James Bucky Barnes, the former soldier, doesn't think he's got any gentleness left in him. But Grace Juniper Cunningham, the former child prodigy, strongly disagrees.
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"𝘐 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘐 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘣𝘳𝘰𝘬𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘣𝘳𝘢𝘪𝘯."
"𝘛𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘴�...
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"Can we look at stars when it's safe to go on a real date? Like we were going to?" I asked Bucky.
"Sure. But I really just need—"
"It'll be fun, I swear. I won't talk too much. I'll talk the perfect amount."
"Talk as much as you want, doll," he said quickly. "But can you—"
"Maybe we can do it more than once if you like it. We can go on walks in that park, too, and—"
"—Grace. You can keep talking, but I really need you to move," he told me.
"Okay. Sorry. I'm just really happy."
"I know, baby."
I'd gotten distracted while I was riding him. I was just sitting on his cock, not moving so I could talk to him. I re-started.
If Colin thought I was a bitch for staying in Bucky's apartment after I thought he died, then I really didn't want to know what he'd think if he knew my laptop was open, ready to ding if I got any sign that he was alive, placed on the nightstand next to the bed where I was riding Bucky. I felt guilty, like I should be inconsolably worried. Like I was too happy.
"Fuck, that's it, that's my good girl."
I didn't feel guilty enough to stop— "Feels so good, Daddy."
"You're doing so fuckin' good, baby, you're so fuckin' perfect."
He didn't thrust up into me or control my hips like I figured he would. I thought he liked the idea of me doing whatever I wanted tonight.
"Fuck, you can show me all the stars you want," he groaned. "Keep talking about it."
I had to collect my thoughts. "We can—mm—we can go on museum dates, and—and you like baseball—god—I think it's really boring but we can go to games—"
"Like hell we will—fuck, baby that's so good—they moved the Dodgers to Los Angeles. Baseball is dead."
"Maybe you can—mm—pick a new team."
"Gonna pretend you didn't say that."
"Aren't there other New York teams?" I panted. "How does that work? Aren't there, like, the Yankees? What's the difference?"
"Baby—baby no. I can't believe you just said that."
"What did I do?" I stilled again.
"They beat us in the World Series in '41. Baby, no...I may barely remember my own name, but I remember that."
"I'm sorry!" I said. I started bouncing again, with more enthusiasm, in an effort to distract him.
It worked. "God, I wanna fuck you while you're in a Dodgers jersey. Used to you'd—fuck, baby—you'd dress up to go to a game. Didn't used to wear the—the jerseys. But I wanna find one like the old ones—fuck—you think they make 'em?"
