm was slow at first, torturously delicious, each thrust filling her completely and making her lose all sense of time and space.

Steve's hands traveled to her hips, guiding her movements, raising the pace as both of their control slipped away. The sounds in the room dissolved into choked sighs, the friction of slick skin, and her whimpers, which Steve certained to quiet with deep kisses.

The tension began to build rapidly. She felt herself on the precipice of pure pleasure, her muscles tightening around him. Steve noticed; his movements grew faster, deeper, his breathing turning into throaty growls near her ear.

"Steve… you have me…" she managed to articulate, tears of ecstasy pricking her eyes.

"With you. Always with you," he promised, delivering a few final, powerful thrusts that pushed her straight over the edge of satisfaction.

She arched, feeling the wave of the orgasm wash over her, spasms of pure bliss rippling through her body. Seconds later, with a low, muffled roar against her shoulder, Steve followed her, spilling inside her as his entire body went taut, holding her against his chest as if she were the most precious thing in the world.

----

Minutes later, their breathing began to normalize. Steve let himself fall to her side, but he didn't pull away by even an inch. He looped an arm under her shoulders, pulling her into his side. She rested her head on his chest, listening to the still-racing heartbeat beneath, feeling an absolute peace.

Steve used his free hand to smooth her tangled hair, kissing the crown of her head.

"I guess this means we're not just friends anymore," Steve said, a touch of gentle humor in his voice.

She let out a soft laugh, tracing invisible circles on the Captain's chest.

"I hope not. It would be very awkward to help you with your tablet after this."

Steve smiled, turning slightly to look at her. His eyes reflected immense tenderness, but also absolute satisfaction. You knew that everything had changed between you.

"I have to admit I was an idiot for not realizing sooner," he confessed, kissing her forehead. "But I'm glad you were so… persistent. And about that dress…"

She looked up, amused.

"What about the dress?"

Steve glanced sideways at the wine-colored silk garment lying forgotten and crumpled on the floor, the physical proof of your success that night.

"I think it served its purpose perfectly," he said, a playful glint in his eyes. "But honestly… I much prefer how you look without it."

Las luces de la Torre Avengers destellaban reflejándose en el champán caro y en los trajes a la medida de la élite de Nueva York. Tony Stark había tirado la casa por la ventana. Oficialmente, era una gala benéfica para atraer inversionistas y filántropos; extraoficialmente, era la fiesta de victoria definitiva tras la última y más agotadora batalla del equipo.

Como la nueva asistente de Tony, deberias haber estado revisando la lista de invitados o asegurándote de que los reporteros no pasaran de la zona permitida. En cambio, estabas escondida detrás de una columna de mármol, con el corazón latiéndo en la garganta, observando al hombre que te había quitado el sueño desde el primer día que pisaste el complejo.

Steve Rogers lucía irreal. Su uniforme habitual había sido reemplazado por un esmoquin negro que se ajustaba a la perfección a sus hombros anchos. Estaba conversando con un grupo de diplomáticos, sonriendo con esa amabilidad educada y chapada a la antigua que lo caracterizaba.

Soltaste un suspiro pesado, apretando los dedos alrededor de tu copa.

«Una amiga más»

Eso eras para él; la chica simpática que le ayudaba a configurar su tablet, la que le preparaba café cuando se quedaba hasta tarde en el gimnasio, la que escuchaba sus historias de los años cuarenta con genuina fascinación. Steve era increíblemente dulce contigo, pero siempre mantenía esa línea invisible de respeto y compañerismo.

Estabas harta de esa línea. Querías cruzarla, prenderle fuego y verla arder.

—Si sigues mirándolo así, vas a perforarle el saco con la mente—una voz arrastrada y divertida interrumpió tus pensamientos.

En ese momento te sobresaltaste, casi derramando tu bebida. Natasha Romanoff apareció a tu lado, luciendo espectacular en un vestido verde esmeralda. La espía te dedicó una sonrisa de complicidad, cruzándose de brazos.

—No sé de qué hablas —intentaste mentir, sintiendo el calor subir a tus mejillas.

—Por favor, Soy espía. Y además, Tony es ciego para muchas cosas, pero yo no —Natasha le dio un sorbo a su copa—. Sé perfectamente por qué pasaste las últimas dos semanas metida en mi habitación pidiéndome consejos sobre "los gustos clásicos de los hombres de otra época".

Te rendiste, dejando caer los hombros.

Recordaste la desesperación que te había llevado a acudir a Natasha una semana atrás. Estabas cansada de las miradas platónicas, de los "buenos días" que sonaban demasiado fraternales. Necesitabas un impacto, algo que le borrara a Steve la idea de que eras solo la dulce asistente de su compañero de equipo.

Natasha, que conocía a Steve mejor que nadie, se había reído al principio, pero luego sus ojos brillaron con esa chispa competitiva y traviesa.

—Steve es un hombre sencillo, de los que aprecian los detalles silenciosos pero letales— te había dicho antes de arrastrarte a una boutique secreta. —Y es dolorosamente lento para notar cuando una mujer está interesada. Tienes que ser explícita, pero con clase—.

Fue allí donde lo encontraron. *El vestido*.

Tu mirada fue hacia abajo, contemplando la tela que ahora abrazaba tu cuerpo; Era una pieza de seda en un tono vino profundo, casi negro bajo las sombras, pero que destellaba con un brillo peligroso bajo las luces de la fiesta. No tenía mangas y la espalda estaba completamente descubierta hasta la base de la columna, sostenida únicamente por tirantes imperceptibles que se cruzaban en un diseño delicado. Se ceñía a tu cintura y caía hasta el suelo con una caída libre que se movía con cada uno de tus pasos, revelando una abertura pronunciada en la pierna izquierda. Era elegante, pero eminentemente magnético.

—Hiciste un buen trabajo —murmuró Natasha, sacándote de sus recuerdos—. Ese vestido fue diseñado para pecar. Ahora, ve y haz que el Capitán América olvide sus modales del siglo pasado. Yo me encargo de que Tony no te busque por la próxima hora.

Con un guiño y una palmada de aliento, Natasha se perdió entre la multitud.

Respiraste hondo.

La letra de la canción que había estado atrapada en tu cabeza durante días volvió a resonar en tu mente como un mantra privado: "I don't want you like a best friend. Only bought this dress so you could take it off" (No te quiero como un mejor amigo. Solo compré este vestido para que me lo quites).

Era el momento.

-----

Caminaste con paso firme hacia el grupo donde estaba Steve. Con cada movimiento, la seda rozaba tus muslos, dándote una inyección de confianza. Cuando estuviste a unos pasos, Steve se despidió cortésmente de los diplomáticos y se giró.

Al verte, el Capitán América se quedó de piedra. Sus ojos azules, habitualmente tranquilos, se agrandaron ligeramente mientras hacían un recorrido lento, casi involuntario, desde tus tacones, subiendo por la abertura de la falda, detallando la curva de tu cintura, hasta encontrarse con tu mirada. Por una fracción de segundo, la fachada de soldado imperturbable se agrietó.

—Vaya. Te ves… estás increíble. Realmente hermosa.

—Gracias, Steve —Sonreíste, inclinando ligeramente la cabeza, permitiendo que un mechón de tu cabello cayera sobre su hombro expuesto—. Tú tampoco te quedas atrás. El esmoquin te sienta mucho mejor que el uniforme de combate.

Steve se frotó la nuca, un gesto extrañamente juvenil que delataba sus nervios.

—Sí, bueno, Tony insistió. Dice que el público necesita ver que no solo usamos trajes de combate. ¿Cómo va la organización? ¿No te está volviendo loca?

Diste un paso más hacia él, acortando la distancia social estándar. Pudiste oler su loción: notas de madera, cuero y algo puramente masculino que te hizo vibrar por dentro.

—Tony siempre es un caos, pero esta noche he decidido dejar de ser su asistente por unas horas —dijiste, clavando tus ojos en los de él—. Esta noche quiero concentrarme en otras cosas. O en otras personas.

Steve parpadeó, asintiendo lentamente, con una sonrisa inocente.

—Me parece justo. Te mereces un descanso. Si quieres, puedo ir a buscarte algo de comer, el buffet tiene unos bocadillos excelentes.

Contuviste una risa mezclada con frustración; Natasha no mentía... Era realmente denso.

—No tengo hambre de comida, Steve —respondiste, bajando el tono de voz a un susurro seductor mientras extendias la mano y con la punta de los dedos, acomodabas la solapa de su esmoquin. El contacto fue breve, pero percibiste cómo los músculos del pecho de Steve se tensaban bajo la tela—. Pero te aceptaría una copa.

—Claro, por supuesto —dijo él de inmediato, girándose hacia la barra—. Iré por ella.

Mantuviste la mirada en su espalda ancha mientras se alejaba. La noche iba a ser larga, y tú tendrías que ser mucho más directa si querías derribar las defensas del boy scout.

----

Media hora más tarde, la música de la gala cambió a un ritmo más lento, un jazz suave que invitaba a la intimidad. Steve había regresado con las bebidas y se había quedado a tu lado, rechazando sutilmente a varias herederas que intentaban sacarlo a bailar. Prefería quedarse allí, conversando contigo sobre películas recientes que aún intentaba comprender.

Sin embargo, no estabas dispuesta a dejar que la conversación se mantuviera en terreno seguro.

—Esta música es perfecta —Con un comentario dejaste tu copa vacía en una mesa cercana—. Vamos a bailar, Steve.

Él sonrió con timidez, mirando hacia la pista donde algunas parejas ya se movían.

—No lo sé. Soy un poco antiguo para estos ritmos modernos, y mis pasos de los cuarenta no encajan muy bien aquí. No querrás que te pise el vestido. Sería una lástima arruinar algo tan bonito.

—Arriésgate —insististe, tomándolo de la mano.

La palma de Steve era grande, cálida y áspera debido al entrenamiento. Al sentir tu agarre, los ojos del supersoldado se fijaron en los propios y sin darle tiempo a protestar, lo guiaste hacia la penumbra de la pista de baile, lejos del centro brillante donde Tony acaparaba la atención de las cámaras.

Cuando se detuvieron, Steve colocó una mano con extrema timidez en tu cintura. Al hacer el contacto, sus dedos tocaron directamente la piel desnuda de tu espalda baja debido al pronunciado escote del vestido.

Steve dio un respingo imperceptible. Sus ojos se abrieron de par en par al sentir la suavidad y el calor de tu propia piel bajo su mano. Intentó reajustar su postura, subiendo la mano hacia el omóplato para ser más caballeroso, pero no se lo permitiste.

Con seguridad diste un paso adelante, pegando tu cuerpo a él. Tus pechos rozaron el firme pecho de Steve, y con una lentitud deliberada, enredaste tus brazos alrededor del cuello del Capitán.

—Estás muy cerca —murmuró Steve, su respiración alterándose ligeramente.

—¿Te molesta? —preguntaste, mirándolo desde abajo, con los labios entreabiertos.

—No, no es eso. Es solo que… la gente está mirando, y no quiero que piensen algo que falte a tu respeto.

Una risa suave escapó de tus labios, un sonido que vibró directamente contra el pecho de Steve. Te inclinaste un poco más, apoyando la barbilla cerca de su oído. El roce de tus labios contra la mandíbula de Steve hizo que el hombre contuviera el aliento.

—Steve, eres un soldado brillante, pero un pésimo detective —susurraste, dejando que tu mano acariciara los vellos de la nuca de él—. No compré este vestido para impresionar a los invitados de Tony. No me importa lo que piense la gente.

Steve se tensó, deteniendo sus pasos de baile por completo. La música seguía sonando a su alrededor, pero para ustedes, el mundo se había reducido a ese espacio. Sus manos en tu espalda se cerraron con un poco más de firmeza, una reacción puramente instintiva.

—¿A qué te refieres? —preguntó él, con la voz volviéndose sospechosamente ronca. Las pupilas de Steve estaban dilatadas, devorando las facciones de tu rostro.

—Me refiero a que estoy cansada de ser solo tu amiga, Steve. De ser la chica buena que te ayuda con la tecnología. Compré este vestido con un solo propósito —Te separaste lo justo para mirarlo a los ojos, con una intensidad que lo hizo flaquear—. Quería que me miraras como lo estás haciendo justo ahora. Y quería que desearas quitármelo.

Un silencio denso y cargado de electricidad estalló entre ambos.

Steve te miró, procesando las palabras. El Capitán América, el hombre que lideraba ejércitos, parecía completamente desarmado por una mujer en un vestido de seda. Su mirada bajó a tus labios y por primera vez, no hubo timidez en sus ojos, sino un destello de fuego antiguo y hambriento.

—No juegues conmigo. No soy el tipo de hombre que toma estas cosas a la ligera —su voz fue un gruñido bajo, una advertencia—.

—Yo tampoco, Steve. Por eso esperé tanto.

Steve miró a su alrededor rápidamente. La fiesta continuaba, pero el aire entre ellos ya no era apto para un lugar público.

Sin decir una palabra más, te tomó de la muñeca con firmeza —no para lastimarte, sino para asegurarte— y te guio fuera de la pista de baile, directo hacia los ascensores privados de la torre.

----

El viaje en el ascensor fue un suplicio de tensión sexual. Ninguno habló. Steve se mantenía de pie, con la espalda recta, pero sus ojos no se apartaban de ti. Su respiración era pesada, y la fuerza de sus antebrazos se marcaban bajo las mangas del esmoquin. Tú, por tu parte, te apoyabas contra la pared de cristal, sosteniéndole la mirada, relamiéndote los labios deliberadamente.

Cuando el ascensor llegó al piso de los cuartos privados, las puertas apenas se abrieron y él te tomó de la mano, arrastrándote por el pasillo hasta su habitación. Cuando entraron Steve cerró la puerta de golpe, girando el pestillo.

La penumbra del cuarto solo estaba iluminada por las luces de la ciudad que se filtraban por el gran ventanal.

Steve se giró hacia ti.

Ya no estaba el boy scout.

El esmoquin seguía puesto, pero su postura era la de un hombre que finalmente había decidido reclamar lo que quería, acercandose a ti con pasos lentos y depredadores.

—¿Estás segura de esto? —preguntó, deteniéndose a centímetros de ti. Su voz era grava—. Porque si doy un paso más, no habrá vuelta atrás. No podré volver a ser solo tu amigo.

—Dios, Steve, cállate y bésame de una vez —suplicaste, acortando la distancia.

Steve no te lo hizo repetir.

Sus manos viajaron a tus mejillas, acunando tu rostro con una mezcla de desesperación y posesividad, y sus labios se estrellaron contra los tuyos.

Fue un beso hambriento, profundo, que hizo que se aflojaran tus piernas. Steve te sostuvo por la cintura, pegándote a su cuerpo con una fuerza que te recordó que estabas lidiando con un supersoldado.

Gemiste entre sus labios, enredando las manos en el cabello rubio de Steve, tirando ligeramente de él para profundizar el beso. La boca de Steve se movía con urgencia, devorando, explorando con la lengua con una intensidad que te dejó sin aliento.

El Capitán rompió el beso solo para descender por tu mandíula, dejando un rastro de besos húmedos y mordiscos suaves que hicieron que tu espalda se arqueara.

Sus manos grandes volvieron a bajar por la piel expuesta de tu espalda, acariciando cada vértebra, haciéndote temblar.

—Este maldito vestido —gruñó Steve contra tu cuello, su aliento caliente erizándote la piel—. Llevo toda la noche conteniéndome. Viéndote moverte con él… viendo cómo todos te miraban. Casi me vuelvo loco.

—Te lo dije —jadeaste, mientras las manos de Steve bajaban hasta tus muslos, encontrando la abertura del vestido para acariciar la piel desnuda de tus piernas—. Solo lo compré para ti.

Steve te levantó sin el menor esfuerzo provocando un pequeño grito de sorpresa que se transformó en un suspiro cuando tus piernas se envolvieron instintivamente alrededor de la cintura de él. Steve te llevó hasta la gran cama, depositándote sobre las sábanas oscuras con una delicadeza que contrastaba con el fuego de sus ojos.

Se colocó sobre ti, apoyando su peso en sus antebrazos y mirándote desde arriba se despojó del saco del esmoquin con un movimiento rápido, arrojándolo al suelo seguido de su corbata.

Abrió los primeros botones de su camisa blanca, revelando la base de su pecho musculoso y su clavícula. Estiraste las manos, delineando los músculos de sus brazos, sintiendo el calor irradiar de su cuerpo.

—Quítamelo —pediste en un susurro, mirando el vestido.

Steve sonrió de lado, una sonrisa oscura y sensual que nunca le habías visto.

—Con gusto.

Sus manos grandes se movieron hacia los delgados tirantes que se cruzaban en la espalda. Con dedos hábiles pero temblorosos por el deseo deslizó el primer tirante fuera de su hombro, luego el otro. La seda comenzó a ceder, bajando por tu pecho.

Steve se tomó su tiempo. Deslizó la tela lentamente, permitiendo que sus ojos apreciaran cada centímetro de piel que quedaba al descubierto. Cuando el vestido quedó amontonado alrededor de tus caderas, Steve dejó escapar un suspiro entrecortado.

—Eres perfecta —murmuró, su voz cargada de reverencia.

Se inclinó para besar tus pechos, sus labios moviéndose con una devoción que hizo que enterraras las uñas en sus hombros anchos. Cada caricia de Steve era firme, segura, demandante. El contraste entre su habitual caballerosidad y la fiera pasión con la que te reclamaba en la cama estaba volviendote loca.

—Steve… por favor… —gemiste, moviendo las caderas contra él, sintiendo la dura evidencia de su deseo a través de los pantalones de él.

Steve subió de nuevo, atrapando tus labios en un beso abrasador mientras sus manos bajaban para deshacerse de lo que quedaba del vestido y de su propia ropa.

Moviéndose con una urgencia que ya no podía ser reprimida se deshizo de las barreras que los separaban.

Cuando la piel de ambos se unió por completo, el calor en la habitación se volvió sofocante. Steve te miró a los ojos, entrelazando sus dedos con los tuyos contra el colchón, asegurándote debajo de su cuerpo.

—Mírame —pidió él, con la respiración entrecortada, sus ojos azules encendidos en la penumbra.

Obedeciste, completamente entregada, con el corazón latiendo desbocado.

Steve se impulsó hacia adelante, hundiéndose en ti con un movimiento firme y fluido. Fue entonces que soltaste un gemido alto, escondiendo el rostro en el cuello de Steve mientras él comenzaba a moverse. El ritmo era lento al principio, tortuosamente delicioso, cada estocada llenándote por completo y haciéndote perder la noción del tiempo y del espacio.

Las manos de Steve viajaron a tus caderas, guiando sus movimientos, elevando el ritmo a medida que el control de ambos se desvanecía. Los sonidos en la habitación se redujeron a suspiros ahogados, el roce de la piel húmeda y tus propios gemidos que Steve se encargaba de silenciar con besos profundos.

La tensión comenzó a acumularse rápidamente. Sentías que estabas al borde de un abismo de placer puro, tus músculos tensándose alrededor de él. Steve lo notó; sus movimientos se volvieron más rápidos, más profundos, su respiración convirtiéndose en gruñidos roncos cerca de tu oído.

—Steve… —lograste articular, con las lágrimas del éxtasis asomando en tus ojos.

—Estoy contigo. Siempre contigo —prometió él, dando unas últimas estocadas potentes que te empujaron directo al vacío.

Te arqueaste, sintiendo la ola del orgasmo sobre ti, espasmos de placer puro recorriendo tu cuerpo. Segundos después, con un rugido bajo y ahogado en tu hombro, Steve te siguió, derramándose dentro mientras se tensaba por completo, abrazándote contra su pecho como si fueras lo más valioso del mundo.

----

Minutos más tarde, la respiración de ambos comenzó a normalizarse. Steve se dejó caer a tu lado, pero no se alejó. Pasó un brazo por tus hombros, atrayéndote hacia su costado. Apoyaste la cabeza en su pecho, escuchando los latidos aún acelerados de su corazón.

Steve usó su mano libre para acomodar tu cabello revuelto, besando la coronilla de tu cabeza.

—Supongo que esto significa que ya no somos solo amigos —dijo Steve, con un toque de humor suave en su voz.

Soltaste una pequeña risa, trazando círculos invisibles en el pecho del Capitán.

—Espero que no. Sería muy raro volver a ayudarte con tu tablet después de esto.

Steve sonrió, girándose un poco para mirarte. Sus ojos reflejaban una ternura inmensa, pero también una satisfacción absoluta.

—Tengo que admitir que fui un idiota por no darme cuenta antes —confesó, besando tu frente—. Pero me alegra que hayas sido tan… persistente. Y sobre ese vestido…

Levantaste la mirada, divertida.

—¿Qué pasa con el vestido?

Steve miró de reojo la prenda de seda vino que yacía olvidada y arrugada en el suelo.

—Creo que cumplió su propósito a la perfección —dijo él, con una chispa traviesa en los ojos—. Pero, sinceramente… prefiero mucho más cómo te ves sin él.

----

Sus dedos aún olían a humo —ese tabaco caro que David siempre elegía— cuando volviste a cruzar el umbral del apartamento. No llamaste al timbre; conocías el código de la entrada y la pesadez del silencio que habitaba en el pasillo. Al tocar la puerta de madera oscura, no buscabas una invitación, sino una confirmación de que el hilo que los unía, por más delgado y desgastado que estuviera, aún no se había roto.

David abrió. No llevaba camiseta y el pantalón de chandal colgaba bajo en su cadera. Tenía el aspecto de un hombre que había estado intentando dormir y había fallado estrepitosamente.

—Creí que no ibas a venir esta vez —murmuró.

Su voz era un roce de lija contra terciopelo, ronca por la madrugada y el desuso.

—Creí que tú me ibas a cerrar la puerta —replicaste, entrando sin esperar.

Tu risa sonó hueca, un eco que se perdía en los techos altos del lugar.

Él cerró la puerta a sus espaldas. El "clic" de la cerradura siempre se sentía como el inicio de un juicio en el que ambos eran culpables.

Se habían conocido siete meses atrás en Hollywood Hills. Era una de esas fiestas donde el aire pesaba por el precio de los perfumes y el cinismo de los invitados. David estaba en un rincón de la terraza, observando el horizonte de Los Ángeles con una copa de whisky que parecía ser su único ancla.

Él tenía 32 años y cargaba con el estigma público de un divorcio reciente; su nombre seguía asociado al de otra mujer en los tabloides. Tú, a tus 25, eras la "it-girl" del momento, la promesa que todos querían moldear. Cuando sus ojos se cruzaron entre la multitud de celebridades, hubo una chispa de reconocimiento inmediato: no de éxito, sino de agotamiento.

David te miró con la superioridad cansada de quien ya ha visto cómo termina la película. Tú en cambio lo observaste con el desafío de quien está dispuesta a quemar el guion.

—Llegas tarde al juego— Te dijo él esa noche, refiriéndose a la industria.

—Y tú parece que ya te quieres ir —respondiste, robándole un sorbo a su copa.

Desde entonces, no hubo promesas. No hubo cenas a la luz de las velas ni presentaciones oficiales. Solo hubo una búsqueda frenética en habitaciones de hotel de paso y encuentros furtivos en los camerinos de las premieres. La diferencia de edad marcaba un ritmo desigual: él, intentando reconstruir un hogar que ya no existía; tú, tratando de construir una identidad que el mundo intentaba arrebatarte.

—No deberías seguir viniendo. Es un desastre —dijo él, tirando tu chaqueta sobre el sillón de cuero.

Te quitaste los tacones con una lentitud deliberada, sintiendo el frío del suelo bajo tus pies. Lo observaste bajo la luz tenue. David siempre parecía más alto, más imponente y más inalcanzable cuando intentaba echarte.

—Y tú deberías dejar de contestarme. Deberías bloquear mi número y fingir que soy solo otra actriz con la que te cruzaste en un set.

Pero ninguno se movió hacia la salida. El aire entre ambos vibraba con una estática dolorosa. David dio un paso, luego otro, hasta que la distancia se redujo a nada. Sus manos, grandes y seguras, se cerraron sobre tu cintura, atrayéndote con una urgencia que rozaba la desesperación.

El beso no fue dulce. Fue un choque de dientes y lenguas, una lucha por ver quién necesitaba más al otro. Él te alzó, sus dedos enterrándose en tus muslos mientras te presionaba contra la pared. Tus piernas se mantenían en su cintura, buscando el calor que solo él sabía darte, ese que quemaba pero no iluminaba.

—Me vas a volver loca, David —Un susurro contra su cuello, inhalando el aroma a cedro y sudor frío.

—Ya estás hecha un desastre —respondió él, mordiéndo tu labio inferior hasta que el dolor se mezcló con el placer—. Pero Dios, me encanta este desastre.

Más tarde, la luz azulada de la luna se filtraba por los ventanales. Tú estabas hundida entre las sábanas de seda gris, vistiendo únicamente la camisa blanca de David. Te quedaba enorme, las mangas ocultando tus manos, un recordatorio visual de que aún estabas "creciendo" en un mundo que él ya dominaba.

Él estaba sentado en el borde de la cama, encendiendo un cigarrillo. El humo bailaba alrededor de sus hombros anchos.

—¿Por qué duele tanto? —preguntaste, rompiendo el silencio—. Se supone que esto es lo divertido. Sin etiquetas, sin dramas. Solo nosotros.

David exhaló el humo lentamente. Se giró para mirarte y por un segundo pudiste ver al hombre real, no a la estrella de cine. Viste la fatiga de alguien que ha amado y ha perdido, y que ahora tiene miedo de que una chica de 25 años le enseñe que todavía tiene algo que perder.

—Duele porque no estamos jugando. Solo fingimos que lo hacemos para no asustarnos.

Tomaste asiento, dejando que la camisa resbalara por un hombro.

—La gente dice que soy demasiado joven para entenderte. Y que tú estás demasiado roto para cuidarme.

—Tienen razón —asintió él, apagando el cigarrillo—. Soy un egoísta por dejar que te quedes aquí, en medio de mis ruinas. Deberías estar allá afuera, con alguien que no tenga una sombra detrás de los ojos.

Instintivamente gateaste por la cama hasta quedar frente a él y con ternura sujetaste su rostro entre ambas manos pequeñas, obligándolo a sostenerte la mirada.

—No quiero tu versión arreglada, David. No quiero al hombre que sonríe en las alfombras rojas. Si vamos a arder, prefiero hacerlo contigo en este caos.

Él cerró los ojos, derrotado por tu sinceridad, y te tumbó de nuevo sobre el colchón. Esta vez, el contacto fue distinto. Fue crudo, casi sagrado. Hicieron el amor con la desesperación de quienes saben que el amanecer traerá de vuelta la realidad, las llamadas de los agentes y la distancia física.

Cerca de las seis de la mañana te observaste en el espejo del baño, tenías marcas en el cuello, el cabello enredado y los ojos inyectados en sangre por la falta de sueño.

Parecías alguien que acababa de sobrevivir a un naufragio.

David se apoyó en el marco de la puerta, observándo en silencio. El peso de sus 32 años se sentía en la forma en que te miraba: con una mezcla de protección y anhelo.

—¿Vas a quedarte a desayunar? —preguntó, aunque ambos sabían que el desayuno implicaba una domesticidad para la que no estaban listos.

Tus dedos se pasaron por tu pelo mientras le dedicabas una sonrisa triste pero genuina.

—No hoy. Pero sabes que volveré en cuanto el silencio sea demasiado fuerte.

Te calzaste tus tacones, tomaste el bolso y saliste al pasillo, dejando atrás el olor a humo y la promesa implícita de que, mientras estuvieran rotos, siempre tendrían un lugar donde encajar las piezas.

Porque si esto era ser un desastre... al menos era un desastre que solo les pertenecía a ambos.

Te miraste en el espejo del baño del restaurante. El vestido negro se ajustaba a tu cuerpo como una segunda piel, pero la sonrisa que intentabas mantener frente a David se sentía como papel mojado.

David era todo lo que cualquiera podría desear. Guapo, exitoso, con una voz cálida y una paciencia que rayaba en lo santo. Esa noche había llegado puntual, te había abierto la puerta del coche, había pedido el vino que te gustaba y había hecho reír a tus amigas con historias ligeras. Todo era… correcto.

Pero cuando él te tomó la mano sobre la mesa y te rozó los nudillos con el pulgar solo pudiste pensar en otras manos. Más ásperas. Más exigentes.

Manos que te habían sujetado contra la pared de un pasillo oscuro mientras llovía afuera.

—¿Estás bien, amor? —preguntó David suavemente.

—Perfecta —mentiste, y la palabra te supo amarga.

Esa noche, cuando David te besó frente a la puerta de tu departamento, fue un beso dulce, lento, respetuoso. Cerraste los ojos y trataste de sentir algo más que ternura. No lo lograste. Tu cuerpo permanecía frío, distante, como si estuvieras actuando en una escena que no te pertenecía.

---

Los días pasaron, estabas sentada en el asiento del copiloto del coche de David, mirando por la ventanilla cómo las luces de la ciudad pasaban borrosas. Él hablaba de algo sobre su próximo proyecto, con esa voz tranquila y segura que siempre usaba. De vez en cuando te tomaba la mano y te besaba los nudillos. Era dulce. Atento. Perfecto.

Pero tu no estabas allí.

Tú mente volvía una y otra vez al mismo lugar. A él.

A la primera vez que Chris te besó bajo la lluvia. Habían discutido fuera de un bar después de una premiere. Tú le gritaste que era un egoísta, que siempre priorizaba su carrera sobre todo. Él te respondió con la misma furia, pero de repente te tomó por la cintura, te empujó contra la pared mojada y te besó como si el mundo se estuviera acabando. La lluvia caía con fuerza sobre ambos, empapando tu cabello mientras sus bocas se devoraban con desesperación.

Ese beso sabía a rabia, a deseo y a algo mucho más peligroso: amor.

—Te amo —te había dicho él esa noche, con la frente pegada a la tuya, ambos jadeando bajo el aguacero—. Aunque me vuelvas loco, te amo, joder.

Y tú se lo habías dicho de vuelta, entre lágrimas y risas, mientras él te llevaba en brazos hasta su coche.

Recordaste las noches de discusiones; Eran frecuentes y explosivas. Chris tenía un carácter fuerte, y tu no te quedabas atrás.

Una vez, después de una pelea brutal en la que se gritaron de todo, habías intentado irte. Él te detuvo en la puerta, girandote con fuerza y besandote con tanta intensidad que te robó el aliento. La discusión se disolvió en manos ansiosas, ropa arrancada y cuerpos chocando.

Esa noche terminaron en la cama, sudorosos y exhaustos. Chris te había mirado a los ojos mientras se movía dentro, lento y profundo al principio, luego más fuerte, más salvaje.

—Dime que eres mía —te había exigido con voz ronca.

—Soy tuya —respondiste entre gemidos, clavándole las uñas en la espalda—. Siempre he sido tuya.

Luego venían los “te amo”. Infinitos. Susurrados contra tu piel después del sexo, gritados durante las peleas, dichos entre risas cuando estaban calmados. Chris nunca los decía a la ligera. Cuando él lo pronunciaba, era como si le arrancara las palabras del pecho.

Entonces cerraste los ojos con fuerza, sintiendo un nudo en la garganta. Con David todo era diferente: él te decía “te quiero” con ternura, te preparaba el desayuno, te enviaba flores sin motivo. Nunca gritaban. Nunca se perdían el uno en el otro hasta el punto de olvidar dónde terminaba uno y empezaba el otro. Todo era estable. Seguro.

Aburrido.

Esa noche, cuando por fin te quedaste sola, te quitaste los tacones con un suspiro y te dejaste caer en el sofá. El silencio del departamento era ensordecedor. Sacaste el teléfono y, sin pensarlo dos veces, abriste la conversación que nunca habías borrado.

Chris.

El último mensaje era de hacía cuatro meses:

“Deja de buscarme cuando te sientas sola.”

Nunca respondiste. Pero él sabía que lo harías. Siempre lo hacías.

Te mordiste el labio inferior con fuerza, recordando la última vez que se habían visto. La discusión había empezado por algo estúpido y terminó con los dos jadeando contra la puerta de la habitación de él, la ropa a medio quitar, los dientes chocando en un beso brutal. Esa noche habían follado como si el mundo se fuera a acabar. Y al día siguiente te habías ido, jurando que era la última vez.

Mentira.

Siempre era la última vez.

---

Pasaron dos semanas más de cenas perfectas, mensajes cariñosos de David y noches en las que te tocabas pensando en Chris. En su barba raspándote el cuello, en la forma en que gruñía tu nombre contra su boca, en cómo te miraba como si quisiera devorarte y destruirte al mismo tiempo.

Hasta que una noche de tormenta, ya no aguantaste más.

Subiste al coche sin avisarle a nadie, conduciendo bajo la lluvia con el corazón latiéndote en la garganta y finalmente te detuviste frente al edificio donde Chris vivía. Sabías que aún estaba allí. Siempre estaba.

Subiste los escalones de dos en dos, el cabello pegado a la cara por la humedad. Cuando llegaste a su puerta dudaste solo un segundo antes de tocar.

La puerta se abrió.

Chris Evans apareció frente a ella, tal como lo recordabas. Barba oscura bien cuidada, cabello peinado hacia atrás, esa mirada azul intensa que siempre parecía ver demasiado. Llevaba una camiseta gris ajustada que marcaba sus hombros y brazos. El tatuaje en su bíceps izquierdo se movió cuando cruzó los brazos.

Dijo tu nombre y su voz grave sonó como una advertencia y una invitación al mismo tiempo.

No hablaste. Solo lo miraste.

Chris suspiró, pasándose una mano por la barba.

—Sabía que vendrías.

—¿Vas a dejarme entrar o vas a seguir fingiendo que no me extrañas? —preguntaste directamente.

Él soltó una risa baja, oscura.

—Nunca he fingido nada contigo.

Se hizo a un lado.

En cuanto la puerta se cerró detrás el aire cambió. La tensión que siempre había existido entre ustedes crepitó como electricidad. Te quistaste la chaqueta mojada y la dejaste caer al suelo. Chris no se movió, solo te observó con esa expresión seria que conocías tan bien.

—Dime que eres feliz con él —dijo Chris, dando un paso hacia ti—. Dime que te trata como te mereces. Que te hace sentir lo que yo te hacía sentir.

Levantaste la barbilla, tus ojos brillando con desafío.

—Me trata bien. Mejor de lo que tú nunca lo hiciste.

Chris dio otro paso. Ahora estaban tan cerca que podías oler su colonia mezclada con el aroma de su piel.

—¿Entonces por qué estás aquí? —Su voz bajó hasta volverse ronca—. ¿Por qué viniste bajo la lluvia si todo es tan perfecto con él?

Tragaste saliva. El corazón te martilleaba en el pecho.

—Porque contigo todo era un puto desastre… pero me sentía viva.

Eso fue todo lo que necesitó.

Chris te empujó contra la pared con una mano firme en tu cintura. Ambas bocas se encontraron con violencia, como si hubieran estado conteniéndose durante meses. El beso fue desesperado, profundo, lleno de dientes y lenguas. Gemiste contra su boca cuando él te mordió el labio inferior y luego lo calmó con la lengua.

—Joder… —gruñó Chris, bajando las manos por tus costados hasta apretarle el culo y levantarte contra su cuerpo.

Enredaste las piernas alrededor de su cintura, tirando de su cabello mientras él te cargaba hacia la habitación y te dejaba caer sobre la cama sin delicadeza. En segundos, la ropa empezó a desaparecer. La camiseta gris de Chris voló por el aire. Tu pasaste las uñas por su pecho y abdomen, sintiendo los músculos tensos bajo sus dedos.

Él te quitó el vestido con movimientos bruscos pero precisos, dejando al descubierto tu piel. Sus manos grandes recorrieron tus muslos, separándolos sin pedir permiso. Cuando bajó la cabeza y besó el interior de tu pierna, arqueaste la espalda.

—Chris…

—Dilo otra vez —exigió él, subiendo lentamente, dejando un rastro de besos y mordidas.

—Chris… —jadeste cuando su aliento caliente se hizo presente entre tus piernas.

Él no fue suave. Te devoró con la boca como si hubiera estado hambriento de ti durante meses. Lengua firme, labios exigentes, barba raspando la piel sensible de tus muslos. Enterraste las manos en su cabello, moviendo las caderas contra su boca mientras gemidos entrecortados escapaban de tu garganta.

Cuando ya no pudiste más, lo jalaste hacia arriba.

—Te necesito dentro de mí. Ahora.

Chris se incorporó, se quitó el pantalón y se colocó entre tus piernas. Te miró a los ojos mientras entraba en ti de una sola estocada profunda. Ambos soltaron un gemido ronco.

—Mierda… —gruñó él, quedándose quieto un momento, sintiéndote apretada alrededor suyo—. Sigues siendo tan jodidamente perfecta.

Empezó a moverse. Fuerte. Profundo. Sin piedad. Cada embestida hacía que la cama golpeara contra la pared. Rus uñas se clavaron en su espalda, dejando marcas rojas mientras lo recibías una y otra vez. Sus bocas se encontraron de nuevo en besos desordenados, llenos de saliva y necesidad.

—Más fuerte —pediste entre jadeos.

Chris obedeció, sujetandote por las caderas y follandote con esa intensidad salvaje que solo él sabía darte. El sonido de piel contra piel, tus gemidos y los gruñidos de él llenaron la habitación.

En un momento, te giró sobre tu estómago, levantó tus caderas y volvió a entrar en ti desde atrás. Una mano se enredó en tu cabello, tirando suavemente mientras la otra te apretaba la cintura.

—Esto es lo que extrañas, ¿verdad? —susurró contra tu oído, sin dejar de embestir—. No sus besos suaves ni sus palabras bonitas. Extrañas que te folle como si te odiara y te amara al mismo tiempo.

Solo pudiste gemir su nombre, perdida en la sensación.

Llegaron casi al mismo tiempo. Chris se derramó dentro de ti con un gruñido gutural, el cuerpo tenso sobre el tuyo, mientras tu cuerpo se rompía en un orgasmo intenso que te dejó temblando.

Durante varios minutos solo se escucharon sus respiraciones agitadas.

Chris se dejó caer a tu lado y atrayendote contra su pecho te acarició el cabello rojizo con una ternura que contrastaba con la rudeza de minutos antes.

Cerradte los ojos, sintiendo cómo la realidad regresaba poco a poco.

—No podemos seguir haciendo esto —susurraste, aunque tu cuerpo aún vibraba por él.

—Lo sé —respondió Chris, besando tu frente sudorosa.

Pero ninguno de los dos se movió.

—Esta fue la última vez —Tu voz sonó débil incluso para ti misma.

Chris soltó una risa baja y amarga.

—Siempre dices lo mismo.

Elevaste la mirada hacia él. Sus ojos marrones, normalmente fríos, estaban llenos de algo peligroso.

—Esta vez lo digo en serio.

Él te miró en silencio durante un largo rato, luego te besó lentamente, con esa misma hambre que nunca parecía saciarse.

—Entonces aprovechemos lo que queda de esta noche —murmuró contra tus labios—. Porque mañana… volverás con él.

No hubo respuesta de tu parte, limitando a subirte encima de él. Un nuevo beso se hizo presente, sabiendo que ambos estaban mintiéndose a sí mismos.

Porque el modo en que lo habías amado… seguía vivo.