She was getting to him. With just one touch he was close as well, a fact she would have found very satisfying if she hadn’t already been so far gone herself. She was grateful for the kiss, though; the coppery taste of blood soon washed away leaving only the remnants of coffee they’d had with desert, and as she deepened the kiss, her hand still moving against him, her moans mixed with his own.

Whimpering against his lips when he slipped another finger inside her, she was panting heavily when he pulled back to look at her. She met his eyes completely unabashed, stilling her movements a moment. “Only for you,” Natasha said, holding his heated gaze a moment longer before his motions caused her eyes to flutter closed. Throwing her head back with a deep moan she had to give up her goal of getting him off as well so that she could cling to his shoulders with both hands; her knees felt so weak she thought she might collapse otherwise, though she knew Clint would never let that happen. He would never let her fall, he would always catch her.

When she finally reached her climax she buried her face against his chest to try to muffle her cries before she dissolved into incoherent mumblings in Russian, punctuated sporadically with his name. Bucking and trembling against him, she fisted the material of his shirt in her hands as she tried to catch her breath.