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"You rang, Director?"
Tony looked up from the particularly diabolical paperwork on his desk and squinted at the figure of Natasha framed in the doorway, pursing his lips.
"Romanoff. Thank god. Answer a question for me, will you. Am I not the Director of SHIELD?"
"You are," she replied without inflection.
"Right. And as the Director of SHIELD isn't it my job to—I don't know—organize some stuff and protect the world, etcetera, etcetera?"
This time her lips quirked up at one corner, but just barely. "Something like that." She pushed off the doorframe and let the door slide closed behind her.
Tony leaned back in his very expensive wheely chair and sighed. "Then why the hell am I doing paperwork? Can't I, you know, delegate?"
Natasha's laughter was all in her eyes. "Would you like to authorize a strike team to handle your post-assignment report checking, Stark?"
"Yes—by God, yes."
Romanoff—damn her—didn't even bother to look surprised as she sauntered across the length of the office in what was (in Tony's opinion) a wholly inappropriate choice of clothing for a floating fortress in the sky but did impossibly great things to her figure. Red really was her color. And if her dresses never again came down the dress-code standard two inches above the knee, he'd die a happy man. Probably. Depended on if she was intent on keeping the dress on though. As far as Tony was concerned it needed to come off, preferably with anything else she might or might not be wearing. He couldn’t help it, it was a gut reaction thing, this wanting to strip her. She did the whole undercover thing well, and honestly—there were some kinks a handsome CEO with a fetish for seducing his secretaries never outgrew.
Natasha rounded the desk, dragging her fingertips along the edge in what had to be the most cliched excuse for an incoming assault and she did it deliberately too, he knew that—and found it strangely enticing, because, hello desk sex. Just what he needed. She was a good woman, that Natasha. Okay, no she wasn't, but he didn't go in much for good women anyway.
Tony made his offer not with words but by sliding his hand along the controls for the windows and watched the glass walls that gave him a view out to the command center frost over for privacy's sake. Not that he would mind giving them all a show but—if they thought he was just fucking around (literally) they might him go stand on the bridge and do stuff.
And at the moment, the only thing he wanted to do was sliding gracefully between him and his desk, her very finely rounded ass propped against the edge. Tony rolled his chair back a few inches to look up at her and did his best imitation of puppy eyes.
Seemingly disinterested, Natasha glanced down at him and then looked away at a few pages of a report she'd plucked expertly from the desk, her gaze raking across the page. "Seems like you could use a hand, Tony."
"A hand, right." And speaking of hands—Tony took the opportunity to busy his, palming the backs of Natasha's thighs just beneath the hem of her dress. "Or even two hands. Or mouth, or—stop me when the joke's getting obvious." He gave her his best shit-eating smile and skimming his fingers up a little higher. "I'm not going to find a Beretta down here, am I?"
"Don't be ridiculous, Tony. There's no place for a Beretta in this dress."
"Or panties, apparently." Oh yeah, he discovered that part quick enough when he brushed soft, bare heat and nearly twitched in his seat. Nope, he definitely didn't go in for good women. Good women didn't go commando in the Director's office. "Not that I'm complaining."
"You, complain?" She deadpanned. "Never." But she didn't smack his hands away and she didn't snap his neck—both likely consequences of anyone who made the mistake of getting handsy with the Black Widow. Except Tony. Apparently Tony got a free pass.
Well, sometimes.
Like right now, when she shifted her stance just a bit against the edge of the desk—real casually too—and Tony's fingers dipped into slick heat, dragging the pad of his thumb over her clit in a caress that wrung a very satisfying initial tremble out of Natasha.
Heat bloomed, low and wicked in his gut. "So you're gonna help me with this problem? Because I swear Romanoff, I'm dying back here." Or at least, his dick was—suffocating, actually, strangled behind the zipper of his slacks. (Did they have automatic zippers yet? Why hadn't he invented that. He needed to invent that.)
Natasha was still looking over the report, but he was done with work for the day and they both knew it; Tony swirled his thumb against her, just to watch her hips hitch forward into his touch.
God, he enjoyed her.
"By the way," he added, his free hand pushing the hem of her skirt up and out of his way, "I really like this dress. I like all your dresses, but I like this one better—" He inched the hem higher over her thighs until it was hitched up at her hips, "—just like this."
Her chuckle was low, husky—and sent a jolt straight to his dick. "I'll keep that in mind, Director. Perhaps for the next time we go undercover together."
Tony's mouth dried up. "Yes, yes good—you'd make a good secretary Romanoff. I mean, you did that one time—" He cupped her sex with one hand, the heat of her searing into his palm. "Remind me why you're not my secretary again?"
"Because," she murmured, her words just this side of smooth, "You'd never get any work done. And neither would I."
"I fail to see how that's a—"
She reached out and wrapped fingers in his tie, jerking—hard—to bring him close; the Armani silk was curled over the back of her knuckles as she dragged upward on the makeshift leash and he followed, standing and sliding between her thighs all in one fluid movement. His hand left the wet welcome of her body to fumble at his zipper—automatic zippers were going to be a thing, soon, very soon—then gave up to scoop beneath Natasha's thighs to lift her onto the desk. The material of her dress rode up and clung to her hips, exposing her to him even as Natasha wrapped her legs around him, satiny deadly thighs and shapely knees hooked over his hips. She looped one arm around his neck and he let himself be pulled in, catching her mouth with his and twisting his free hand in her hair, bunching it in his fist.
When her other hand settled over the tent in his slacks and deft fingers tugged his zipper down with a hiss of metal and material, Tony decided—yeah, no, good women were never going to be his thing.
But if he could have this one very bad, wicked woman—pulling his cock free and wrapping deceptively slim fingers around him, rocking her hips forward to line their bodies up, tipping her hips into him when he thrusts deep into velvet heat that first time in what feels like forever to bury himself in her, again and again, and again until the pace becomes brutal and the room is a blur and all that matters is that she’s hissing his name against the shell of his ear and holy fuck, he likes that, he always likes that, she's got him right there and all he has to do is—
Coherent thought definitely dives straight out the window when he's with Natasha—that's just how that works—but the sentiment is there.
If he could have this one bad, wicked woman—in his bed, in his arms, and, hell, maybe in his heart—then he could probably live with that.
Yeah, definitely.