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“You can save your breath, Romanoff, because there’s no way in hell I’m attending Stark’s stupid little Christmas soirée—not even for you.”
Famous last words.
In all honesty, it had been a truly terrible idea on your part to say such a thing to one of the most annoyingly relentless women in the universe. Natasha Romanoff was equal parts pit bull and bare-knuckle brawler—she always aimed for the throat and she never backed down from a fight. It was a rookie mistake to let the fact that you had no plans to celebrate the holidays slip out over drinks, and she’s been hell-bent on making you pay for it ever since.
So here you are, draped in borrowed silk from Natasha’s closet, a deep green slip with golden chains for straps and a particularly daring cowl neckline that plunges low enough to bare almost the entire length of your sternum. An incredibly large pearl pendant rests on the bare skin between your breasts, set in gold and dangling at the end of a delicate lariat necklace. Matching pearl drop chains are pinned to your earlobes, the perfect complement to the careful updo that Yelena had swept your hair into, leaving just a few strands loose to frame your face. The combination of a simple smoky eye and deep red lipstick serves to highlight the blue of your eyes and the creamy smoothness of your skin.
You make your rounds mindlessly, privately hoping to find just one familiar person to hang around, preferably someone who doesn’t look like they’d rather see your dress puddled on the floor. Perhaps the night wouldn’t have to be written off as a complete waste of your already sparse free time, then. You’re passing by one of the less-populated corners of the room when a hand snakes out of the shadows to wrap firm, slender fingers around your right wrist, abruptly tugging you into the space behind a particularly large potted fern before you can so much as remember to struggle.
The sudden redirection makes you stumble. A soft exclamation works its way out of your throat as you instinctively reach out to steady yourself and find your free hand grasping at someone’s suit-clad shoulder. They laugh, sharp and bright and so achingly familiar that the speed with which your head snaps up to look Rio Vidal in the face nearly puts a crick in your neck.
“Sorry about that,” she says without actually managing to sound sorry at all. The hand still holding your wrist loosens enough for her to start stroking your skin with her thumb. “You okay, sweetheart?”
Your left hand drops from her shoulder as though burned, but you don’t make a move to pull the other from her grasp—yet.
“I didn’t know you were back in town.”
“Surprise.” Rio shrugs, a loose and careless motion that wafts the scent of jasmine, peonies, and vanilla in your direction. Honey-brown eyes glitter with naked appreciation as she takes in your appearance. “Gorgeous dress, by the way.”
“It’s Natasha’s.”
She reaches out to run her index finger along the delicate gold chain leading down to the pearl that rests in the exposed valley between your breasts. It takes every ounce of focus you have to stay perfectly still while she taps idly at the precious stone as her eyes trace a slow, unhurried path all the way back up to meet your gaze. Somehow, someway, you don’t waver. Through sheer force of will, you manage to appear utterly unfazed by her antics. You can’t give her the satisfaction of playing into whatever game she’s looking to start by getting flustered or letting her knock you off kilter. You won’t.
“This hers too?”
Tap. Tap. Tap.
The motion echoes through you, sending waves of warmth—of want—sliding slow and sweet through your veins. It would be so ridiculously easy to give in, but—
“No,” you reply evenly, ignoring the way that the hand around your wrist flexes, tightening ever so slightly as her thumb continues to slide against your skin. This woman is definitely going to be the death of you, but you certainly don’t have to make it easy. “That was a gift.”
The tapping stops, but she doesn’t let her hand fall completely away. Her fingertips linger, resting right beneath the pearl, dangerously close to dipping beneath the fabric of your dress.
“From?”
“I don’t believe that’s any of your business.”
“Everything about you is my business.”
Bristling, you finally rip your arm from her grasp.
“Not anymore.”
And how dare she claim otherwise in the first place? Irritation bubbles up in the pit of your stomach, molten and bitter. The curve of your mouth shifts into something caustic. Something cruel.
Rio takes it all in stride. Her empty hand drops back to her side, but the one resting perilously low on your chest remains. It sits heavy and electric—an anvil, a live wire, a sparking, crushing weight you can’t escape or deny.
“Okay, Agatha.” Rio nods, bottom lip briefly jutting out in a mocking little half-pout. It’s an infuriating expression of hers, one that you never used to be able to resist kissing away, before. “If that’s what you think.”
If that’s what you think?! Gods, the nerve of her! It’s downright unbelievable.
“I don’t want you here,” you say, practically hissing the words out through gritted teeth.
Rio, damn her, merely huffs out a quiet, mirthless laugh as she slowly begins to walk two fingers up towards the tense line of your throat. She stops right at your clavicle, pressing lightly at skin in the dip between the bones. Everything inside of you burns with an ache you cannot name.
“Okay, Agatha,” she echoes, this time in a whisper. It threatens to crack you open, to cut you down until there’s nothing left but a mess of blood and bone. Her dark eyes bore into yours, wide and depthless, a gulf between you vast enough to drown in. “If that’s what you want.”
Then she pulls away.
The sudden loss of her touch stings, though you’d rather drop dead than admit it. It actually hurts, and the indignity of that particular realization immediately puts you on the offensive—suffering alone has never been your style. A graceful loser you most certainly are not.
“And what is it that you want, Rio? Specifically.” A careful step forward leaves the two of you close enough to share the same air. You pause to take a breath and allow your tongue to dart out and wet your lips, watching with dark satisfaction as her gaze drops to follow the movement. There we go. “I’d like to assume you didn’t drag me behind this overgrown weed just to ask about my jewelry.”
“You’re right,” Rio concedes, sounding insufferably calm in spite of the way that she’s staring back at you, expectant and even a little admonishing. As if you should already know the answer to your own question. Like you’re the one somehow stuck out of the loop. It sets your teeth on edge. “I didn’t.”
A frustrated growl escapes you. “Then why—”
“Because I wanted you,” Rio says, so raw and blunt and hungry that it renders you speechless. “I didn’t think, I didn’t have a plan or a purpose. There’s no big picture here, Agatha. I saw you and I just—I want you. That’s all there is to it.”
She raises her hands, moving to cup your cheeks, to draw the two of you together. It would be easy to stop her. Easy to step away.
But you don’t.
The first press of her lips to yours is tentative, questioning. Waiting for an answer.
Surrender comes in a surge of motion—your hands in her hair, finding purchase, pulling her closer. Your kiss turning open-mouthed and filthy and insistent, all slick lips and eager tongues and sharp teeth, an open invitation to devour and be devoured in turn.
Rio cradles your face in her hands like she has no intention of ever letting go. It’s embarrassing to confront the burning truth: that you’d let her keep you like this forever, regardless of the graveyard of hurt that lies between you. The gravity of the woman in your arms is undeniable, inevitable—a carefully buried certainty unearthed with laughable ease as she pushes you back against the wall and swallows the broken moan that rises through your chest.
You just can’t help yourself—you want her too.
You always will.