Your Ivy Grows

Chapter 48

My recovery time is not nearly as impressive as Bucky's is. He's already stirring beneath me while I'm happy to stay with my knees to the plush carpet and my head resting on his thigh.

"You good, baby?"

My confirmation is quiet and weak, but he must hear me because he sits up fully. I shift my head a little as he pushes the hair from my face, giving me a clear view of him looking down at me.

"You sure about that? You seem pretty out of it."

I take his smug grin as a challenge, lifting my head off of him and trying to look like I don't immediately want to collapse back down.

"Never been better."

"Good," he says with a smile, reaching for me and helping pull me to my feet. "Come here."

Bucky tugs me closer, and I go willingly despite my still-shaky legs. My arms loop around his neck, eating up the gap between us and steadying myself as we stare at one another. The half-dazed smile lighting up his face and dopey eyes betrays how little he's actually recovered from what I just did to him.

A contended sigh falls from my lips when I feel his fingers softly brush across my cheek and I automatically lean into his touch. He holds my face still as the pad of his thumb swipes gently beneath one eye and then the other, wiping away the remnants of the tears that had slipped out when I came.

Do I even want to know what kind of state I'm in? I'm wondering if my mascara lived up to its waterproof claims or if I currently resemble a panda.

"You're so fucking beautiful," he whispers reverently, the sheer sincerity in his eyes assuaging my fears.

The hand against my cheek urges my face closer until our lips are a hair's breadth apart. Usually I wouldn't hesitate, but in this moment I falter. The taste of his release lingers, and I wonder if that'll bother him.

Sensing my unease, Bucky retreats enough to meet my eyes and whatever he sees there has him shaking his head. Then his hand is possessively gripping the curve of my neck and determinedly pulling me the rest of the way. His mouth slots against mine as though it were made to be there.

This kiss is a dance of his making, one I instinctively know the steps too, matching his rhythm effortlessly. His fingers spear into my hair, angling my head where he wants it as his tongue glides over my bottom lip, begging me to open.

The longer I hold out, the more urgent his kiss becomes. And though the self-conscious part of me wants to resist, I can't. My mouth parts and his tongue invades.

His tongue sweeps in, his every movement deliberate and certain. A stark contrast to how tentative mine are. The tiniest growl of frustration leaves him, and then he's sucking on my tongue, urging me to match his enthusiasm stroke for stroke.

"Baby," he pants against my mouth. "You think I care that I'm still coating your tongue?" He's not annoyed. If anything, he's amused by my worries. "Trust me, it turns me on. Reminds me how good you looked on your knees with your mouth wrapped around me. Get up here."

He matches his commanding words with a dominating hand to my hip, fingers digging in as tries to pull me up onto the mattress. This time, I allow the voice in my head to win out.

"Let me go clean myself up; I'm a mess."

It's not an exaggeration. Sucking his cock was enough to get me soaked, but then he had me touch myself. I can still feel how slick I am between my legs and on the inside of my thighs.

When I try to step away, his hand curls harder into my hip and keeps me in place.

"Uh-uh," he tsks, insistent as both his hands now circle my hips and drag me up onto the bed, spreading my legs so I'm straddling him. "Make a mess of me; I don't care."