All She Can Think About

For a Russian, Natasha hadn’t put much thought into how the end would come. She’d assumed it would be with the Avengers, or maybe an assassination as her past caught up with her. As the Sentinel leveled its palm cannon at her, catching her dead to rights, Natasha barely had a chance to feel a smug sense of satisfaction at successfully foreseeing her own death.

Just before the blast hit, Spider-Man had her, Natasha’s body wrenched from a shocked and almost serene acceptance of death to the familiar, yet shocking sensation of swinging on one of Spider-Man’s weblines.

She sucked in air, as if she’d been holding her breath to wait for the end, and her inhale brought Peter’s scent into her lungs. God, he smelled good. Everything smelled good—she was alive.

But she could also feel the warmth of his body through the spandex suit that was barely there, barely there any more than her leather catsuit. His heat crawled through the miniscule layers between their bodies and slid into her skin, wrapping her up in a blissfully soft warmth that had to come from being in his arms.

He really smelled good.

Then they came off their swing and Peter dropped down onto a rooftop, carefully lowering her onto her feet. “You okay?” he asked her, his voice strong and commanding, yet not so overbearing as to give orders. Natasha gave a mute nod. “Gotta watch yourself out there, Nat. The team’s got too few arachnids on it as it is.”

Natasha let out a sharp laugh. He was so clever, Spider-Man. So many of the other Avengers were staid, or brooding, or overly irreverent. Spider-Man took his work seriously, but he also didn’t let that seriousness verge over into grimness. She liked that about him.

“Maybe we could make some more,” Natasha said off-handedly, looking over him. His firm, supple muscles filled out his costume well, without being overbearingly masculine, like Thor or Hercules or, God help her, the Hulk. He was certainly manly, but in a quiet, confident way. You had to be confident to wear red and blue spandex over your entire body.

“What?” Peter asked her. His confusion was short-lived, distracted as he was by the Sentinel making another offense. This time it used its palm cannon on Captain America, who held off the assault with his shield. “Gotta go—I think they need me.”

“Lots of people need you,” Natasha muttered as he ran off, lunging off the rooftop and building momentum on his fall down to the street. Until, with precision timing, he shot out a webline that caught his body—turning his fall into a sharply angled turn—a swing that carried him into the Sentinel with coiled, kicking legs. Even with the Sentinel weighting hundreds of tones, the hit knocked it off-balance.

Natasha sighed in appreciation. He really was quite skilled and powerful. The perfect blend of the two: native power and professionalism in training, allowing him to use his blessing to the fullest. A part of her instinctively admired the power he’d been fated to attain, like he was a prince or noble, while her more intellectual reaches valued how he’d developed that power, becoming masterful in its usage.

Her zipper was already at her sternum, but Natasha pulled it further, all the way down her long, lean stomach, until only the tightness of her restrictive garment held her breasts in place. There was certainly nothing else to keep them from slipping out of her widely opened catsuit. She wore no bra under it, only a pair of panties, and she was suddenly aware of how their tight softness bit into her sensitive flesh, while her leather costume did the same, like it was shrink-wrapping her from her gloved fingers to her integrated boots.

The second skin of the leather carried her own heat around, bathed her in it, so that she felt the boiling steaminess of her cunt on the rest of her tender skin, up to her belly and chest, where the open air let in a pleasing chill. She loved how it touched her, tingled on her, fondled her, all but her neck and face, which were well-used to the sensation.

She needed more there—needed an actual man, not just the thought of one. If only Peter would kiss her… cup her face in his hands… run those strong fingers through her long red hair… Would his touch be cool? No, it’d be hot, very hot, but she’d welcome seeing how heated her body could get. How she could burn. Even if he slapped her… even if he spanked her… that was better than feeling nothing at all. Why, didn’t he think she could take a little pain—if it meant that much to him to give it to her…

What am I thinking? Natasha shook her head. She thought she’d been taking a moment to get her wits about her, but now the Avengers were beating back the Mad Thinker’s hacked Sentinel without her and she was standing there with her tits practically hanging out, thinking of Spider-Man.

She was shocked she was so attracted to him—shocked she knew her own mind so poorly. Maybe it was that new cologne of his that had brought his attractive qualities into such sharp relief, but if she didn’t get her head in the game, he was liable to get himself killed and then it wouldn’t matter how much she wanted his cock in her mouth… or between her breasts… or rutting between her creamy thighs, taunting her with how close she could get to well and truly bursting into flames before he gave her himself so deep inside her cunt...

“Bozhe moi,” Natasha muttered. That time she’d felt as if she were on the verge of climax. It’d been far too long since she’d gotten laid if she were that obsessed with Spider-Man—not even Thor or Tony or Cap, but Spider-Man.

She redoubled her resolve. She could control herself. She would kill this damn machine and then she’d have as long as she wanted to get to know Peter better. He’d be her reward… yes… he’d thank her for completing the mission… and she’d thank him for saving her life.

With that addictive sense of warmth still stealing through her, driving her on with glutinous thoughts of reward, Natasha leapt from rooftop to rooftop to bring the Sentinel into range of her bite.