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At first, Natasha tried to pretend he was just another customer. Just another guy who came every day to order the same cup of coffee (two cream, one sugar). The corners of his eyes crinkled when he smiled but he kept his lips pursed tight, as if smiling was hard, not that Natasha judged or even expected any different. He was just a customer and this was just her day job, something to pay the bills because as she threw herself into audition after audition and those, unfortunately, did not.
Saying he was easy on the eyes was an understatement, though truly one of the first things Natasha had noticed was his hands. Always sitting at the same round table, sketching quietly and pretending not to look her way, his long fingers steady on the surface or maybe on his thigh. Natasha wouldn’t say she had a thing for hands, per se, but these ones fascinated her. Hands made for gripping or holding.
“When is he going to ask you out?” Wanda crooked her head toward her quiet customer and she tried not to laugh nervously, tried to pretend that the whole idea was ridiculous.
“He’s a customer,” she whispered quietly as if he might hear and Wanda rolled her eyes.
“He’s here every day and always sits right there. At your table. Do you wanna know the stink eye he gave me the day you were late and I took his order?”
“He did not give you the stink eye.” Natasha sucked her cheeks in and stood a little bit taller at the idea. Customers could be creatures of habit and it wasn’t like he was the only person who came in every day to order the same thing. But somehow, the idea that he was hers felt exciting, in a way she hadn’t felt in some time.
Wanda didn’t seem convinced but before she could press, they were hit with the lunch rush. Natasha glanced over and watched as he paid his ticket in the usual exact change and left, not even looking her way.
The next day, however, proved to be the tipping point.
Natasha’s birthday. Not that she advertised it, not that she was particularly excited about celebrating another year. When she was a kid, her birthday was often forgotten, her family too chaotic to honor even the most basic of holidays, and she’d learned that it was better to keep it as any other normal day. At least that was what she told herself when she woke up that morning.
The Universe, it seemed, agreed.
The first sign that she should have called in sick and stayed home was the cold water in her apartment, that no matter how long she waited under the spray of the showerhead, the water was still freezing. She got out, teeth chattering, and sighed. Old buildings. The kind of thing that happened too often.
The second sign was when Wanda burned her forearm on steam while making someone a latte. Natasha, who was supervising the shift, sent her home with instructions to go to the ER if she needed to, because she was wincing even after putting a bandage on it. Wanda protested and argued she would be fine but Natasha wasn’t going to take any chances, knowing from experience that those burns hurt like a motherfucker. She finally left, begrudgingly, also leaving Natasha severely understaffed.
The crowd of college students, soccer moms, and businessmen that usually came in were the same but Natasha was especially short-tempered. Normally Natasha wouldn’t bat an eye but for some reason she could only take so many middle-aged women in Lululemon yoga pants with strollers bitching that their coffee wasn’t right before she started giving every single person in sight murderous glares. She didn’t even notice her regular with the sad eyes and nice hands until a suit and tie with beady eyes and a toupee was yelling at her for being slow with the register.
“It’s not like it’s hard,” he sneered and Natasha slammed the register shut, breathing deep so as not to tell him to shove his thirty-six cents in change up his ass.
“I understand, Sir. We are understaffed today,” she said as calmly as she could as he held a hand up dismissively.
“Honest to God, where do they even hire you people these days? Maybe you should go back to modeling, Sweetheart. Your smile is better than your coffee.”
Natasha opened her mouth to say something when someone else interrupted, standing in between the asshole in front of her and the counter.
“You’re out of order, Sir. She’s just doing her job,” her regular said calmly, voice stern enough that the suit looked nervously between her and her apparent savior. “Just take the coffee and go on with your business.”
Suit and Tie slinked back, shoulders down but not without making it absolutely clear that he was going to call the manager, angry finger pointed at her as if that would change anything. She narrowed her eyes and called him a prick under her breath before looking up to say thank you, adrenaline coursing through her veins.
“You don’t deserve it. He was being a prick,” he said, handing her his debit card. “It looks like it’s been a long morning. And your coffee. It’s good coffee.”
Natasha nodded because there was no use minimizing it and he smiled. “Well, I for one appreciate you.”
“Thanks,” she returned the smile, this time thankful for the kindness in the middle of what was a very shitty birthday. He nodded and took his to-go cup and she didn’t have time to think about it any longer, the line behind him growing.
Not until an hour later when she was relieved of her shift and allowed to step out of the cafe, pulling her hair out of it’s ponytail and her thoughts on maybe getting that warm shower after all.
“You should leave your hair like that more often,” someone said. Natasha looked over her shoulder to see her regular, sitting at his normal table. She held up her hand to wave and he stood up, as if he might walk over to where she was standing.
Natasha took a step backwards, thereby initiating the third worst part of her birthday. The crack in the sidewalk, the one that the city had neglected to repair for years, and she was stumbling back, arms waving in the air and undoubtedly, a look of horror on her face. On instinct, she’d brought her wrists back, perhaps to brace her body. The result was that her ass hurt but she’d also managed to scrape the palms of both hands.
“Fucking shit,” she yelped, biting back tears. Her customer was, within seconds, kneeling down beside her and she wanted to crawl into her car and die.
“You alright?” he asked, putting a gentle hand on her shoulder, his blue eyes showing concern, and Natasha started doing this weird laugh-cry that made her sound like a drunk barking seal. She was absolutely not okay.
“Ma’am, let’s...can you stand?” he said, forehead wrinkled, and she wiped her eyes with the back of one bloodied hand, nodding.
“It’s my birthday. This is the worst fucking birthday. Not that they haven’t all been shit, but you know, it feels like there is some cosmic force out there determined to make me regret being born at all,” she said mournfully as he helped her up. His hands were strong and she sighed, wishing she could lean into them.
“Why don’t you come up to my apartment?” he offered. “Look, I live right there. I’d feel better if I could patch these up for you.”
Natasha laughed even after he pointed to the apartment building next to the cafe, shrugging her shoulders because on the one hand, Being a Woman in the City 101 said “Never speak to strangers let alone go with them to their apartments, no matter how great an ass they have or how lovely their hands.” But on the other hand, how much shittier could her day get? She moved her head so that she could look and he did, indeed, have a nice ass.
“I don’t even know your name,” she said, her smile small, and he grinned.
“Steve Rogers.”
Natasha bit the inside of her cheek and nodded, giving him her first name only, as if that made any bit of difference, and he held his arm out for her to grab.
“I don’t invite random women to my apartment,” he announced as he opened the door. “Not that you are a random woman…”
“It’s pretty random,” she argued lightly, looking around at his furniture. An old sofa with a multi-colored afghan, the typical television set attached to a video game console, a card table-as-kitchen table. The opposite of anything fancy, with the exception of a few framed sketches on the walls.
“It’s just me and I...ah..don’t really like to decorate,” he said as he led her to the bathroom. She nodded quietly, looking over all of the male toiletries. Old Spice, blue razor, minty toothpaste, a brown washcloth. Neat and male, neither of which was a surprise when she looked at him.
And she liked looking at him.
He motioned for her to sit on the couch as he brought over bandages and first aid cream, as he wiped down her wrists. She winced because the wounds stung, distracting herself in watching his jaw, clean-shaven, in mentally mapping the way from his lips to his throat.
“What do you do?” she asked as he applied the bandages and he met her eyes.
“I’m an illustrator,” he smiled, motioning to the walls.
“That’s why you draw,” she nodded, putting the pieces together. He thumbed at the tape on the tops of her hands. It was tender and she felt her whole body sing at the touch. She wished he’d put his thumbs and the rest of his hands everywhere else if it felt that good.
“Now, what can I do so that your birthday ends better than it started?”
Natasha pulled her hands back and started to stand up. “I think I’m just gonna go home and crawl into bed.”
“Can I take you to dinner?”
She smiled, pushing her hair behind her ears. “I’d like that.”
“Great,” he said, standing up with her, face relieved. She laughed, not knowing how she hadn’t talked to him sooner.
Five minutes later, she was standing outside his door, hands bandaged and her mind on sudden dinner plans. He’d been so nice, so gentle, so…
Being a Woman in the City 101 said don’t go to a stranger’s house, especially when you barely know his name.
Being a Woman in the City 101 also said don’t knock on his door minutes after leaving because you don’t want to leave.
“Natasha?” he asked, door wide open and eyes big.
“I just...would you think less of me if…” she licked her lips, feeling needy and hungry and desperate.
“No?” he answered in a question and she nodded, letting out a quick sigh of relief.
“Good.”
Before he could ask her to clarify, she’d taken a big step forward so that she could grab his jacket and press her lips to his. He mumbled a quick “oh” into her mouth, his hands moving to her waist, and she waited for him to push her away or call her crazy but instead, thankfully, he kissed her back. It was the kind of kiss Natasha hadn’t had in years, all heat and wet and his tongue sliding against hers in a way that made her heart race, made her cunt clench because all she could think was sex, sex, sex.
“Natasha,” he said her name again a moment later, his face flushed and his breath heavy, still holding her against him. “That was…”
“Yeah,” she agreed, already wishing he’d kiss her again. He had a trace of her rosy lipstick on his mouth and when she reached up to brush it away with her thumb he shivered.
“More?” he asked, eyes so dark and before she could nod, he was kissing her again. This time she wrapped her arms around his neck and squeaked when he picked her up, her thighs wrapping around him on instinct. She registered that he’d shut the door because she heard it slam shut and then she was being lifted to that old sofa.
“Tell me you don’t have a wife,” she panted as he reclined over her, resting in between her thighs, his mouth on her throat. He pulled back and shook his head.
“Girlfriend? Boyfriend? Mother?” As she ran through the possibilities, she was lifting his shirt out of his pants and slipping each button out of it’s buttonhole.
“Just me and my pretentious drawings,” he laughed, a hand on one of her knees.
“Awesome,” she said, tossing his shirt aside and then leaning back so she could enjoy the sight of his chest for just a second. “Okay, so no one’s gonna get pissed when you fuck me.”
Steve shook his head and moved his hands up toward her pants. “It’s your birthday, right?”
“You wanna see my ID?” she teased, reaching up to run her nails lightly over his abs.
“This would be the first time a woman’s ever lied to me about having a birthday just so she can get in my pants,” he grinned, unzipping hers. She lifted her hips and helped him pull them down before reaching for his belt when he stopped her.
“Hold on,” he said gently, his hand over hers. “If it’s your birthday, I should be doing all the work.”
Natasha swallowed, letting him lead as he lifted her work shirt over her head, as he mouthed along her neckline and the tops of her breasts. She felt him, hard against her belly and she bucked her hips for friction, earning her groans in return.
“How come you never talked to me sooner?” she sighed as he pulled one nipple out from the confines of her bra. He looked up and shrugged, almost embarrassed.
“Pretty sure you're outta my league.”
“That's bullsh...ohhhh…” she moaned, interrupted by those damn hands, one on her breast and the other stroking her through the plain cotton underwear she’d decided to wear that day. “I think I'm in love with your hands, Steve.”
He hummed, lips on the spot between her breasts, mouth moving hot down her belly and she squeezed her thighs around him tighter. She was wet, so wet through the cloth, and his fingers ran lazy up and down the length, making her squirm. She grabbed his wrist, impatient, and he responded by flipping her hand so that he could bring her bandaged wrist to his lips.
“Just because I was too chicken to say something doesn't mean I haven't been totally captivated by you.”
Natasha cupped his cheek with her hand. “Wanda said you gave her the stink eye the day she took your coffee order.”
He bent down to lift the band of her underwear, planting tiny kisses along her pelvis. “Is she the dark haired one? With all the jewelry?”
“Wanda. Yeah,” she nodded, moving her hand to his shoulder.
He pressed his nose against her folds through the cloth. “Not interested. Too busy trying to get the courage to talk to you.”
Natasha smiled, feeling too delicious to care. She could barely remember her co-worker’s face with his buried between her thighs. His hot breath as he moved her underwear to one side so that he could kiss her lips and she stopped breathing, moving up on her elbows just because she didn’t want to miss the sight of it.
“Fuck,” she cursed and he met her eyes, his own playful. And then he was spreading her open so that he could, without warning, press his tongue flat to her clit. “Fucking Fuck …”
There was no way anyone could fault her for not having a way with words when her regular, Mr. Two-Creams-One-Sugar-Exact-Change, a man she quite honestly didn’t know, was curling one and then two fingers inside her, mouth around her clit without mercy. She bucked her hips up again, reaching this time to run her fingers through his cropped blond hair, and he licked and sucked, curling one arm around her waist so that he could hold her down. She tightened, so close, around his fingers, and then he smiled into her, bringing his fingers up to his mouth.
“No, don’t stop…” she whimpered, heart dropping at the loss of stimulus, but before she could beg he was looking back up at her and pushing into her again, this time with the addition of his ring finger.
“I’m not gonna stop,” he announced, sealing his lips again around her clit and it was all much too much.
Whoever he was, he had a good mouth. He was relentless and she bit her lip, pleasure like flames through her body, thighs trembling on either side of his ears, and he kissed and licked her through it.
“Oh God,” she panted when she could remember to speak, still shaking as he kissed her knees and then moved back up to kiss her mouth.
“The least I could do on your birthday,” he grinned and she reached for his belt again.
“Tell me you have a condom,” she announced pushing him back because she wasn’t done, needed to be full, needed to be fucked. “Tell me that after this, we’re gonna get Chinese.”
“Chinese?” he raised an eyebrow, reaching for a drawer in the table beside the sofa.
“Chinese. Kung pao chicken, eggrolls, lots of rice…” she purred, pulling him out of his pants.
“Whatever you want,” he grunted, eyes fluttering shut when she gripped him tight, when she rolled the rubber on so that she could move above him, so that she could guide him inside and take him slowly and according to her pace.
“Wanna come again,” she said through gritted teeth, hips rolling and one hand on her breast. He nodded, bucking up into her, pulling her down by the neck so that he could kiss her, so hard inside her. Natasha shivered, wanting it, wanting more, even the sound of his ragged breath and the feel of those fingers gripping her hips…
“Fuck, Natasha,” he groaned. “Fuck, ‘m close.”
“Close,” she whispered, rolling her hips harder, pressing her fingers between her legs to encourage things along. He kissed her quick one more time before panting into her shoulder, his body tensing up as he came, and she was frantic, the friction and the pressure, the almost for her too. And then he was pressing his thumb over hers, wet mouth on her shoulderblade and she was whimpering, finishing in his arms.
“You’re incredible, Natasha…” he sighed, kissing her skin and the looking up at her with tired eyes. She felt safe and satiated, but also in renewed need of a shower.
“Romanoff. And you owe me a birthday dinner.”