Recipe for Romance: A Bucky Barnes Story

27: Don't Stop

           

Warning: SMUT

The tap trickles warm water. A giggle bubbles out of my lips and Bucky's smiling crookedly. His nose—sharp and masculine—wiggles to tease me.

"Stop it! I don't wanna cut you," I laugh despite the seriousness I'm trying to convey. He stands between my legs as I sit on the bathroom counter of his apartment. We're both still sporting our messy morning hairdos and pajamas. The scent of his breath is reminiscent of the tea he drank with his toast for breakfast. I had chocolate cereal, which he thinks is disgustingly sweet.

"You better not cut me, gorgeous. Or I'll have to take you down," Bucky threatens in a light jest. But he decides to stay still now as he lets me continue to shave his burly face. We've decided that he's in need of a shave before meeting my family later today.

We're still home in his apartment. Our flight doesn't leave for another few hours, so we've got plenty of time. I woke up in his arms an hour before with the smell of him enveloping me like a cozy duvet and his metal arm protectively clasped around my waist. His face had been nuzzled into my long curls and his fingers clutching onto the fabric of the shirt I wore. I'd smiled dreamily, feeling so safe and peaceful in his embrace, before rolling over to kiss his lips. He'd awoken with a confused blink before yawning and saying, "Good morning, love." His morning voice was so goddamn sexy, but I chose not to comment on it.

"Ouch," Bucky hisses—catapulting me out of my thoughts. I gasp and look intently at the place where I could've just nicked him. But then he's giggling and I realize that it's all just a rouse.

I slap his arm—the flesh one. "Shut up!"

I don't know how he's doing it, but I've almost completely forgotten about what happened last night. Maybe it has to do with how hard he held me last night, or how hard he'd made me laugh when he impersonated our least favorite newscaster on the TV. Somehow, Bucky Barnes has eradicated all my former nightmares and replaced them only with sweet daydreams about him.

"I'm almost done," I tell him. Tongue sticking slightly out of my lips, I run the razorblade through the last of his beard. "Done." Then I'm setting the razor on the counter and letting him go to the sink to wash all the crap away. I'm grinning with eager excitement.

When Bucky emerges from the towel with a clean shaven face, I nearly scream.

Bucky regards my wide grin with a smile of his own. One of his eyebrows lifts up in question. "Well? What do you think?"

To answer, I grab his face with both hands. I pull him closer until I can get my lips on his. Then I'm kissing him so hard and fierce that the only way Bucky can think to respond is moan in desperate need. His hands dart out to clutch my waist. I run my fingers all over his soft face until reaching his hair to tug gently. I pull back until his neck is exposed and I can kiss him there. He grunts and gruffly pulls me from the counter and into his arms. Effortlessly he holds me in the air while my mouth pleasantly trails over his neck—tasting a little bit of the menthol shaving cream that remains.

"Babe—goddammit," Bucky purrs. I smirk against his shoulder. My hands roam down the front of his chest.

Bucky stumbles out of the bathroom. We make it to the living room and then we're falling onto the couch. First I'm underneath, but it doesn't take much effort for me to flip myself on top. Now we're getting a bit out of hand here. Speaking of hands: mine are now at his crotch. Hard but slow I palm him through the grey joggers.

"Fuck," Bucky curses. He growls and juts his hips closer. His whole face is flushed pink. The room is a hundred degrees warmer. I can feel him getting hard. It's almost an instant reaction to my touch. Usually all it takes is a French kiss, so I'm not surprised when I reach into his boxer's and find he's straining against the fabric.