if your man wanna get buck wild. | bucky barnes (18+)
⤷ mob boss!bucky barnes x mob wife!reader
⭐︎ warnings: nsfw, smut, brat-taming, light banter, fluff, blindfolds/ropes, p in v sex, rough sex, dacryphilia, size difference (he's a big boy), bucky fucks mean, aftercare, hair pulling, edging, implications of cheating-no actual cheating, slightly gaslight-y but bucky means well! (me gaslighting), oral (m receiving), miscommunication, arguments, degrading, praising, petnames: "honey" "angel" "sweetheart"
⭐︎ word count: 6.3k
⭐︎ a/n: based on the song hit 'em up style by blu cantrell. and because mob!bucky fucks wild (oops!)
synopsis: After seeing your husband discreetly forward half a million dollars to a mysterious woman, you can't help but suspect Bucky isn't being loyal. So, you grab his wallet and make him pay for it all, because revenge is better than money.
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You couldn’t believe what was staring back at you. You couldn’t believe that your husband of many years would do something like this.
The bright screen displayed banking statements. Several hundreds, then thousands of dollars being sent to a woman you had never heard of—some lady who went by the name “Samantha Wilsbury.”
You had never heard of this woman in your life. Neither Bucky nor his crew had ever mentioned her. Bucky trusted you completely with all his banking and money information. When you first saw the five thousand dollars sent to Ms. Wilsbury, you didn’t blink an eye. You knew how demanding his job was; transactions were constant, money moving in and out so often that you hadn’t even bothered to check up on it anymore.
The only reason you started caring was because of the new transfer staring back at you right now.
Half a million dollars sent to Samantha Wilsbury.
With an accompanying message that read: “Treat yourself to something nice. — B.”
A million emotions came crashing down hard on you. This empire that Bucky had built for you, all the vows he said with tears in his eyes when you two got married, all the hopes and dreams of having a family together—all of it was thrown away in one cold and daunting wireless money transfer and a five-word sentence.
Your heart should have sunk at the sight. You should have closed the laptop, run to your king-size bed, and started crying. You should have ripped apart Bucky’s Prada tuxedos, or keyed his precious Bugatti.
But you didn’t.
Instead, you closed the laptop calmly. You put on your best dress, slipped into your fancy heels, applied your overpriced makeup, grabbed all of his credit cards designated for your use, and walked out the front door with a fur coat and the keys to his Rolls-Royce.
No bodyguard, no chaperone.
All you needed was your rage, and his money.
The first stop was Dolce & Gabbana. The Vittoria Calfskin bag. Fall and Winter collection. You barely even tried it on before deciding you also wanted the larger size in leather, and with one quick swipe of Bucky’s black card, he was already down eight thousand dollars in the span of fifteen minutes.
Bucky normally never batted an eye whenever you spent his money—in fact, he encouraged it. But despite that, you rarely splurged. You believe that spending extravagantly is a privilege, not a right. The most you would typically spend in a day would range between thirty and a hundred dollars—never over. When a few minutes passed and he still hadn’t reacted to your sudden eight-thousand-dollar transaction, you figured this wasn’t nearly enough.
You were just scraping the surface.
The next stop was Versace. You picked up a black wool-cashmere coat with an A-line cut, a mere four thousand dollars. And you might as well pick up a few pairs of pumps, right? Black wool matches with everything. So, you added a red La Medusa Slingback pump and a Gianni Ribbon Patent pump in both burgundy and light pink. While you were there, you completed your unnecessary brand-new outfit with the signature cat-eye and square sunglasses in black.
Another swift swipe of his card, and he was down another seven thousand dollars.
You knew that Bucky was drowning in work—whatever mob bosses like him do. You knew his day was going to be stressful, and adding to his stress little by little for his infidelity was going to be the perfect cherry on top.
Meanwhile, Bucky’s phone was pinging with back to back notifications from his bank.
Purchase Approved: $34,960.00 at Chanel Boutique, Atlantic Ave., Brooklyn Heights. If this wasn’t you, call your concierge banker.
Purchase Approved: $25,400.00 at Tiffany & Co., Pierrepont St., Brooklyn Heights. If this wasn’t you, call your concierge banker.
Purchase Approved: $19,480.00 at Cartier, Bedford Ave., Williamsburg. If this wasn’t you, call your concierge banker.
Purchase Approved: $50,340.00 at Jimmy Choo, Front St., DUMBO. If this wasn’t you, call your concierge banker.
He raised his brow in confusion as he stared down at the purchase history on his phone. He could never be upset over you spending his money. But he couldn’t help but be curious about his wife, who usually stayed at home and only spent money on takeout, was suddenly lavishing herself with designer purchases, all in the span of two hours.
Bucky brought up your contact information, a smile tugging at his lips as his fingers worked over the keyboard.
Bucky: You having fun, baby?
You left him on read for about five minutes, but you eventually replied.
You: Lots of it.
Bucky wasn’t the best when it came to reading undertones through text. After reading your message, he felt a strong swell of pride. His smile grew wider, happy knowing that he was the source of your enjoyment—his money, his hard work, and you were finally using it to treat yourself to something nice.
His heart raced with anticipation. Had you gone and bought yourself a sexy set of lingerie? Some more bedroom heels to add to your tumbling pile of stilettos? Regardless of what it was, he couldn’t wait to see you prance around in it.
Bucky: I can’t wait to see what you’ll put on for me tonight.
You: 👍
For the rest of the day, Bucky’s mind was occupied with thoughts of you.
He imagined you waiting for him at the house with a bright smile, surrounded by shopping bags bigger than you. He pictured you, head to toe, dressed in Fleur du Mal—a silk robe, sheer tights, and black lace. His favorite.
In the backseat, one hand clutching a fresh bouquet of roses, he used his other hand to subtly adjust himself. His erection kept pulsing in his pants as he clearly pictured the scene; you meeting him at the edge of the bed, your bare legs on full display as you walked across the marble floors in your brand-new Louboutins.
“Fuck,” he mumbled to himself, tugging at his belt to ease the growing tightness. Unfortunately for him, the shuffle of his hips only pressed his cock harder against his slacks—the friction instinctively making him throb for more.
He sat up straighter, one hand clamping hard on the driver’s seat. “Mind stepping on the gas a little? My wife is waiting for me at home.”
“You’ve got a special date night planned for Mrs. Barnes?” the old man behind the wheel cooed, peering at him through the rearview mirror.
Bucky was never one for small talk—but he didn’t mind this time. He only smiled, smoothing his hair back as he pictured your face, beaming once he stepped inside with the bouquet of roses. He had a rough day. Work was demanding, calls were incessant, Sam and Steve couldn’t get the job done right, and the only thing he wanted was to go home and make sloppy, sweet love to his adoring wife.
“You bet I do.”
When Bucky walked through the double front doors of his mansion, he expected to find you waiting for him in the foyer, jumping into his arms and marking his face with red lipstick as you always do.
Instead, he found his butlers hauling boxes and suitcases—your suitcases—down the stairs.
One of them looked up, catching their breath. “Good evening, Mr. Barnes—”
“What the hell is this?” Bucky hissed. “What is going on here? What is my wife’s luggage doing in the middle of my foyer?”
One of the butlers straightened, swallowing hard. Bucky could see a trail of sweat trickling down the side of the man’s head as he spoke. “Mrs. Barnes told us that she’ll be moving to the spare house in Santa Fe, sir. She requested that we have her belongings packed no later than—”
“Moving?” Bucky scoffed, raising his hands in disbelief, rose petals flying everywhere. “Moving? Packing?”
All of the men froze, standing there like deer in headlights. They glanced at each other, none of them knowing what else to say.
“Where is she?” Bucky asked, his voice surprisingly quiet.
None of them moved an inch.
“I said,” Bucky exhaled, finally losing his patience. “Where the hell is my wife?” he barked, his voice echoing off the grand entrance walls.
One of the butlers raised a timid finger, pointing up past the stairs. “S-she’s in the master bedroom, sir—”
The poor man couldn’t even finish his sentence before Bucky shoved past him, the sound of his expensive shoes clicking urgently against the clean marble floors. He left a trail of angry rose petals as he stomped up the stairs. His heart was beating anxiously fast, his ears ringing with the words “moving” and “belongings packed.” He hadn’t felt this anxious since his best friend Steve got shot during a job.
Bucky couldn’t believe it—you, his precious wife, the very person he devoted everything to, was going to milk his bank accounts and leave without a word or explanation.
He practically kicked the door down, finding you in the middle of the master bedroom—not in the silk robe and red bottoms he expected—but tossing clothes haphazardly into your luggage.
“Oh,” you said, turning to him and narrowing your eyes. “You’re home.” You then dug back into the closet, dismissing him as if he were one of the butlers.
He tip-toed around the bundles of clothes you had strewn all over the floors, the sad display of roses still clutched in his hands. “Honey,” he began with a voice that was softer than how he spoke to the butlers downstairs. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“I’m leaving,” you said flatly, tossing a shirt into the suitcase without another glance.
He frowned, setting the flowers on the dresser before walking over to you. He rested a gentle hand on your shoulder, the touch immediately making you stiffen.
“Baby,” he sighed. “If you needed a little private getaway, you should’ve just told me. I can book us something right now, somewhere far with just the two of us—”
“No, Bucky,” you turned, glaring up at him. “I’m leaving you.”
All the color drained from his face and the ringing in his ears only grew louder. His vision started to blur, and he blinked once, then twice, before he forced himself to focus back on you.
“What?”
You didn’t say anything. You didn’t trust yourself to speak. You pressed your lips together, keeping your head down and your eyes focused on the task at hand: packing your belongings into a suitcase. While you were walking back and forth from the closet, all Bucky could do was stand there, jaw agape and his eyes wide.
“What the hell do you mean you’re leaving me? Where are you going?” Bucky snapped, but you continued to ignore him. You moved as though he wasn’t even in the same room as you.
“Angel, answer me.”
You still ignored him. You brushed past him, your heels clicking against the floor as you bent down to pick up a stray dress you had thrown. Before you could even stand up completely, his hand wrapped around your arm, giving it a light squeeze and forcing you to face him.
“I told you to answer me, sweetheart,” he frowned. His hold on you was tight, but his voice was soft. Even then, you could tell it was taking everything in him not to shake you for an answer.
“You want an answer, Bucky?”
He nodded.
“Then why don’t you answer this—” you pulled your arm away in one harsh tug, jabbing a finger into his chest, “—why don’t you explain the series of transactions you’ve been sending to this random woman you’ve told me nothing about—”
“Series of transactions?” His brows furrowed. “Random woman? What are you talking about—”
“Don’t act like you don’t know!” you snapped in his face. His eyes widened in surprise. He opened his mouth to speak, but you breezed right on, not caring what he had to say. “Thousands of dollars being sent daily—whatever, that’s nothing. But half a million dollars with a message saying ‘treat yourself’ to a... Samantha Wilsbury? Are you kidding me? Who the hell is that, anyway? A hooker?”
Bucky blinked. “Okay, hold on—” His words died in his throat as you pushed past him roughly, causing him to stumble back a bit.
You zipped up your luggage, hauling it off the bed. “I’m not sticking around to hear whatever you have to say. I don’t care about the money or the luxury life. If the man who was supposed to be the love of my life isn’t being loyal to me, then what the hell is the point?”
“Sweetheart, stop,” he stood in front of you, halting your movements. “Stop this. You’re not going anywhere. Just listen to me—”
You glared up at him. “There’s nothing for you to say. I’ve already made my decision. I’m leaving.” You rolled your luggage, trying to move past him, and he trailed after you, calling your name, but you didn’t look back.
“Christ, baby. Listen to me!”
“Don’t push me, Bucky. Be glad that I’m only leaving your sorry ass with a mere dent in your bank account and didn’t crash your fucking car—”
“Samantha Wilsbury is a man!”
You paused at the doorframe, looking over your shoulder at him, your hand still gripping the luggage handle. “What?”
Bucky ran a hand through his hair, frustration and exhaustion evident in his voice. “Samantha Wilsbury isn’t some woman I’m sneaking around with—it’s a code name. For Sam.”
You raised a brow. “Sam Wilson?”
“Who else?”
“Well—I don’t know! You don’t tell me anything!”
“You never really asked,” Bucky frowned. “And besides, I don’t want you worrying about my silly little job,” he explained, as if he wasn’t the mob boss of all of Brooklyn. “Your job is to be sitting at home, safe and sound, wearing your cute outfits—like a good little wife should.” He took a step closer, looking down at you as he cupped your chin between his fingers, tilting your head up to look at him. “Not spending all of my money out of spite without hearing me out first.”
You furrowed your brows. “What the hell could you possibly be sending half a million dollars to Sam for? And what was up with that ‘treat yourself to something nice’ message, then?”
“I sent him that money to clean out a property to protect us from an investigation,” Bucky let out a long exhale, running a hand through his hair in frustration. “And the ‘treat yourself to something nice’ message is code for a successful transfer.”
You frowned and crossed your arms tightly over your chest, still not convinced. You had seen the messages “treat yourself to something nice” once or twice—but they were usually sent to men like Steve Rogers or Tony Stark. None of which had ever been sent to a woman.
Bucky sensed your hesitation and let out another sigh, his thumb rubbing your chin soothingly, then tracing the curve of your lips slowly. “You’d really think I’d be unloyal to you—my wife of many years?” His blue eyes bore deep into yours before trailing down to your lips, then to the line of your jaw. “You have access to everything I own. My credit card information, my phone, all of my passwords. I’ve always been so open with you, angel. You know that.”
You pressed your lips together, averting your eyes to avoid his gaze. It was true—Bucky gave you access to everything. Everything he said made sense, but even as you stood here, slightly embarrassed by your overreaction, your pride was still standing strong.
You had a hard head—always so damn confident to the point you didn’t like to be proven wrong. That’s why Bucky married you.
“Well, what else was I supposed to think? You don’t communicate with me.”
“And you think this,” he motioned around the messy room, “packing your bags and swiping my cards is communicating?”
You stayed silent, your jaw clamped stubbornly tight.
Bucky gave your chin a squeeze, making your lips plump out slightly. He shook his head, clicking his tongue in disapproval.
“That’s not what a good wife does, you know?” he mumbled, his voice growing quiet and deep. “Good wives don’t think their devoted husband is out cheating on them. Good wives don’t milk their husband’s bank account dry out of spite,” he continued, his thumb probing against your glossed lips. “And good wives certainly don’t pack up their stuff and leave without a word.”
He then pushed his thumb past your lips. Your mouth closed around his finger as you blinked up at him. “Now make it up to me and suck.”
“Bucky…” you muttered, your voice muffled around his finger.
“No,” he shook his head. “I told you to suck,” he demanded.
His other hand flew up to the back of your head, giving your hair one harsh tug before holding you still as he pushed his thumb deeper into your mouth. His hold was tight, but his words came out gentle. “Be a good wife for me now.”
You never broke eye contact with him. Your cheeks slowly began to hollow out as you sucked on his thumb, letting out soft whimpers as he began to stroke it back and forth into your mouth.
“Look at that,” he breathed, exasperated. “You look so damn cute when you’re not spouting lies in my face.”
You swallowed the saliva building up in your mouth around his finger. “I… mmph—thought—”
“I know,” he cooed gently. “I know what you thought. And you thought wrong—letting your pretty little head wander to every bad thing without consulting me first.”
You only muffled around his finger as he rocked it back and forth against your tongue. The sight of you like this—hair tousled by his own hands, your plump and glossed lips sucking eagerly at his thumb, and the soft, helpless whimpers vibrating out of your mouth—only made his cock throb in his pants.
If his erection was unbearably hard on the car ride home, his cock was practically jumping out of his slacks now. He watched his thumb, glistening with your spit, stroking in and out of your warm mouth.
“Fuck,” he grunted, pulling his thumb out with a wet pop. He smeared his wet finger over your sloppy, glistening lips. With a growl, his hands started working on his belt and zipper, looking down at you with hungry eyes. “Get on your knees.”
You barely had time to wipe your wet lips with your hand before his rough hand found your hair again, quickly pushing you to your knees before you could protest. You stumbled to the floor, your hands catching on his clothed thighs as you let out a startled gasp, coming face-to-face with his cock, already hard and swaying.
You yelped as he tugged your hair back, forcing you to arch your neck to look up at him. “Buck—” before you could finish saying his name, he grabbed his shaft, slapping your soft face with his cock—it was heavy and warm.
A low groan rumbled from his chest as you winced, urging him to continue giving your face gentle slaps with his dick. He smeared his pre-cum all over your face—your cheeks, your lips—ruining the time you took to make yourself look pretty in a matter of seconds.
“Look at you, princess,” he taunted, a grin tugging at his lips. “How cute of you to think you’d be able to leave me. Got all your bags packed, and now you’re here on your knees, with my cock—my scent—all over your pretty little face.” He let out another groan, his cock probing at your closed lips. “Real cute.”
“You’re ruining my makeup,” you whined.
The act was humiliating and degrading, yet you couldn’t deny the arousing feeling that came with it. It was a shameful part of you that you knew Bucky took advantage of—and tonight was no exception.
He let out a sigh of pleasure, rubbing the tip of his cock against your cheek. “Don’t know why you’re so worried about that. You’re not going anywhere anymore,” he rocked his hips gently, the warmth of his shaft rubbing along your face. “You’re going to stay right here, on your knees, where you belong.”
Bucky gave your hair another tug, pulling your face closer. “Now suck.”
When you didn’t move, he poked his cock against your lips, nudging his tip past your mouth. Your eyes fluttered shut as you felt his length slowly slide against your tongue, your lips stretching around his shaft as he started to rock his hips. You tried not to gag as he eased himself in.
“I know blow jobs aren’t your favorite because you can’t fit it all in,” he tossed his head back and groaned before looking back down at you. “But after that little stunt earlier—you owe me this.”
His grip on your hair tightened as he nudged you deeper, bobbing your head up and down against his shaft. Tears pricked at your eyes as his cock hit the back of your throat, choking around his length before he pulled away, giving you room to breathe.
“Fuck. I’m sorry baby,” he rasped before moving your head back down, causing you to gag and cough around his cock. “You just look so damn cute trying to take it all.”
He pulled more than halfway out, letting you catch your breath before he went back to fucking your mouth, his thrusts shallow as the tip of his cock disappeared in and out of your warm, pillowy lips.
You looked up at him, your eyes glossy with tears as you sucked at his cock. The sight of your angry husband—his eyes fluttered shut, his brows knitted tight with frustration from earlier, his jaw slightly hung open as desperate groans and grunts escaped his lips, his hips rocking into your mouth slowly—it was enough to make your cunt flutter. Your hands clenched around his slacks, your tongue now fervently lapping around his dick—trying to please him.
“Bu-Buck—mmm,” you muffled around his cock. “P-please…”
He shuddered, the soft rumble of your words vibrating around him. His eyes landed back down on you—pulling your face away and drawing his hips back, his length leaving the warmth of your sweet mouth with a wet pop.
“Fuck—what’d you say, baby? Did you just say ‘please’?”
You let out a cough, sniffling as you nodded your head. He growled, a strange feeling swelling in his chest. The sight of you catching your breath and tearing up after what he’d just done made him want to take care of you—but also ruin you completely.
“Get up,” he commanded, grabbing your arm and hauling you to your feet in one swift motion. He then nodded toward the king-size bed. “Go.”
You swallowed hard, your heart beating faster in your chest. Bucky was usually gentle with his lovemaking. He never barked orders at you, only at the people who worked for him. To see him take charge like this made you move to the bed without a second thought. It scared you, but you were also excited.
You kicked your heels off and lay down in the center of the bed, but as you got comfortable, you didn’t see Bucky follow. Instead, he walked over to the dresser, pulling out the third cabinet.
He reached in slowly, digging around before pulling out a rope and a silk blindfold.
“Wait,” you spoke up, grabbing his attention. “I don’t want to be blindfolded. I want to see you while you—”
He scoffed. “Honey, you’re not in any position to be making demands now.” He shut the drawer roughly, taking slow and heavy steps toward you, the rope and blindfold clutched tightly in his hands.
“I don’t care if you want to see me,” he said, grabbing your hands roughly and pinning them to the bedpost. He ignored your whimpers as he began tying the rope around your wrists and the frame, his movements precise and swift.
He stepped back, looking down on you. “Go on,” he taunted. “Give it a nice tug for me.”
And you did. It didn’t budge.
Bucky hummed in approval. “Good. Now you can’t run away.”
He lifted the blindfold, bringing it closer to your face. You squirmed, turning your face away and avoiding the silk.
“I don’t want to be blindfolded,” you whined, writhing on the bed. “I want to see you!”
When he failed to put it on, he let out an agitated groan. With one hand, he grabbed your chin, squeezing your cheeks to force you to face him.
“And I wanted you to be a good wife and show me the things you lavished yourself with after my shitty day at work,” he hissed. “But instead, I walk in to find U-Haul boxes all over my foyer, the bedroom a mess, and my wife threatening to leave. And now you want to see me?”
He let out a laugh, the sound completely condescending, but it only made your panties wetter.
“No. You don’t get to see a damn thing, spoiled brat.”
He quickly tied the blindfold around your eyes, the black silk blinding you completely. You were stuck on the bed, immobilized and blind as a bat. You let out a shaky exhale as you heard the sound of his clothes ruffling; the careless toss of his expensive shoes, the belt, and his pants hitting the ground.
You felt butterflies in your lower belly once his weight pressed down on the mattress, his warmth and scent growing closer to you.
There was a brief, agonizing pause. You could feel his presence. He was close, unbearably close, yet he didn’t move.
“Bucky,” you breathed. “You’re still there, right? W-what are you waiting for?”
He didn’t reply. The only sounds you could hear were the light shuffle of the bed and the sound of skin rubbing against skin. Then, his breathing grew heavy, and quiet grunts escaped his mouth.
He was jerking off to the sight of you—bound, blind, and completely helpless.
“S-sweetheart, please—” you pleaded, your legs squirming and thighs squeezing together to soothe the ache that had been left unattended. “Please, touch me.”
“Yeah? You want me to touch you? After you threatened to ‘leave my sorry ass’?”
A pathetic, almost whiny sound left your lips before you could stop it. “I know what I said was stupid, but fuck, just please, just touch me.”
He crawled closer to you, his fingertips trailing the hem of your dress. “Touch you here?” His hand started crawling up underneath, smoothing across your bare thigh and rubbing over your clothed pussy. “Or here?”
“Just undress me. Do something—”
You let out a sharp gasp as his hand suddenly came up to the V-neck of your dress, and in one harsh pull, the fabric tore right through the middle—his strength ripping it apart as if it weren’t a thousand-dollar dress, as if it were simply cheap wrapping paper and he was opening his present.
“No fucking bra,” he gritted through clenched teeth, disapproving. “You weren’t wearing a fucking bra when you were out shopping in this tiny little dress?” his hands found the waistband of your lace panties, ripping that open in one hard tug. “And lace. My favorite. You were never planning to leave, were you? You were just hoping to piss me off—begging to get fucked.”
As if anything you could possibly say mattered—as if you had any pride left—you shook your head in futility. “No, I—”
Before you could finish your sentence, his rough hand clamped hard on your thigh, making you jump. Without warning, he poked his cock against your slit, his tip catching at your entrance.
You were already so embarrassingly wet that his cock head slipped inside, your walls already fluttering around him; accommodating him, inviting him in.
“Oh my God!”
His thumb found your clit, giving it slow, soothing rubs. “Fuck, that’s just the tip, and—and—shit, you’re so fucking tight,” he rambled. He slowly pushed in deeper, testing you as his cock went about halfway in.
Your cunt stretched around his pulsing cock, the burn slightly painful as you tried to adjust to his size. You wanted to hold onto him, you wanted to look into his eyes as he fucked you, but you were bound and helpless. The very thought of being spread open, tied up for your husband’s pleasure, only made you wetter.
And that only made it easier for him to slip inside even deeper.
He moved his hips, his cock slowly sinking further inside. A low groan rumbled from his chest—and God, you wished you could see his face right now. You wished you could see your husband, eyes shut and head thrown back at the feel of your tight pussy clamping down on him.
“God—so fucking…” he grunted, rocking his hips back and forth, slowly easing the rest of himself in, “warm, so hot and warm—and tight. Jesus—”
You cried out as his hand moved your thigh up and over his shoulder, your leg swaying helplessly in the air as he fucked you—this new angle allowing him to drive into you deeper. Your warm walls clenched around him, welcoming every ridge, every pulse, as he rocked his hips back and forth.
The bed started to creak as a litany of curses left Bucky’s lips; “Fuck, baby. Feels so damn good.” “Don’t want to stop, don’t ever want to stop fucking my girl.”
His fingers circled your clit even faster, making you arch your back and your legs tremble around him even more.
You couldn’t touch, you couldn’t see, you couldn’t even form a coherent thought. He had reduced you to a babbling mess as he fucked you so deep—the only thing you could do was feel.
“Can’t believe…” he rasped, the sounds of his heavy breathing and skin slapping against skin filling your ears, “… you actually thought you could fucking leave me.” He gripped your thigh harder, holding your leg up. “Spend all my fucking cash,” his fingers sped up against your clit. “And leave me just like that. Shit—this is what fifty thousand at Cartier gets you—blindfolded and tied up for my fucking pleasure.”
His nasty and filthy words made you feel warm, your pussy fluttering around him helplessly as you felt yourself getting close.
“Oh my god, don’t stop, Bucky! I’m going to—”
He let out a disapproving grunt, stilling his hips—or rather, forcing his hips to stop—and his fingers paused right above your clit. “You know what I just realized, honey?”
You gasped, lifting your head up off the pillow and looking at him—despite being blindfolded. “W-why’d you stop—”
“I just realized you haven’t apologized,” he pointed out. “I haven’t heard a single ‘I’m sorry’ leave your lips yet.” He slowly moved his hips back, the tip of his cock kissing your cervix goodbye. “All I’ve heard from you tonight were lies and demands—begging me to fuck you. And here I am, giving you what you want.”
“Bucky,” you whined, your voice rising higher in pitch the more you felt his cock retreat. “Please, don’t—”
“God, what kind of husband am I if I let my wife brat out like this?” He laughed, incredulous. “What a fool I am.” He pulled back far enough that only his tip remained inside you—just barely.
“No!” you cried, your voice shaky. You rocked your hips, trying to sink back down on him, but the ropes against your wrist kept you in place.
He gave you one very short, very shallow thrust with just the tip. “Go on, sweetheart. Tell me you’re sorry.”
One thing Bucky knew was that you were very prideful. So prideful that he’d tear down his own just to make you happy. But how much pride could you hold onto when you were lying here, completely bare and tied up, with your vision gone and desperately needing to come?
“I’m… I’m sorry,” you mumbled.
“What was that?” he moved his hips back, only half of his tip inside.
“N-no!” you gasped. “Don’t leave me like this—please. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry!”
He sighed, clicking his tongue disappointedly as he withdrew completely, his cock leaving the warmth of your pussy with a wet pop, leaving you utterly empty—leaving you fluttering around nothing.
“And here you are, still making demands.”
“No, no!” you cried out, shaking your head. You writhed on the bed, tears spilling down your cheeks and dampening the silk. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, sweetheart. I’m sorry for not communicating with you—I’m sorry for not trusting you—please. Please don’t leave me.”
Without another word, Bucky grabbed both your legs, pulling them up again and against your chest, nearly folding you in half as his cock pushed past your entrance—giving you one hard and deep thrust, filling you up completely again in a matter of seconds.
“Good girl.”
You arched your back off the bed, moaning in pleasure as he filled you deeply. He fucked you harder, harder than he had before, your body shaking and bouncing uncontrollably against the mattress, the bed frame hitting the walls obscenely.
“Fu-fuck… yes, Bucky!”
“Shit,” he grunted, leaning down so that his body completely enveloped yours. “Feels so fucking good, angel.”
Your hips were aching because of the fold he had you in, but you didn’t care. You were so close, and you knew he was too. His hips started to move into a frantic rhythm, his cock throbbing inside you, his breathing growing heavier and uneven.
You let out a cry as you felt yourself come undone unannounced. Your pussy clamped down on him hard as your body shook with the overwhelming sensation. Bucky still pounded into you—chasing his release right after yours.
“God, baby. You’re gripping me so tight—fuck,” he grunted. “Shit. Gonna fucking cum, sweetheart. Gonna pump you full.”
And with one, hard, sloppy thrust, he filled you completely with his seed. He moaned loudly before his body dropped on top of yours, his hands wandering all over your body lazily, groping and feeling you as his body trembled with pleasure.
With shaky hands, Bucky removed the blindfold from your face, and you squinted, your eyes adjusting to the sudden light. Once your vision focused, you were met with Bucky’s gaze—soft, adoring, with that lazy boyish smile. It was a complete contrast to how he had treated and spoken to you just a few moments ago.
“Look at you,” he breathed, in awe. “Your makeup’s all over the place.” His finger crept up to wipe a stray tear from the corner of your eye, trailing down the curve of your jaw. He ran his thumb over your lip before leaning in and pressing a soft kiss. “So pretty.”
You melted into his kiss before he pulled away. You wanted more of him. You wanted him to hold you and you wanted to wrap your arms around him. You tugged against the ropes that bound you to the bed, giving him a frown.
“Untie me,” you requested.
“I don’t know,” he teased, smiling. “I like seeing you like this.”
Your frown deepened into a dramatic pout. “Untie me!”
“Say please,” he laughed softly. “Haven’t you learned your lesson?”
“Please?”
Bucky let out another quiet laugh, his hands coming up to untie the knot around your wrist. Once you were finally free, you let out a small wince, rubbing at your wrist from the slight burn of writhing against the rope. He frowned, grabbing your wrist and looking down at them.
“You were moving around too much, baby.” He brought one wrist up and kissed it gently, then did the same thing to the other. “This is why I don’t like using ropes on you. Come here,” he shuffled around on the bed, moving your body easily against his.
He held you close as you both lay there in silence for a moment, your breathing steadying and softening as he gently caressed your hair.
After a moment of silence, he spoke up again.
“You don’t think I’d actually cheat on you, do you?” he asked, his voice quiet and slightly breaking at the end.
“No, I—I… should’ve heard you out before going all money crazy,” you sighed into his chest. “It was so obvious too—Samantha Wilsbury is a ridiculous code name.”
Bucky chuckled, the vibration comforting against your cheek as you lay against his bare chest. “At least you had a good time shopping, right? Who chaperoned?”
You hesitated for a second. “No one.”
His hands stilled in your hair. He pulled away slightly to look down at you, but you kept your face buried in his chest. “No one was with you? You were out alone? What the fuck—I’m going to kill Walker—”
“No,” you protested, chuckling softly. “Don’t kill him—” you warned, because he would actually do it. “I wanted to go alone.”
“That’s dangerous, baby,” he frowned. “But at least you’re home safe and in my arms, I suppose. Just don’t do that again.” He sighed, his fingers running lazily through your hair again. “What’d you buy today? I want to see.”
“Oh. I don’t have them,” you said casually.
His fingers paused in your hair a second time. “You mean, you left the shopping bags in the Rolls-Royce?”
“No,” you shook your head against his chest, nuzzling even closer, preparing for a nap. “I donated them.”
“Wait. What?”
Later that week, Bucky was out on another grueling mission. He was gone all day, and curiosity got the best of you. You were scrolling through his bank statements again, and the sight of the most recent money transfer made you snort.
Three hundred thousand dollars had been sent to a Stevie Rodgina with a message that read: “Take this money and shove it up your ass. — B.”
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