Characters/Pairings: soft dark CEO!Steve Rogers x curvy Millennial Female!Reader
Word Count: 1.2k
Summary: As his personal assistant, it's routine for you to attend meetings across town with Steve. The transportation, however, is a new experience for you.
Content/Warnings: power imbalance; sex in the workplace; semi-public sex; explicit smut: vaginal fingering
Author Notes: Although I think people stopped actively frothing for more CEO!Steve, I know the thirst is still there, so of course I had to include him for Valensmut! 🤭
previous part: SHOWER| Series Masterlist
↠ Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest
The rotors sheer the air to shreds, and the cityscape shrinks beneath you, all hard blue glass and invention, as you sink deeper into the bucket seat beside Steve. The pilot is separated by a thin, smoked partition and a pair of noise-cancelling headsets, and Steve holds your wrist in his lap as if someone might try to steal it. You are, technically, only going to a lunch meeting on the East Side, but this office is nothing but money and showmanship and the commute is a half-hour shorter by helicopter. Steve’s reasoning, when he texted you the address this morning, was, “You'll enjoy the view.”
He’s in aviators and a suit that looks darker and more dangerous in the angled light above the river. Your own clothing, still stiff with newness, is what he picked out: navy pencil skirt, tailored so high it makes you blush, a cream-colored blouse, with gold buttons, and a structured neckline that would be demure if your breasts were less noticeable. You can feel the rush of air from the vents, sharp as ice against your skin, and know Steve planned this, too.
You’re barely five minutes in the air before Steve’s hand is sliding up your thigh, fingers toying absently with the seam where stocking becomes skin. It’s a private helicopter—there are no other passengers—but still, the reality of being midair, the city a glass tray of secrets below, makes you flush, preemptively guilty.
He leans in, breath ghosting your ear, voice tight and low. “Spread your legs.”
You pretend to hesitate, but you’re already shifting, knees drifting apart, the skirt riding indecorously high. His hand slips further, knuckle grazing the junction of your thighs, pausing where the lace mesh panel starts. He tugs, not rough but insistent, like he’s only reminding you of what should already belong to him. You draw a breath, sharp enough to sting, and Steve’s mouth turns up to the side, amused and appraising.
The whir of the blades is relentless, a constant in your bones. With his palm warm and steady, Steve draws circles across the panties, then presses a thumb against the damp center. He hums—a low, pleased sound—then slips two fingers beneath the panel, knuckles dragging slow and deliberate up your slit. The fabric is an afterthought. Your hips jerk, the upholstery frictionless and slick under the arch of your back.
He leans closer, his lips never quite touching your cheek. “Quiet,” he says, so soft you feel it more than hear it. “Unless you want our pilot to hear you over the headsets.”
You try to keep your face neutral, eyes fixed forward, but Steve is ruthless. He works the pads of his fingers with a precision that would be clinical as surgery. Within a minute, your thighs are trembling. You bite your tongue, then your lip, the heady, metallic taste grounding you to the cockpit as the world tilts and lists beyond the plexiglass.
You’re wet already. You’re coming to terms with this. That you want him to know, but more than that, you want to be shamelessly used, and this has never been clearer than when he slips the panties to one side and sinks two fingers into you with a precise, possessive twist. You let your head fall back; the rotors, the wind, the skyline—none of it matters except the way he crooks his fingers, the impossible pressure that has you squeezing his arm for purchase.
He fucks you with just those two fingers, unhurried, all the heat in his gaze and a lazy, proprietary smile. He uses his other hand to pin your thigh open, three knuckles wedged against the inside of your knee, thumb arched hard into your pulse.
He murmurs, “That’s my good girl,” mouth close to your earlobe, and the compliment does something ugly-sweet to your stomach. He sets a punishing rhythm for a moment, relentless, precise, levered against a spot that makes your knees lock and your chest seize. You want to scream, but instead you grit your teeth, knuckles whitening on the armrest. Your body wants to come, is already spiraling—so embarrassing, how fast, how easy—but you try to hold it back, to preserve some dignity. He must see it on your face, because he pulls back, just enough, thumb smoothing over your clit in a slow, mean circle, holding you at the edge.
“Not yet,” he says, his lips brushing your temple, his voice still soft, still so private. You want to turn and bite him. Instead you drag your eyes to the bubble of the city below, to the flat, blue lake in the distance and the way the sun glances off the windows, reminding you how exposed you are, how this is as far from the ground as you’ve ever been fucked.
You’re barely holding composure. Steve’s hand cups your cunt, fingers wet and knuckles curved, a leash of pleasure and shame keeping you pinned to the moment. He slows again, palm flush against you, spreading the ache. You feel the pressure build, see it in his hungry, sidelong glance, how much he likes you like this: arms rigid, eyes wild, lip bit with restraint.
He leans in, his tongue darting hot against the shell of your ear. “You look so pretty when you try to behave,” he says, low enough that you sense it down your spine more than hear it.
You don’t trust yourself to speak. You can only nod, jaw tight with effort. He rewards this by sliding his thumb up, circling the hard, slick knot at your center, not gentle, ruthless, until you’re shaking again, the seatbelt biting into your hips.
“Good,” he whispers, his tone edged with pride and something else—admiration, maybe, or gratitude. “Now you can come for me.”
The words—so blunt, so final—destroy what little self-possession you were clinging to. The orgasm erupts quick and violent through your pelvis, blurring out the skyline, flooding your vision with static. Your jaw snaps shut on a whimper, but it still escapes, soft and shattered, and you ride the wave while Steve coaxes you through with gentle, obscene strokes.
When you finally sag against the seat, spent and buzzing, Steve draws his hand back, fingers glossy, the scent of you rising sharp above the whiff of jet fuel. He kisses your cheek, and dips the fingers into his mouth, tongue conspicuous as he licks the taste of you, eyes never leaving your slack, thrashed face. The gesture would embarrass you if you hadn’t already sacrificed shame on the altar of him.
The flight lands with a low cough of turbines. You force yourself upright, tugging skirt and blouse into place, palms damp, legs laced with pins and needles. Steve waits for the blades to still before unclipping your belt and guiding you with a palm at the base of your spine. His.
Next to no plot here, just another day, another orgasm from your boss! But how many more days until something's gotta give...?
Main Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest
I do not do tag lists, but FOLLOW @buckets-and-stories and TURN ON NOTIFICATIONS to be updated any time I publish a new work!
Typically assertive and logical, they work out problems objectively by focusing on the facts and details at hand. ESTJs tend to take naturally to leadership and are good at projecting the steps needed to get something done.
La vida te da sorpresas, sorpresas te da la vida, ¡Ay, Dios! Vía 2 Tone - Before, During & After, vamos con esta foto que se sale de lo evidente y concilia extremos a priori casi irreconciliables (no tanto, Wham! era al fin y al cabo una banda pop, no heavy). Copio texto: "¿George Michael, Wham, 2 Tone y ska? En 1979, George Michael y Andrew Ridgeley formaron The Executive, influenciados por el auge de 2 Tone. Eran grandes fans de The Beat y, tras grabar una maqueta con versiones de "Can't Get Used To Losing You" y "Fur Elise", registraron una canción original suya titulada "Rude Boy". Una de esas maquetas fue enviada al sello Go Feet de The Beat, pero recibieron una carta de rechazo y no firmaron. Se dice que esta carta influyó en su decisión de hacer canciones pop, y poco después escribieron "Young Guns" y "Club Tropicana". Para 1981, la pareja ya había formado Wham! y el resto, como dicen, es historia". Más tarde hicieron algún notable tema pop- soul como "I´m Your Man". Un fragmento de The Executive.
