Your Hands Have Made Some Good Mistakes

Jealousy

Late morning sunlight filtered through the window, drenching your bare skin in gold. The light glinted off Bucky's vibranium fingers as they dug into your hip, his thumb pressing into a dimple on your lower back. His right hand traced up your spine, pressing your shoulders down toward the mattress before he grabbed a fistful of your hair and pulled sharply. Your sleepy, breathy moans were drowned out by the lewd slapping of skin and Bucky's grunts as he started the day in his new favorite way.

Bucky Barnes was fucking insatiable.

Morning sex, afternoon sex, sex before bed. Sex after bed, when Bucky couldn't sleep so he woke you with soft touches and whispered words. In the kitchen, on the couch, with your back against the door. Days like today, when you woke him up with your mouth around his already-stiff cock, and as soon as he could see straight he rose to his knees and flipped you over— Jesus fucking Christ, he was spoiled rotten.

Bucky's phone vibrated on the nightstand, the buzzing jarring enough to tear his focus away from you. He glanced over at it, but you whimpered underneath him and it didn't matter— nothing mattered except for how you were gripping him, squeezing around his cock in pulses because you were getting close. He fucked into you a bit faster but the phone buzzed again, longer this time, repetitive— an incoming call.

"Buck, just get the phone," you said, breathless as you jolted forward with each slam of his hips.

"No," he grunted with a particularly deep thrust. "Wanna come, need you to come, sweetheart. Let me feel you." He reached over and silenced the phone— that was better, now he could focus. He angled his hips just right, each stroke hitting that spot inside you that made you see stars. It hadn't taken him too long to remember his old tricks, but women in the 40s had been different— too quiet, too polite to tell him if he wasn't doing something right. Too conservative, shy, never opening up for him like you did. You were quick to stop him if he did something wrong, quick to correct him, and holy hell were you quick to reward him when he got it right.

He folded his body over your back and reached around to rub your clit. Oh, yeah, that's what you needed. Bucky gasped when you clenched down around him, your thighs trembling so violently that he had to support your weight with his arm. This was it, Bucky's favorite feeling in the world, both of you right there on the edge— but out of the corner of his eye, Bucky saw his phone screen light up again.

He opened his mouth to say something, but he was interrupted by your shaky demand: "Fuck, keep going, keep going—" You didn't know the phone was still going off; you couldn't see the screen with your face pushed into the pillow.

There it was— you gasped and sunk back against him, taking him as deep as you could. You crashed around him in waves, and Bucky let out a long, low grunt as he fell over the edge with you. He released deep inside you, the feeling of his cock pulsing with each spurt only intensified by your warm cunt gripping down on him. That feeling would never get old, he'd never get tired of it; each time took his breath away, shut down every thought in his brain, left him drowsy and awestruck and so, so smitten.

But he didn't have time to revel in the moment— that goddamn screen flashed again, and he swiped the phone off the nightstand.

Bright blue eyes stared at Bucky from the contact photo as another call came through— fucking Steve Rogers. Bucky's upper lip curled into a sneer. He knew Steve could be an annoying little shit, but this was next-level. He didn't pull out before he answered.

"What do you want?" he hissed as he gave another quick thrust into you, making you gasp. You met Bucky's eyes over your shoulder, his annoyance clear across his face as Steve spoke. But that expression quickly changed to confusion, and then to full-on panic.