Naughty! Send me an “O” to give my muse an orgasm.
In the time between his heart’s relaxation and its next swinging squeeze, Nova is filled and his sensitive psyche is jarred loose and sent reeling. He’s sure his stability could be seen unraveling in his eyes like a coil. His mania in maintaining some semblance of composure was shown, or rather was felt, in his hands scrambling frantically across the planes of Nathaniel’s back, searching desperately for anchorage. Something with which he could floor himself; something like a thumb to keep two strings in place while Nova tightened a knot.
It came in the form of Nathan shoving Nova’s wrists down onto the mattress near his head and rocking forward. Nova, correspondingly, bent upward off of the mattress, exposed himself, and consequently (purposefully or not) took Nathaniel in. Deeper than he’d thought possible for him. For either of them, even. And Nova could feel him, god, could he feel him. Everywhere all at once all of a sudden. The combination of compression and simultaneously rarefaction, like being pushed into a tube but also pulled paper-thin at the same time, was too much and not enough. Addictive and of course Nova heard what Nathaniel had just breathed against his throat, those words fluttering along his trachea with the same elusiveness as Nova’s pulse; yet the breathy cadence of those words didn’t subvert their weight, just as the evasiveness of Nova’s heart beat didn’t take away from its thrilled pace.
As impossible as it was not to hear his blood rushing in his ears, as if his skin had been peeled back and the wind was blowing through his veins, so was it a wasted effort not to hear those words and respond to them.
Barely had Nathaniel’s sentiment left his lips before Nova was trembling, coming undone in a way so entrancing that it was terrifying. The evidence was lain in warm ropes on his hot stomach and his lungs beat desperately for air. Sweat clung to every surface of his body, hair matted to his forehead and brow knit hopelessly, helplessly, as his lower lip fell trap to his teeth and strangled sounds of pleasure wormed free of him with every low, squeezing throb between his legs. He could assess the depth his nails had sunk into Nathaniel’s back; he could guess there were marks on him too, from the other man as well as from himself (if he wasn’t flushed Russian red from head to toe, it would be a miracle—or this would have to be a dream).
But no dream could carry with it the reality of Nathaniel Romanoff. Try though he might (and maybe he had, maybe he hadn’t), Nova couldn’t do the Black Asp justice with just his imagination. No amount of practice could perfect the way Nathan’s lips felt against his, coaxing his lower lip free, kissing it tender and soothing away the half-hurt Nova had caused himself from biting it. No memory archived from the training pits, the missions, or times like these could quite match the way Nathan simply was—his heat, his solidity, his weight, his altogether everything in physicality and everything else.
Nova’s heart opened to the surreality of it all, but clenched with dread just as quickly. Because whether those words, those wistfully whispered words spoken heatedly against Nova’s throat, were truthful was irrelevant. The truth, the only truth in that moment, was Nova’s only option, which was defection. A plan he’d been fabricating for months…
…a plan he found the courage to put into action the following day.
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