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Summary
The entrance to their building opens, then, and Steve forgets all about Jackson, the limo, the party. Bucky’s overcoat is unbuttoned, flapping open in the wind. His scarf, a deep violet that Steve absolutely couldn’t pull off, flies up a little, revealing the black bowtie he’s wearing underneath, the wine-colored suit.
Steve has to swallow, once. Twice. It always catches him off-guard, Bucky’s good looks, at odd times: napping on the couch, face tucked into one elbow; flipping a crepe at the stove; during orgasm; here, now. His suit fits him perfectly—not quite tight across his muscular thighs but not exactly loose, either; his shoulders looking so broad compared to his waist. Steve breathes in and immediately regrets it, the pull of the corset reminding him just how much fun he’s planning to have with Bucky tonight.