Bruce was a dark red with embarrassment, and he turned darker still when he realized that Natasha had caught him by the shirt. He wanted to hide his face, but his only option was hiding in her neck or her breasts, and it was hard enough to breathe already without picturing those particular options.
He squirmed and pressed his lips together. “I uh… just-… um… WellIwasinmylabandIwasjust… thinking about you? I’m… S-sorry, that was… really fast, wasn’t it? I uh-… I’m sorry Natasha. I shouldn’t have-… S-sorry…”
“Whoa, hey, slow down,” she said, her voice low. There was a laugh dancing on her breath and in her smile, glinting off normally steely gray irises. The spy’d moved closer without really thinking about it, the gentle rocking movement forward enough to close the gap between them and she tugged at the fabric she still held with her index finger.
Face tilted upward, her lips brushed against his jaw, almost as if it were an accident. “I’m sorry I was so distracting.” She wasn’t, but it was endearing the way he reacted as though he’d just committed a huge blunder.
