https://x.com/twetsfyp/status/2026843564253004035?s=46&t=IGTORn1HZtEadqQycMHnpw
reader and congressman bucky after a gala…
The door to the suite had barely clicked shut before Bucky was already slipping back into work mode, his tie loosened but still hanging around his neck as he paced near the window with his phone pressed to his ear. His voice was low, that deep, political-calm tone he always used when speaking to people who claimed they were more important than they actually were.
You let your back rest against the edge of the bed, watching him with a slow smile. He looked stupidly handsome like this — the gala still clinging to him in the shine of his cufflinks, the rumpled dress shirt hugging his broad chest, the faint smudges of your lipstick on his jaw from earlier when you’d gotten away with being bold.
You tugged the tie of your silk robe just a little tighter for dramatic effect, even though you knew what was underneath was doing most of the heavy lifting. The lingerie wasn’t subtle. Lace. Sheer. The kind of set that made you feel like a scandal waiting to happen.
And Bucky — poor, unsuspecting Bucky — was too busy discussing a committee amendment to notice the danger he was in.
You lifted one leg slowly, stretching it out so your foot could graze his calf as he passed on another turn. He didn’t react at first, just stopped mid-sentence, brow furrowing like his brain had buffered.
Then he shot you a look over his shoulder — warning, strained, a little desperate.
You bit your lip.
He swallowed hard and continued pacing.
You dragged your foot higher this time, over the fine fabric of his suit pants, slow enough to make sure he felt every inch. His inhale stuttered audibly.
“Yes, Senator, I—” Bucky cleared his throat, jaw clenching. “I understand the timeline, but—”
Your toes brushed the inside of his thigh.
He froze.
The poor man visibly forgot English.
There was a long pause on the line, someone clearly demanding he speak, but Bucky only managed a strangled hum as he stepped slightly out of your reach, glaring like you were the problem.
You smiled sweetly. Completely innocent. Completely not.
He turned away, trying to recompose himself — the big, bad congressman struggling because his girlfriend couldn’t sit still for five minutes. You knew exactly what you were doing, exactly how close to the edge he already was after a whole night of schmoozing and being touched by strangers and keeping his temper in check.
He was wound tight.
And you were about to unwind him.
You slipped off the bed and walked toward him slowly, letting the silk robe fall open just enough to give him a glimpse — the lace, the soft straps hugging your hips, the curve of your breasts framed perfectly.
You didn’t touch him this time.
You just dropped the robe entirely.
Bucky spun around at the exact moment it hit the floor.
His eyes went wide. His hand tightened around the phone. The vein in his neck jumped.
“Bucky?” someone asked through the speaker, sharp and confused. “Are you still there?”
Your congressman stared at you like you’d ended his entire re-election campaign with a single move.
And you, with a shrug and a wicked tilt of your head, raised one brow.
That was it.
Bucky didn’t bother pretending he could finish the call.
“Yeah, I— I’ve gotta go,” he blurted, voice cracking halfway through. “Something urgent just came up.”
He hung up without waiting for a response.
The second the phone left his hand, he crossed the room in three long strides and grabbed your waist, hauling you against him with a hungry groan.
“You’re trying to get me fired,” he muttered into your neck, kissing down the line of your throat with barely restrained heat.
“Me?” You gasped softly as his hands slid down to your hips. “I was just getting ready for bed.”
“Liar.” His voice was low, gravelled, ruined by the way he wanted you. “You know exactly what you’re doing.”
“Yes,” you breathed, pulling lightly on his tie to drag him down to your mouth. “I do.”
That was all it took.
Bucky spun you, backing you into the wall with surprising force for someone who spent the whole night shaking hands and pretending to be civilized. His mouth crashed into yours, his hands everywhere — cupping your ass, squeezing your hips, gripping you like he needed to prove something.
He pulled back just long enough to look at you, eyes blown wide, pupils dark and hungry.
“You interrupted a call with a senator,” he growled, kissing down your chest, teeth scraping lightly over lace. “Do you know how insane that is?”
“Are you mad?” you asked, breath shaky, back arching into his hands.
He sank to his knees in front of you, dragging his palms slowly down your thighs like he was worshipping, not punishing.
“Mad?” He kissed your inner knee, then higher. “Sweetheart, I’m about to show you what mad feels like.”
His hands slid under the band of your panties, thumbs hooking the lace before he tugged them down your legs with agonizing slowness. He kept kissing his way up, each touch hotter than the last, until you could barely remember what your own legs were supposed to do.
When his mouth finally pressed between your thighs, you grabbed his hair with a sharp gasp.
Bucky groaned like he’d been starving all night and you were finally giving him a taste.
He looked up at you from between your legs, tie hanging loose around his neck, eyes dark with a promise that had nothing to do with politics.
“You want me in bed?” he murmured, voice wrecked. “You’re getting me everywhere.”
Before you could even respond, he lifted one of your legs over his shoulder and pulled you fully against his mouth, devouring you like the gala, the senator, the entire world no longer existed.
And for the rest of the night, they didn’t.
Not when Congressman James Buchanan Barnes had you to occupy him instead.
