#ceo!nat

thinking thoughts abt reader and ceo!nat in the back of her drivers car on your way to some fancy dinner. nat slipping her strong hands under the dress she picked out for you and incessantly goes to town on your needy cunt. you try to grip her suit leg for some stability but her free hand snacks yours off of her leg.

“you wanna ruin my suit, slut? this is worth more than you could ever imagine.” she sneaks two fingers in you and thrusts at an unimaginable pace. it’s taking everything within you not to scream out for her. you bury your face into her neck with pitiful whimpers. your hips start bucking into her fingers with no remorse or care in the world for anything but chasing your high.

“please please please.” is all that you can mutter. you clench so tight against her fingers that she lets out a groan. she knows that you’re close. you didn’t think it was possible for her to go any faster, but she did.

lewd sounds of your sopping core bounced off the limousine walls. your whimpers and her quiet groans and words of encouragement overwhelmed your senses.

“go ahead baby, you don’t have much time. we’re pulling in right now, and it would be a shame if you didn’t get to cum tonight.” she mischievously smirks and your head lulls back. you come with a loud moan, no longer able to hold anything back, just minutes before you arrive.

your chest is heaving hard as natasha chuckled at your state. she pulls out of your core with no warning, causing you to squeal at the sudden movement. nat laughs and gives you a slow and passionate kiss. you separate and take the fingers that were in you into your mouth.

“Don’t look now,” Kate hisses under her breath, stiffening in her seat. “But Romanoff’s coming this way.”

Your curiosity betrays your appearance and you glance up, ever so slightly, to steal a glimpse through the reflection of your monitor. It's hard to tell, but Kate's forewarning doesn't seem amiss; even in the late afternoon when the sun glints through the floor-to-ceiling windows, accidentally skipping the hallmark of your boss entering any room is unthinkable. 

Your boss is kind of hard to miss as it is. 

Kate's head ducks back down as she reaches for the phone on instinct, her personal tell that you're about to be in the presence of company, and company royalty at that. 

When you glance up a few seconds later at the sensation of having eyes boring holes into you, Natasha Romanoff is only a few feet away from your desk.

"Bishop?" she calls to Kate coolly, Kate tearing her sights away at the sound of being summoned to acknowledge her newfound presence. "That call important?"

Kate tucks the receiver into her shoulder, cupping over the mouthpiece. "Waiting to get patched through over at Stark Industries," she whispers. "It's about that one tech project we're trying to roll out next quarter."

She's so full of shit that it's a wonder she hasn't gotten called on it yet. 

"About time Stark's people learned how to pick up a phone." Natasha's sights shift, falling down on you. "And you? Anything pressing?"

"Not at the moment," you reply smoothly. 

"Excellent," she replies. "Come with me."

Natasha doesn't wait. This is one thing you've learned in your past three months at Romanoff International, bumping brains with Kate in a collaborative effort to make sure that everything in Natasha's realm of the business is running smoothly. That, and seeing that Natasha herself is taken care of — it falls somewhere in the job description as the assistants to Romanoff International's CEO to adopt all of her personal matters and take them on if you want to see a paycheck every two weeks. Natasha keeps things moving at a break-neck pace, no time to dawdle or smell roses or any of that metaphorical shit that would imply a second is going to waste when she could be focused on the next and the next next. 

So you slide out from under your desk, smooth your hands under your skirt as you stand and fall into step with her in direction of the elevator. 

You find yourself holding your breath as you linger back a half pace, content to follow the lead she sets. It's a choice that almost defeats the purpose of your Herculean efforts over these past few months, working just as hard to catch Romanoff's eye in any capacity as you are to keep her affairs in order, but you need to take stock for a moment.

There haven't been many alone moments with her since being hired; she's typically the woman of the hour every hour and she keeps you and Kate going from the time you clock in to the first minute you have available to go home. It's worth it, though, when you're able to flicker her line of sight away and onto you, steal her piercing green eyes off of whatever she's working on and carry their gaze past the window until you're out of sight. 

So worth it, in fact, that you have completely shifted your priorities at work. Long gone are the days when you'd come to work, hair pinned up in a clip and your trusty (and less than appealing to the eye) flats every day. Catching her eye meant you'd have to work for it, so work for it you have. You're one of those girls now, catching cabs in your Louboutins because you know they accentuate your ass and legs whenever you walk. You don't wear the same Dolce & Gabbana dress within a two week span, only making sure to repeat it if you notice it garners attention. You even went out and bought new perfume, a distinct Tom Ford scent that didn't usually float through the office on a regular day, wanting your presence to be remembered even once you’d left for the day. Even if it's in the subtlest, smallest of ways.

You are a battle strategist when it comes to dressing nice for Natasha Romanoff, but if it means some day you'll win the cold war of this century, you'll take it. 

Kate's called you on it more than once, the two of you sitting in one of the abandoned office spaces that you frequent for your lunchtimes. "You know, I heard that they offered her the chance to be the Bachelorette two years in a row," she'd divulge with an iniquitous smirk. 

"Doubt she would've gone for it."

"Yeah, but if she had been, you so would've auditioned to be one of her girls, wouldn't you?" Your cheeks flush at the insinuation, head tipping down and your lips occupying themselves with the straw in your drink. "God, you so would have. You're so whipped I hardly remember the days when you'd come in here looking like a normal person. Now you just make me look like a full on schlep in comparison." She'd ball up her straw wrapper and throw it at you, a teasing gesture that you'd deflect with the swat of your hand. 

"Where are we headed, Miss Romanoff?" you think to ask as you weave your way through the halls after arriving on the fortieth floor. "We're meeting with the board," she answers. "Can't move forward with our latest acquisition until the board votes on it."

She glances over her shoulder at you, which inspires you to pick up the speed just a fraction so you are level with each other. Her eyes are exceptionally green today, cutting and no-nonsense and like an entire other planet you'd take great joy exploring in great detail. "I'll need you to scribe for me," she explains, chin tilting out in the direction of the iPad you have tight against your chest. "I dropped a spreadsheet in the shared folder earlier as well. You'll need to have it ready, just in case I need a reference or two."

"Of course, Miss Romanoff," you oblige.

Her lips quirk into the beginnings of a smile as the two of you slow to a stop in front of the board room. She stops in the doorway, gracefully clearing a path for you and gesturing towards it. "After you."

"Thank you," you remember to say, paired with a saccharine grin as you walk past with an adopted swing in your hips. You're not the type to hype your own efforts, but if her eyes aren't on your ass in this Alexander McQueen ensemble that you all but drooled over in the store, then she's sworn herself to a life of celibacy. 

All twelve of the board members are milling around the room already, just waiting for Natasha’s arrival to kickstart their meeting. Natasha crosses over to her designated seat, tugging the chair next to it closer in proximity for you. “Are we all set, boys?” she asks calmly, her almost bored tone stealing their attention and commanding cognizance. 

“Of course, Miss Romanoff,” one of them says, all falling like dominoes into place into their own seats around the conference table. “We’re here about the newest acquisition?”

“DB Worldwide Media, yes. It’s my understanding we have to vote before moving forward.”

“That we do.”

“Well, gentlemen,” Natasha prompts, leaning back in her chair. There is no question, in your mind at least, who is in charge around here. “Shall we begin?”

The sun has long since set by the time you emerge from the board room, ahead of Natasha. Natasha had almost appeared bored throughout the entire meeting, fielding questions left and right about the outcomes of acquiring DB — you’d had to tip her spreadsheet in her direction only a handful of times, instead spending the majority of the meeting keeping track for your notes. 

You walk with Natasha quietly, side by side through the now emptied halls of the office space. The elevator ride from the fortieth floor back towards the twenty-first is quiet, the doors peeling open and a faint ding heralding your arrival to no one. Just as you begin to slow upon approach towards yours and Kate’s space does Natasha shift in her path, interrupting the motion. 

“Would you mind coming back to my office?” she requests. “I’d like to go ahead and get a copy of those notes before heading home.”

You turn back on your heel, straightening your spine. “Of course, Miss Romanoff.”

You follow her into her office, city sparkling in through the wall of windows that sits behind her dark wood desk. She retires to her office chair, leaving you to take a seat at one of the conference chairs stationed in front of her desk. You begin sifting through your notes to send to her, only occasionally glancing up to see what she’s doing. 

There’s a quick, snapping sound that catches your attention, and when you look up, you notice that she’s spun the chair around so she’s facing you, her fingers idly flicking at the side of a lighter with a cigarette dangling from her mouth. She pauses when she notices you watching, a perfect eyebrow arching. “Gotta deal with ‘em somehow, right?” she quips rhetorically.

You just nod, which seems to satisfy her. “We’ll keep this our little secret, yeah?” she continues, in reference to the dozen fire codes she’s breaking by smoking indoors.

Your lips press down into a smile. “Of course.”

She lights the cigarette, taking a drag before exhaling out a stream of smoke. “That should be the last of it, Miss Romanoff,” you say as you finish sending her the last file, locking your iPad. You lift your head, watching as she continues to blow smoke from the side of her mouth, the embers on the end of her cigarette glowing from where it dangles between her fingertips.

Sitting here in a moment of stillness, where she isn’t on the go or balancing phone calls or even in an agitated state because Tony Stark has had the audacity to exist, it is easy to appreciate just how beautiful your boss is. Red hair curling just at her collarbones, a blazer and pantsuit that you’re confident costs more than your rent, green eyes that crackle with electricity as they absorb every detail laid out in front of them. Plush lips that you’d like to have wrecking your own, leaving them swollen and bruised—

“Something on your mind?” She breaks through your reverie and you realize that you’ve been staring.  

“Nothing, Miss Romanoff, just...”

“Just?”

Your lips turn up into a smile, taking the first thing that sparks in the recesses of your very empty brain and running with it. “I’m just grateful for the opportunity.”

This seems to amuse her. “And what opportunity is that?”

“To learn the ropes under the best. Seeing how you handle meetings like that, how you keep things running while constantly trying to move forward...it’s inspiring.” You decide it is now or never, leaning forward slightly so she’s treated to an extended peek of your cleavage. “And if there’s ever any way I could thank you, properly, for the experience...”

“Thank me for the experience? Is this a resignation?”

“Not at all, Miss Romanoff,” you swiftly interject. “I love working here. Ideally would like for my career to continue here, really — like I said, I’m simply trying to expressing my gratitude however you’ll let me.”

She stares at you for a moment, lips wrapped around her dying cigarette as she tries to figure out your game. “Are you propositioning me?” she finally deduces, the low husky tone in her voice lilting in a way that you can’t tell if she’s teasing you or about to end your entire career. “Because that’s a HR nightmare just waiting to happen.”

“We could always keep it our little secret,” you offer with the shift of an eyebrow, turning her words back on her. You study her carefully, her green eyes dark and unreadable as she flicks out a drawer and snuffs her cigarette out in the ash tray. 

“Walk around,” she instructs. You leave your iPad behind in the seat as you rise, carefully walking around the corner of her desk. She stops you with the flick of her wrist, right next to her chair. She rakes her eyes over you, slowly, thoroughly, enough to leave you feeling like your entire body’s on fire. “Every morning when you walk in here, dressed like this, are you trying to express your gratitude?”

“No,” you respond after a moment of trying to locate your voice in the back of your throat.

“So why do you do it, then?”

“To catch your eye,” you answer honestly, your blood sizzling inside your veins. 

Natasha closes her eyes for a brief moment, exhaling out a soft laugh. “Believe me, pretty girl, you catch my eye plenty.”

She suddenly reaches out for you and tugs you closer, depositing you onto her lap. She’s warm underneath you, around you, touching you, and you can feel the lick of her flames engulfing you by the second. “You’re lucky I don’t fire you on the spot for trying to distract me,” she whispers as her mouth ghosts along the curve of your neck, her breeziness evaporated. “Even luckier I don’t call you in here, bend you over my desk, and have the whole office listen to you screaming my name. Was this your plan? Dress up like some kind of slut draped in diamonds, tease me for weeks until I break and have no choice but to fuck you senseless?”

“Did it work?” you pant breathlessly.

Natasha grabs your jaw, forcing you to eye level with her. Her green eyes are alight with electricity, as if she’s plotting how to devour you. “What does it look like?”

She guides your face towards hers, her lips finally colliding with your own. You sigh into the kiss as she sucks your lower lip into her mouth, tracing the contours of your mouth with her tongue. She tastes like nicotine with a faint trace of spearmint and fuck, if this isn’t all you’ve thought about and then some when you realized that your boss was carved out of the fucking sun. She moves her hand around your neck and up to the base of your scalp, knotting her fingers into your hair as she cups your head. You adjust your position in her lap, bracketing your legs around one of her thighs.

“What’s the likelihood that a little slut like you is already soaked for me?” she mumbles against your mouth, using her grip in your hair to give it a sharp tug back and allow you to respond. “High?” 

“See for yourself,” you breathe out, chest heaving. 

“Mouthy,” she chides as she relaxes her grip, which finally frees you to the opportunity of trailing her jawline with your tongue, finding a soft spot on her neck that you dedicate to laving your teeth and tongue across. “At least you know how to put it to use.”

She slips her hand up the thigh of your skirt, her fingers barely grazing over the scrap of lace you’d put on this morning. As she predicted, you’re soaked through, and her feather-light touch sends another wave of heat straight between your legs. She laughs, it vibrating through her throat when you whimper. “A kiss got you that turned on, babygirl?” she teases. “Bet you’re gonna be dripping down your thighs by the time I stretch that pussy of yours out.”

“You want that?” she whispers in your ear, and you’re so fucking gone that the sound of her voice cues you to roll your hips, in search of some kind of pressure. “Tell me.” 

“Yes.” You gasp at the sensation of her fingers hooking under the hem of your panties, lightly trailing the skin where your cunt meets your thigh. “Yes, Miss Romanoff, want you to fuck me.”

She laughs again, a low and dark sound. “My little tease even has manners. Lucky me.” 

Natasha fumbles a little bit more underneath your skirt, tugging your panties to the side. A brush of cool air hits your cunt. “That better?”

You nod. “Go on, get yourself off. You’ve clearly been waiting long enough,” she encourages, smirk twisting on her lips as she retracts her hands, dragging them up your thighs until settling on your hips. “Ride me.”

It’s the only invitation you need, shifting yourself so your bare clit comes in contact with the fabric of her pantsuit. She angles her thigh upwards and you can’t fight the whimper in your throat as you start to roll your hips, chasing the friction. “Look at you,” Natasha hums. “Eager to take any opportunity I give you, huh?”

“Mhm,” you agree, teeth sinking into your lower lip as you focus on your movements, grinding your swollen clit hard against her leg. Her fingers press into your sides tightly, hard enough that you could try and probably get through as her with the bruises she’ll leave. Another whine escapes you as you ride her thigh. “Fuck, daddy.”

You hardly realize the words that have rolled off of your lips until you look down, seeing the wicked smirk Natasha’s now wearing. “I’m your daddy now, am I?” she teases. Her hands come off your hips just so she can tug the neckline of your dress down until it’s settling right below your bra. “Show me your tits.”

While you grind against her thigh, you reach behind you and flick the clasp of your bra free, letting it fall loose. Natasha pulls it off your arms and tosses it to the floor. One hand settles back on your hip as the other reaches up to play with your nipple, rolling it between two of her fingers before she pinches, twists it tight enough that it illicit another squeak. “That feel good?”

“Yes,” you breathe out, your movements on her thigh growing more desperate, erratic as you try to reach your high.

“This what I got to look forward to now?” Natasha murmurs as she fills both her hands with your tits as you ride, squeezing them. “You coming in to work, dressed all pretty just for me, squirming while you wait for me to call you into my office and fuck you? Gonna come to all my meetings, sit in my lap and assist me however I need you to like a good little girl?” You groan as she shifts her hands up, pushing your hair back behind your ears while you rut against her thigh. “You want me to show you all the ropes, be my little project?”

“Please,” you beg, nodding your head fervidly as you reach for her shoulders to have some purchase. “Please, daddy, so wet for you.”

“Want my fingers in that little pussy later?” she continues, her voice dropping as the smirk unfurls across her mouth. “Want me to suck you dry right here on my desk, fuck you good and make sure everyone in the office knows who you belong to? I bet you do, don’t ‘ya?” A broken cry leaves your lips as she shifts her thigh and lightning flashes behind your eyes. “You’re probably pretending you’re riding my cock right now, yeah? Come all over it, make a mess.”

“Fuck,” you whine. “So close, gonna come for you.”

“Yeah, you are,” she breathes out, lips pressing against the column of your throat. “Do it, pretty girl, ride my fuckin’ thigh. That’s it.” Her thigh is meeting your clit at a delicious angle, each time you roll your hips pulling little cries and whimpers from your throat as you get closer and closer to your orgasm. “You gonna come?”

“Yes, y—please, daddy, please!”

“Be a good girl and come, then. C’mon, baby, do it. Come for me. Come.” You finally hit your ceiling, riding out the waves of your orgasm with her name on your lips until you float back down. You can’t recall the last time it’s been this good, so charged and heated that all it took was a little pressure and encouragement to send you over the edge. 

Then again, the last person you fucked wasn’t your insanely hot boss who you’ve been lusting after for months. 

“Fuck, you’re something else,” Natasha groans. You’re still trying to catch your breath and wrap your brain around the fact that you’re sitting in her lap, having just come all over her thigh.

“Thanks, Miss Romanoff,” you breathe out, smiling down at her. 

She runs two fingers in between your legs, swiping through the wetness of your folds before presenting them. You don’t wait for her request, closing your lips around them and eagerly sucking your taste from her fingertips. Natasha watches you with wild, crackling eyes. 

Red lipstick. Check. Stiletto heels. Check. Dab of perfume to the wrists and neck. Check. Saint Laurent dress that just barely brushes along your thighs, arriving at the apartment in a white box with a silk bow on top and a lipstick print on the card. Check.

You’re gonna be in so much trouble.

Kate is waiting inside the mouth of the lobby when you stroll in, taking a quick once-over as you approach. Her eyes meet yours, one of her eyebrows elevated at what she’s found. “I’m impressed,” she compliments. “Boss?”

Your red lips purse into a smirk. “Boss.”

Romanoff International are the kind, generous hosts of tonight’s gala, fancy dresses to fundraise for the local children’s hospital to open up an inpatient rehabilitation center. It’s a good cause to come out for, and your boss had allowed everyone on the floor to leave work early to encourage them taking the afternoon to freshen up and come out to the gala later in the evening. 

You were a different case entirely. Your attendance was mandatory.

Champagne platters float around the ballroom from waiters, the band at the head of the ballroom playing a song that’s familiar on the edge of your tongue, hard to place the more you think on it. Kate swipes champagne flutes for the two of you and you cheers each other with a grin. It’s light and smooth as it slides down your throat, surveying the room.

It seems your boss’s plan had worked, the majority of your floor milling around in their nicest suits or cocktail dresses and exchanging pleasantries with one another. Your eyes aren’t looking for company, though, you’re looking for one person in particular. The woman of the hour.

As you and Kate idly wade deeper into the ballroom, you suddenly spot her. She’s talking with a few of the board members, her red hair sweeping down her shoulders in curls that pop against the color of her black dress. Your mouth goes dry at the sight of her in it, cap sleeves that curl across her chest and leave little of her cleavage to the imagination. It’s how you find yourself chugging champagne, Kate ripping away your empty glass with a bark of laughter.

“This is sad,” she says, passing your glass off to a nearby waiter. “Just go talk to her.”

You shoot Kate a glare. “And say what? Yes, Miss Romanoff, what do I have to do to rip that dress off of you in front of three hundred people? I’d be on the front fuckin’ page.”

“Hey, I’d read that shit.” Kate lifts one of her hands in mock arrest, lips pursed around the rim of her glass. “All I’m saying is that technically, you’re off the clock. No one’s gonna think of it if you flirt with the boss in public — half of them have made that their mission as it is.”

The thought sends a strike of jealousy down your spine. Not that it matters, of course, because you know how their efforts will be received, who will be sitting next to Natasha in the backseat of a town car once the stragglers are on their way out, who’s got her attention safely secured in their back pocket. It bothers you, though, the thought that you aren’t the only one who sees your boss the way that you do. It bothers you that they think they can get a glimpse of what’s yours, up close and personal.

So you take Kate’s advice — which is likely considered against the law in a handful of states — and you let the current of the crowd carry you until you’re deposited at Natasha’s feet.

You play it cool, wrangling Jeff from the lobby into a meaningless, mindless conversation until you’re certain that Natasha’s noticed you within proximity. You laugh at something he says that isn’t remotely funny, glancing away just long enough to see green eyes looking straight through you.

“Miss Romanoff,” you greet with a smile. 

Your name rolls stiffly off her tongue, and before you get a second to question it, one of her hands is wrapped around your wrist as she pulls you in for the customary greeting of kissing you on the cheek, her lips just brushing your skin. “Nice of you to make it,” she says, squaring her shoulders back as she lets you loose.

“I love an excuse to dress up,” you reply. 

“Who’s this?” one of the board members you don’t recognize asks. 

“This is my assistant,” Natasha says by way of introduction. 

He holds out his hand, taking yours and giving it a succinct shake. “Lovely to meet you, dear.”

Your lips peel back in a polite smile, both rows of teeth flashing. “It’s a pleasure.”

“Are you enjoying yourself so far?” Natasha asks, shaking you back into her realm of orbit, recapturing your attention. 

“I am. Everything’s turned out lovely, Miss Romanoff, and for such a wonderful cause.”

Her lips press together in a hard smile, making it hard for you to get a clear read on her thoughts. She gives herself away by the quick downwards-flick of her sights, and you can’t help but to be pleased with yourself. “It was good to see you,” she says. “Perhaps we’ll bump into each other later?”

“Perhaps,” you agree. 

She’s then tugged off into another conversation with Jeff, giving him the same obligatory welcome-and-thanks-for-spending-your-night-off-here. You notice that she foregoes the same kiss on the cheek, the same marking of her territory, and there is no masking the smug smile that drapes itself across your lips.

Natasha turns her head once, presumably to see if you’re still there; you slip a wink at her before you disappear into the crowd.

Your feet are hurting from the Stilettos and a five-song streak of you and Kate dancing by the open bar to whatever nonsense the band has been playing, so when you spot a break in the ballroom’s wall that promises a moment of peace, you take it. 

Okay, and you may or may not have spotted Natasha walking this way a few minutes prior, which would provide the perfect opportunity for a moment alone, a moment to kiss her mouth swollen until she’s practically wearing your lipstick, a moment to revel in her beauty to tide you over until last call. 

It’s a dark, abandoned hallway, leading down towards office spaces that aren’t being used for the night. You figure this is likely where the bathrooms are, and you barely have time to give things another thought before you catch the flash of a grin and your heart soars in crescendo.

“Well well,” Natasha croons, one of her hands curling around your wrist and jerking you sharply into her embrace. She turns on her heel, pinning you up against the wall. “Look what I found.”

“Hi, daddy,” you whisper with a grin, back hitting the wall with a thud.

“Hi, baby.” For the first time all evening, she’s able to take a solid look at you, rake her eyes across your body hard and slow, the same way she likes to spread you out and fuck you. The tip of her tongue flickers over her lower lip to wet it. “I did pretty good.”

“Sure did,” you mutter in agreement, taking advantage of your freed hands to reach out and touch her for the first time all night, the way you’ve been itching to since you caught sight of her across the ballroom. Her dress leaves nothing to the imagination the way it hugs her, your hands gliding along the curves of her hips and guiding her towards you with little resistance on her behalf. 

“Already getting handsy, huh?” she taunts, lips ghosting along the column of your neck and the angle of her head leaving her red curls to tickle along your exposed collarbone. “Can’t even wait until the party dies down?” 

“Not when you look like that,” you admit. And it’s true — work is hard enough as it is, with Natasha exuding dominance every time she walks in the building, the lingering trail of her eyes burning through you as she walks past and the purse of her lips bringing about a dozen of inappropriate reminders of what she can do with them. She exudes sex on all the days that end in ‘Y’, and when she trades out her pantsuits for dresses and tastes like whiskey and looks so good she could give you a heart attack, you feel as though you can’t possibly be blamed for driving yourself to a point of no return when it comes to getting your hands on this divine of a woman. 

“You’re a sweet little slut,” she laughs. "Good thing I’ve called dibs on you; I’ve been fielding questions for the last hour from Stark on what office number I hide you in.”

Your cheeks flush at the thought of having eyes other than Natasha’s on you — you’re not naive to the fact that the effort you pour into your appearance (albeit for Natasha’s sake) pays off, but it’s strange to think of it garnering enough attention for you to appear on Natasha’s radar per her peers’ comments. “What...what’d you say?” You suck in a breath as her teeth graze over your pulse point, letting curiosity get the best of you.

When she exhales another short laugh, the vibration from her lips runs through your skin. “That I keep you in my office, under the desk and choking on my cock while I answer his stupid questions all day long.” Her reply sends an aching pain straight to your cunt. “And that I love whenever he’s on a tangent, rambling about some fucking pipe dream idea he’s had, ‘cause that’s usually when I’ve got a mouth full of that pretty pussy and can’t be bothered to talk anyways. One of the finer aspects of our partnership with Stark Industries. Wouldn’t you agree, kitten?”

“Yes, daddy,” you sigh, leaning back into the wall as her hands roughly drag over the surface of your hips.

“‘Course you do,” Natasha muses. “’S my pussy anyways, I can do what I want to it. Whenever I want, wherever I want.” Her hand slips past the hem of your dress and up your thigh, her hand cupping your mound and discovering that you made the executive decision to forego underwear for tonight’s momentous occasion. “Seems to me someone was hoping I’d feel inspired to do something to it tonight.”

Her fingers rest on top of the lips of your pussy and you’re desperate for her to touch you further, deeper, harder. “Please,” you whisper.

Natasha pulls back, the lowly lit hallway only showing the sparkle in her eyes, not the darkening of her irises that hallmark her arousal. “Please what?”

“Please, daddy,” you whine. “Need you to touch me.”

She smirks, running her fingers along your slit before dipping two into your pussy, a broken sigh of contentment leaving you. “Gotta be quiet, baby,” she chides. She curls her fingers inside of you before withdrawing them, presenting them up to you. “Want a taste of that sweet pussy?”

You oblige, sucking the tips of her fingers into your mouth and your tongue flickering over the skin to lick them clean. “Good girl,” she praises, pulling them back once she’s satisfied with your work. 

Her hand dips back between the juncture of your thighs and this time, she doesn’t tease: she pushes the two fingers back inside of you, beginning a hard and unforgiving pace. Even with the music playing on the other end of the ballroom, you can hear just how wet you are as her fingers thrust in you. She laughs, a low and quiet sound before capturing your lips with her own, tongue tracing the corners of your mouth. You moan into her mouth, the small noise motivating her. “That’s it, baby. Ride my hand.”

“You feel so good,” you whimper. “So good in my little pussy.”

“I know,” she replies. “Got you drunk on your daddy, don’t I? Can’t have anybody else inside you but me, no one else fucks you good like this.”

“God, yes—” A keening noise breaks in your throat as she flicks at your clit, twisting and curling her fingers every few thrusts to send you spinning.

She cuts you off with the forceful press of her lips to yours. “Quiet, slut. We’re not as far removed from the party as you think.”

She presses her forehead against yours, watching your reaction to her words — or, in your case, lack thereof. It bemuses her, and the present gleam in her eye lets you know you aren’t as good at playing coy as you’d like to think. “You want someone to catch us, don’t you?” Your walls tighten around her fingers and she’s pleased by the response. “Dirty girl, wanting to get caught with my hand in your pussy. You want everyone to know you’re my little slut, is that it? That I’m the one you’re dressing like a fuckin’ five course meal for, I’m the one who put you in that dress and I’m gonna be the one to rip it off you later?” 

“Yes, daddy, I’m all yours,” you have the presence of mind to reply, the heel of her hand grinding against your clit while she ruthlessly fucks her fingers up into you. Your hips undulate on their own accord, one hand in her curls and the other against the wall to steady yourself. 

“Yeah, you are. Come for me, honey, come for your daddy and soak those pretty thighs.” The thrill of being caught, your boss knuckle-deep in your pussy and the friction from the heel of her hand is too much and it doesn’t take much more for you to climax. 

You have to catch your breath, your head tipping back against the wall and leaving your neck exposed for her to nip at. Slowly, she pulls her fingers back out of you, this time bringing them up to her own lips. It’s sinuous, the way they disappear behind her pillowy lips for her to suck the taste of you clean.  

She withdraws them with a faint pop, smirking at you. “Like fuckin’ candy.”

You lean in to kiss her and there’s a bright, tangy taste on her tongue that you recognize as yourself, and fuck, she could not be any hotter.