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You’re never late; it’s one of your best qualities. It’s honestly part of the reason Mr. Barnes had hired you even though some of the other applicants had more experience. As the assistant to the CEO, your days are filled with coffee runs, phone calls, and lots of ‘yes sirs,’ but you certainly don’t mind. It’s a good job, pays well, and Mr. Barnes is incredibly easy on the eyes.
You set down a fresh cup of coffee on Mr. Barnes’s desk precisely one minute before he’s supposed to arrive. He’d never asked you to do it, but the first time you left the coffee for him and saw that smile he barely ever shows off, you knew you’d have to do it every morning. It’s the highlight of your day.
The ding of the elevator startles you, and you scamper out of your boss’s office just as the doors slide open, revealing the mountain of a man you work for. His hair is clipped short and tight. His clothes fit perfectly; you’ve never seen this man not looking his best. You sit down at your desk outside his office and type away at your computer, playing the game you do every morning with him. You pretend like you don’t know where the coffee comes from, and he pretends to be surprised.
“Good morning, Mr. Barnes,” you say brightly. It’s 7 AM, and before getting this job, you’d never been a morning person. A lot can change when people are properly motivated.
“Good morning, Dove,” he replies, looking up from his phone for just a moment to meet your eyes. The nickname had taken you by surprise the first time he said it, but now it rolls off his tongue so easily, and you can’t deny the effect it has on you.
You spin around in your chair to peek through the window in his office, watching as Mr. Barnes picks up the coffee cup you’d left on his desk. He smiles down at it and shakes his head. He does this every morning.
“Excuse me, miss?” A nasally voice calls from a few feet away. Instantly you know who it is, and any happiness watching Mr. Barnes had brought you evaporates. You spin back around in your chair and find Patricia, the head of Finances, tapping her foot on the other side of your desk. She knows your name; you’ve worked for Mr. Barnes for two years now. She just chooses not to call you by it. It’s probably a way for her to feel more powerful than you, you think.
“How can I help you, Patricia?” You ask sweetly. She cringes and rolls her eyes, continuing to tap her foot.
“Production and Marketing just dropped off these reports. Please give them to James and make sure he gets my note.” On top of the two report folders is a hot pink post-it note with frilly writing on it. You take the folders from Patricia and smile at her instead of responding to what she’s said. She walks away, heels clicking on the floor.
You glance down at the note and find exactly what you always do. Patricia has been trying to seduce Mr. Barnes for longer than you’ve worked for him, and you can see why she’s been so unsuccessful. Her flirtatious notes are lackluster and just uncreative. You want to crumple the note and throw it out, but Mr. Barnes has told you not to interfere with his business, so you don’t.
After checking that he’s not on the phone, you knock on his office door a few times. He grunts that you can come in, and you gently open the door. Over the past two years of working for Mr. Barnes, you’ve picked up on what bothers him. He hates when people throw his door open or slam it shut. He hates when people wear too strong of perfume or cologne. He hates cold coffee but only drinks tea iced.
“I have reports from Marketing and Production for you, Mr. Barnes. Patricia just dropped them off along with a note for you on top.” You set them down on an empty spot on his desk, and you catch him rolling his eyes when he sees the pink note Patricia left.
“Is this one as bad as the others?” He asks, peeling the note off the folder. You stifle a little laugh knowing you shouldn’t be reading them, but it’s hard to keep your curiosity at bay.
“Honestly, it’s not as bad as the last one, certainly less graphic.” Mr. Barnes snorts out a laugh and pulls out a folder from his desk. When he flips it open, you see all of Patricia’s notes from the past few years stuck in there. Mr. Barnes adds the newest note and tosses the folder back into the drawer he grabbed it from.
“Thank you for bringing these in, Dove.” You take note that he’s nearly done with the coffee you’d brought him earlier. You’ll make sure to get him his tea soon.
“Of course, Sir.” You give him a smile and a nod, then turn around to start heading out when you remember he has a few new meetings today. “Oh, and also–”
“Why don’t you call me James?” He asks, tilting his head slightly. A hint of a grin sits on his face, and you bite the inside of your cheek to prevent yourself from smiling at it.
“Because you are the CEO, and I am your lowly servant,” you reply with a teasing tone. Sometimes, on days you’re feeling bold, you joke around with Mr. Barnes. And sometimes, when he’s feeling generous, he teases you right back.
“My lowly servant, huh?” You nod and raise your eyebrows as if it’s the only truth you’ve ever known. “Well then, what did my lowly servant need to tell me?” You lose the battle with yourself and smile like an idiot at him.
“You have a meeting with Mr. Rogers at noon and with Mr. Banner at three. They both called to confirm, and I told them you’d email them ASAP.” Mr. Barnes nods, and you see the glint in his blue eyes. It means he’s up to something. You’d think that after two years, you’d be better at figuring out what he’s planning, but Mr. Barnes is the most confusing and elusive man on the planet.
“Thank you, Dove.” You flash him another smile, then sit back down at your desk. Though you do your work, your thoughts cling to the look in Mr. Barnes’s eye. What did it mean?
Your question remains unanswered as the week goes on. It isn’t until Friday rolls around that you get some sort of answer. Your desk phone rings, and the sound pulls you from the email you were reading.
“Good afternoon, you’ve reached the office of James Barnes. How can I help you today?” You scribble your pen on a pad of paper to get the ink flowing when you hear the familiar voice of Steve Rogers on the other end. Steve has been a long-time partner of the company and a lifelong friend of Mr. Barnes. He stops by frequently and always brings you a bagel from the shop down the street.
“Dove! Just the girl I was lookin’ for.” Actually, you didn’t know that. In the two years you’d worked for Mr. Barnes, he’d never mentioned his birthday. Other people had celebrations at the office, but never the CEO. You’d tried stalking him on social media, but he was nowhere to be found. Even Google didn’t have the info.
“Oh, wow, no, I didn’t know,” you say, guiltily chewing on one of your nails. You flounder for a second, unsure how to respond. You glance down at the calendar in front of you when Mr. Barnes swings his office door open.
“Dove, is that a call for me?”
“Uh, no– I mean–” You feel sweat beading on the back of your neck. “Um, Sir? Are you still there? I can do that. That works for me. Thanks!” Without waiting for a response from Steve, you slam the phone down into the receiver and act as natural as possible.
“Are you okay?” Mr. Barnes asks, taking another step toward your desk. “You never get that flustered on the phone, is something going on?” You’re surprised he’s noticed how good you are on the phone normally.
“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine,” you say, trying to sound chipper to compensate for how clearly nervous you are. “Just feeling kind of out of it is all.” Mr. Barnes nods, but you can tell he doesn’t believe you.
“Okay, just let me know if you need anything.” You force a smile, and it’s tight on your face. He doesn’t buy it.
“Of course, thank you, Sir”
“Call me James, Dove. How many times do I have to ask?” His words are teasing, but you can tell he’s really asking.
“One more time, please, Mr. Barnes” He rolls his eyes at you, and once he’s in the elevator, you give yourself a pat on the back for your banter.
You quickly go through Mr. Barnes’s schedule and confirm that Saturday is wide open. Then, you shoot Steve an email. Your final task for the day is to find him the perfect gift, but what do you buy the man who already has everything?
When you walk into the office Wednesday morning, you’re full of nerves. You make sure to arrive extra early to set up the few birthday items you’ve brought. You certainly wouldn’t call them decorations, Mr. Barnes is a no-nonsense man, and you imagine he doesn’t like balloons and streamers.
First, you set down his coffee, making sure the “happy birthday” note you’d left on it faces his desk chair. Then, you tuck the birthday card you’d written into his planner. Finally, you place your gift on his organizer’s ‘in’ shelf. The box is small and wrapped in plain navy blue paper; a thin white ribbon tied into a simple bow sits on top. You haven’t put your name on anything you’ve brought. You never tell him when you go out of your way to do things for him. Why start now?
You glance at your watch and see that Mr. Barnes will be arriving in a few minutes, so you make your way back out to your desk. An email from Steve pops into your inbox detailing the plans for Saturday. You cringe a little bit, remembering what you’d agreed to do, but Steve seems pretty excited, so hopefully, it’ll all be worth it.
Somehow, you have to wrangle Mr. Barnes and deliver him to his surprise party at a restaurant on Saturday. How are you going to do this? You’re not sure yet.
You begin typing out a response to Steve when Mr. Barnes’s familiar heavy footsteps make their way toward you. “Good morning, Dove,” he says in his usual tone. You give him a friendly smile and try not to give away your excitement.
“Good morning, Sir.” The second his office door swings shut, you swivel around and watch his reaction to your surprise. After the first sip of his coffee, Mr. Barnes looks at the cup and sees the note. He doesn’t smile like you expect him to. Instead, his brow furrows, and he shakes his head a little.
Shit.
Then, he pulls his planner out of the drawer and flips it open to today, March 10. Your card catches his attention, and as he reads it, the crease between his eyebrows fades just a bit—the sparkle in his eyes returns, but again no smile.
Finally, he notices the gift box. You weren’t sure about it when you’d bought it, and now seeing his reaction to everything else, you have half a mind to snatch it out of his fingers before he opens it.
You don’t take it from him. Instead, you watch as he carefully tears open the paper. He opens the velvet box and stares down at your gift—two custom engraved cufflinks. You’d seen them in the store window and were instantly drawn to them. The shop owner let you do the engraving for free, and you couldn’t say no.
Mr. Barnes pulls the silver cufflinks from the protective satin and runs his fingers over them. It’d been easy to come up with what to engrave them with, though now you’re having some doubts. They read, “Till the end of the line,’ You’ve heard the stories from Steve about how Mr. Barnes had said that since childhood, then it eventually became the unofficial slogan for the company.
He must feel your eyes on him because suddenly Mr. Barnes’s blue eyes shoot up to meet yours. You’ve been caught, and you can’t really pretend like you hadn’t been staring. The look he gives you sends shivers down your spine; you feel frozen.
You fight against that feeling and turn back to your desk. Though you can still feel his eyes on you, you focus on your emails and any messages that have been left overnight. Once you hear him shuffling around in his office, you finally relax a bit. Your thoughts swim with doubt about if you should’ve gotten him the present, but the damage has already been done.
The phone on your desk rings, and when you glance down at the name of the caller, Mr. Barnes’ extension flashes back at you. You pick up the phone and try not to sound too nervous. “Yes, Sir?” You ask timidly.
“I’m going home for the day. Reschedule my meetings.” He hangs up and a minute later, storms out of the office. He doesn’t even say goodbye.
Saturday comes sooner than you’re ready for, and you’re more stressed than ever. Mr. Barnes didn’t come to work the rest of the week; no one had heard from him. You’d called Steve to see if you still had to get Mr. Barnes to the party, and despite your attempts to get out of it, Steve insisted.
You park across the street from Mr. Barnes' building and lean your forehead against the car window, staring up at the top floor. He lives in the penthouse, but he owns the whole building. It took you all day yesterday to come up with your plan to get Mr. Barnes to his party, but now, sitting outside, you’re not sure if it’ll work.
After glancing at your phone quickly to check the time, you know it’s now or never. You clamber somewhat ungracefully out of your car and into the building. The receptionist gives you a look as you walk straight to the elevator bank, but you ignore her and press the button to call the lift.
The penthouse button taunts you as it flashes, your heart beats in your throat as the elevator rises up up up to your inevitable doom. When did you become so pessimistic? Mr. Barnes isn’t that bad; he’s always been kind to you. There’s nothing to worry about.
The elevator dings, and the chrome doors slide open to reveal a sleek black door. It’s the only place to go, so you step in front of it. The door, too, seems to mock you; you can see your reflection in the paint. You look timid, meek. How are you supposed to get Mr. Barnes to go to a party he obviously doesn’t want to attend? He seemed to have hated your birthday gift. Will he even open the door for you? There’s only one way to find out.
You knock three times.
Silence. Shit.
“Mr. Barnes?” You call, knocking a few more times. “Mr. Barnes, it’s me. Are you available?” You hear a slight noise from the other side of the door, and your heart speeds up a bit. The door swings open, and there he is.
Mr. Barnes stands in front of you in all his shirtless glory. Your eyes trail down his shoulders, chest, and abs, but before they can reach the waistband of his sweatpants, you snap out of it.
“Why are you here?” He asks, leaning against the door frame. His sweatpants hang low on his hips, showing off the V of his lower abs. Your mouth waters but you scold yourself. You’re not here to ogle your boss. You’re here to get him to his secret birthday party that he is sure to hate.
“There’s an emergency,” you say, twisting your fingers together behind your back. It was the only plan you could come up with, and as the words leave your mouth, you know how silly it sounds.
“An emergency,” he repeats. Mr. Barnes lets his eyes roam your figure, you’re not dressed for work, but you’re not quite dressed for the party either. You didn’t want to tip him off to your plan, so you’re wearing a black skirt that’s a bit shorter than you’d normally choose for work and your favorite blue blouse that hugs your figure. “You don’t look dressed for an emergency,” he adds, his eyes flicking back up to yours.
“Well, it’s the weekend,” you reply pitifully. “May I come in?” You ask as you push past him and step into the penthouse. It’s bold of you. You’re never bold around him. The space is huge, you can’t imagine how much it would cost to rent it. You stride toward the couch and try to ignore the feeling of Mr. Barnes’ piercing blue eyes on your back.
“What’s gotten into you, Dove?” He mumbles as you sit on his couch. You cross your legs and fold your hands in your lap while Mr. Barnes sits beside you, reaching an arm along the back of the sofa. This wasn’t part of your plan. You turn to face him and force your eyes to stay trained on his.
“I got a call from HR. They need you to make an appearance today. It’s urgent.” You hate the way your voice wavers on the lie; you’ve never been able to lie to Mr. Barnes. He huffs a laugh and smirks. He knows you’re hiding something. His fingers twitch as they shift down the couch and to your hair. He twirls a lock of it gently, and your breaths shudder.
“You’ve never been good at lyin’, little Dove,” he says in a gravelly voice that sends shivers down your spine. His fingers continue to twirl in your hair, making it harder for you to focus on your plan.
“Well, I have no idea why you would say that, Mr. Barnes. Now, I must insist that you come with me to the location so you can get the situation under control.” You stand abruptly and wobble on your heels. One of his hands shoots out to stable you, strong fingers gripping your waist.
“Oh, if you insist, Dove,” he says teasingly. He doesn’t stand; he just holds you and stares. Mr. Barnes looks at you like he could devour you, like a predator stalking its prey. You let out a shaky breath, but he still doesn’t join you.
“Please,” you say quietly. Your boss shifts on the couch, spreading his legs slightly. His sweatpants are tighter around his thighs, leaving little to the imagination. He looks incredible. “Please.” It’s pitiful that you’re begging Mr. Barnes to show up to his own birthday, but you can’t stop yourself.
Mr. Barnes smirks up at you from the couch, and you swear your heart stops beating. He’s still holding onto your waist, and without thinking, you rest your hands on his wrists, holding onto him. He rises, standing at his full height, and towers over you.
In the light of his apartment, his blue eyes look brighter than ever. They shine like glass, mirrors reflecting the image of yourself back to you. You’re trapped, he’s caught you, but even though everything inside you is screaming at you, you don’t mind.
You’ve always thought Mr. Barnes was attractive, you have eyes for christ-sake, but you never thought you’d act on anything. And it’s so much more than his looks. It’s his sense of humor, his personality. The way he takes care of everyone around him while maintaining his grumpy persona. It’s the kindness in his eyes, his smile lines, his mind.
“What’re you thinking about, Dove,” he asks, a small smile on his lips. He smells amazing, pine and sandalwood filling your nose. It makes your head fuzzy, your knees weak.
“That we’re gonna be late,” you say, not fighting the haze that overtakes your head. Mr. Barnes’ hands leave your waist and trail up your body, up your arms, until they find your face. He stands, cupping your cheeks, fingers reaching back into your hair, thumbs rubbing circles on your skin.
“No such thing as late when you’re the boss, Dove,” he replies, wetting his bottom lip. The boss. It’s not like you hadn’t thought about it, about Mr. Barnes clearing his desk to sit you on top of it. You’ve thought about his hands on you, exploring your skin. The way his lips might feel on your neck.
You feel the slightest amount of pressure from his hands, and it’s enough to bring you back to the present, out of your thoughts. You suck in a deep breath but just get a head full of his incredible smell.
“Mr. Barnes, I–”
“Can I ask you something?” He whispers, breath fanning out on your face.
You nod.
“Let me kiss you.” You must be dreaming. This isn’t happening. His fingers rub your cheeks, his calloused skin screaming that no, you’re not dreaming. This is real, and oh fuck it’s happening.
“That’s not a question.” Your voice barely above a whisper.
“Let me try again.” He tilts your head up so you have nowhere to run and leans in, pressing his lips to yours. Mr. Barnes tastes like coffee and something sweet, like chocolate. He’s warm and welcoming, but there’s power in his kiss. That power makes you clench your thighs; it makes butterflies explode in your lower belly.
“James,” you say with a shuddering breath when he pulls away to breathe. It’s the first time you’ve called him that, and judging by the smirk on his lips, he likes it.
“Fuck, Dove, you can’t do that to me.” He shifts, and you feel his erection brush against your front. The idea that you turn him on, that he feels the way you do, makes you want him even more.
James shifts his hands and lifts you, wrapping your legs around his waist. Your hands hook around the back of his neck, and he looks up at you with a devastating smile. He nips at your collarbone, where it’s exposed by your blouse. His hands grip your waist and ass with strong hands. Despite having a desk job, James keeps up his strength. You can feel his abs beneath your core, providing the perfect friction, but it’s not quite enough.
“James,” you mumble against his lips, nipping slightly at them. He’s a damn good kisser, better than you ever imagined.
“Say it again, baby,” he mumbles, sucking your bottom lip between his teeth.
“James,” this time, it comes out a moan. He kisses you lifeless, stealing your breath from your lungs. He kisses away your worries, your thoughts of the surprise party, the stress of work. James groans and shifts you to grind your core against his shirtless abs, and you swear your soul leaves your body.
“I fuckin’ love it when you say my name, but you know what’d be even better?” James walks the two of you over to his couch and sits so you’re straddling him as he sits upright. You shake your head in response. You’re not sure anything could be better than this.
“No, I don’t, Sir,” you say, using his title without realizing it. James groans, and his head lolls back against the couch.
“You can call me that, or you could call me Bucky.” Bucky. You’ve only ever heard Mr. Rogers and Mr. Wilson call him that, never anyone else.
“Bucky.” It feels good on your tongue; it sounds sweet in your ears.
“You can call me that any time, okay little Dove? I fuckin’ love the way you say it.” He attaches his lips to your neck, kissing you sweetly. He nips at the skin, biting it gently, causing you to moan.
“Bucky,” your voice surprises you, but it spurs Bucky on. His hands wander down your body, caressing each inch, every curve. He fingers the buttons on your blouse and flicks them open to expose your bra. It’s black, nothing fancy, but the way he stares, it’s like you’re wearing the most expensive lingerie.
“Holy fuck,” he moans, palming your chest with his large hands. You lean into the touch, encouraging him. Bucky smiles; it’s a mischievous thing full of ideas for you. “You’re perfect, you know that?”
You glance down at Bucky, the way he looks at you; no one’s ever looked at you like that. No one’s ever called you perfect. He looks at you like he’s never seen anything like you.
“No,” you reply, letting your hands travel up and down his arms.
“Well, then I’m never gonna shut up about how fucking gorgeous you are, pretty girl. You were made for me.” He captures your lips again, and his hands grip your hips. You take the lead, gently grinding against his crotch. The friction on your clit makes you buzz with energy, but it’s not enough. You need more.
“Bucky,” you groan, but he understands. He presses harder against you, moving with you in perfect time.
“Gettin’ greedy, pretty girl, you want more?” He taunts in a sugary sweet voice.
“Please, Bucky,” you beg, digging your nails into his shoulders.
“I love when you say that.” He flips the two of you over and lays you down on the couch, your head resting on the cushions. Bucky rests himself on top of you, kissing you and feeling you. It’s almost too much; your brain is screaming at you to do something, anything to help you with the need for him.
It’s like he can read your mind. Bucky begins to shift himself down off the couch, kneeling in front of you. Your breath catches in your throat; you’ve never seen him like this.
He parts your legs, settling between them, and leans down to where you need him most. Bucky’s fingers gently push your panties to the side. It’s like he’s in a trance. His eyes flash to yours, and you know you’re a goner.
Electricity shoots through your body when he brings his lips to your clit. You relax into the plush couch and let your eyes fall shut. Bucky is a fucking expert, and it’s honestly unfair that you’ve had to wait this long to find out. He works you up easily, finding all the right spots that make you go crazy. Your fingers reach into his hair, tugging it lightly. He groans, spurring you on.
“Holy shit, Bucky,” you moan, curling your toes. He holds your legs open with his hands, but you know if he wasn’t, they’d be wrapped around his head. A moment later, you’re on the edge, the band in your belly is about to snap, and you chant his name like a prayer, begging him to keep going.
He doesn’t let up. His fingers dig into your skin as yours scratch his scalp. When you come, it’s intense, it’s all-encompassing, and you swear you blackout for a second. Bucky litters kisses along your thighs and abdomen as you come down from the high, letting his hands wander and soothe you.
Eventually, Bucky pulls away, and you whine at his absence. “So fuckin’ beautiful, baby,” he says with a grin, licking his lips. “I’ve never seen anyone like you.” You stare at him, and it’s like you’re seeing him for the first time. His smile is so genuine, and it fits his face perfectly. You can now see that lines on his face that you’d once thought are from being broody are actually from his smile. You’ve just never seen the real thing before.
“I need you,” you whisper vulnerably. Bucky’s eyes soften, and he crawls on top of you and kisses you deeply.
“Music to my fuckin’ ears, Dove,” he mumbles against your lips. He kisses down your neck before pulling away and digging through his coffee table until he pulls out a condom. You watch him unabashedly as he rids himself of the rest of his clothes and rolls on the condom. He does the entire thing with a smile, watching you watch him.
Bucky leans back down, positioning himself between your legs. His cock lays heavy on your abdomen, and you suck in a breath.
“Please,” you whisper, staring up at Bucky’s bright blue eyes. He kisses your forehead, breathing you in. He leans his forehead against yours and lines his cock up with your pussy.
“Fuck, Dove, need you so bad.” You nod, and he presses himself into you. You dig your fingernails into his shoulders, leaving tiny crescent moons in his skin.
“Bucky,” you shutter. Your mind is void of coherent thought; all you can think about is Bucky pressing himself into you, of how it feels to have him all over you.
“You’re so fuckin’ tight, Dove,” he says through gritted teeth. When he’s fully seated inside of you, you feel like you’re about to split in half. He’s big, bigger than you’ve ever had and you’re honestly surprised he fit.
“Oh my god, Bucky,” you moan, resisting the urge to wiggle your hips. The way he’s pressing into you, you can’t tell where you start and he ends.
“Made for me,” he whispers as he sets his pace. He thrusts hard and deep; you can practically feel him in your throat. “So perfect, Dove.” Bucky kisses you before moving one of his hands down to where your bodies meet, finding your clit easily. He rubs slow, languid circles despite the pace he’s set.
Bucky is gorgeous like this. In the office, he keeps all his emotions locked away; he’s stoic and grumpy. Now, he shows you everything. His brow is furrowed with concentration; he bites his lips as he pounds into you.
He hits spots inside you that you didn’t even know existed, taking you closer and closer to your peak. Your hands scrape up Bucky’s back, feeling the rippling muscles below his skin. His strength amazes you and makes you want to explore more of him.
You can tell Bucky is close by the way his hips start to stutter, losing pace. You’re nearly there as well, and you tell Bucky as much, begging him to not stop, to please keep going. He doesn’t slow down, but he fucks you harder, deeper, than before. He leans down and kisses you, it’s all teeth and tongue, but it’s perfect.
You come when he bites your lip, it sends you flying over the edge, and you practically scream. Bucky comes too; he holds you tightly to himself as you both recover.
Your phone rings loudly from wherever you’d dropped it earlier, and it startles both you and Bucky. He pushes himself up off of you despite your protests, but you know you need to answer the phone.
Bucky chuckles to himself as you find the offending electronic and answer the call. Mr. Rogers’ contact flashes on the screen, and your eyes go wide. You’re so so late.
“Hello,” you say, holding the phone between your cheek and shoulder. You try to gather your clothes, but Bucky has already done that for you.
“Where are you?” Mr. Rogers asks, sounding a little frantic. You mouth thank you to Bucky and dress without dropping the phone.
“Sorry, traffic,” you lie, buttoning up your blouse. “We’ll be there in a few minutes.” Mr. Rogers sighs loudly on the other side, but there’s not much you can do about it now. How did you let this situation get so out of hand? You don’t regret it, not one bit, but maybe you could’ve chosen a better time to have the best sex of your life.
“Okay, please get here quick. People are getting antsy.” Your stomach turns; this isn’t going well.
“Of course.” Mr. Rogers hangs up, and you finish dressing frantically, your nerves about the party suddenly returning.
“What was that about?” Bucky asks, wearing only his boxers. Your mouth waters as you look at him, but you know you can’t get distracted again.
“Oh, uh, HR. We’re late,” you flounder, attempting to keep eye contact with Bucky while lying. He raises a suspicious eyebrow at you but nods. Maybe he bought it this time.
“I’ll get dressed then we can go,” he says, kissing your cheek before heading to his room to dress. You let out a big breath and check your messages, finding that Mr. Rogers had texted you four times before calling. You’re definitely going to be in trouble when you and Bucky arrive at the party.
A few moments later, Bucky strolls out of his room in his usual PR outfit; a nice suit, tie, and dress shoes. He fiddles with the cuffs on his shirt, and you shove your phone into your purse, now isn’t the time to stress about something you no longer have control over.
“I’ll drive,” you say quickly before he can object. Again, Bucky nods.
The venue of Bucky’s surprise party is a restaurant 10 minutes from his place. You get there quickly, and the second you pull into the parking lot, Bucky shakes his head.
“What?” You ask, pulling your keys out of the ignition. The two of you get out of the car and begin to walk toward the entrance. You shoot Mr. Rogers a quick ‘we’re here’ text and say a little prayer that people are still there after the wait.
“Nothin’ Dove,” he says, resting a hand on your lower back. When you walk into the restaurant, the hostess welcomes the two of you and walks you to the back of the building. She opens the door to the large party space, and you’re greeted by a room full of people shouting, “Surprise!”
Bucky rolls his eyes and laughs a little, then glances down at you at his side. He squeezes your waist. You’d expected him to let go by now.
“Thanks, everyone,” he says, running his other hand through his hair. Mr. Rogers pushes through the crowd and claps Bucky on the back.
“Happy birthday, Buck,” he shouts, handing Bucky a beer. Mr. Rogers moves to hug you, and you return the gesture, though Bucky’s hand remains on you. “That’s new,” he says, pointing to the point of contact.
You stare up at Mr. Rogers, not sure how to respond, but Bucky smiles.
“Been a long time coming,” Bucky says gently, letting his eyes roam your face. Steve laughs and squeezes your shoulder before heading out to keep talking to the other party-goers.
The party is in full swing, and as you mingle, you start to relax. Bucky makes his way to each person and thanks them for coming even though he doesn’t like celebrating his birthday. After people have given all their birthday toasts, Bucky finds his way back to you. As you’re about to ask how he’s doing, Steve suggests that Bucky say a few words.
Bucky begrudgingly raises his glass, and everyone does the same.
“If you know me, you know I don’t like my birthday. But, if you know Steve, you know he doesn’t care. Thanks, Stevie, for the party; here’s to it being the last.” On that morbid note, everyone drinks from their glasses. You watch as Bucky drinks, and something flashes near his wrist. He’s wearing the cufflinks you bought him.
“I thought you didn’t like ‘em,” you say, catching his wrist. You thumb over the cufflink, feeling the tiny engraved words.
“What? Why?” Bucky furrows his brow, watching you fiddle with his wrist.
“Your reaction, I just thought you didn’t like them.” Bucky flips his hand so he’s holding yours, calloused skin rough against you.
“I was just surprised, is all,” he says gently. “I don’t like celebrating my birthday, and when I saw you’d gotten me a gift, I knew something was up. I went to talk to Steve to try to get him to cancel the party, but he wouldn’t listen. The cufflinks are beautiful, and I love what they say. It’s the most thoughtful gift I’ve ever gotten, Dove. Probably my favorite thing I’ve gotten for my birthday.”
Bucky’s eyes are soft. You sink into them and nearly get lost.
“I’m glad you like them,” you whisper, squeezing his hand.
“I love em.” A wide smile spreads across your face and soon, Bucky wears one as well. It suits him.
“Happy Birthday, Mr. Barnes,” you say, teasing him a little. Bucky rolls his eyes and kisses your forehead.
“You know, I actually take it back. My favorite thing I’ve gotten for my birthday, hands down, has to be the little stunt you pulled back at my place.” You feel yourself getting turned on at his admission, at the mischievous grin he flashes as he speaks.
“Really?” You ask, trying not to make how much you want him too obvious.
“Really, Dove. The sounds you make, the way you taste, the feeling of your pussy gripping the fuck out of my cock. There’s nothin’ better.” You sway on your heels, leaning into Bucky.
“Shit,” you mutter, feeling your arousal increasing.
“Why don’t you let me have another taste? How’s that sound, dove?” He asks, taunting you.
“Please.”
“If it’s always gonna be like this, I think I might just have to start celebrating my birthday again,” Bucky says on a laugh, guiding you toward the bathroom. “Happy birthday to me.”