The air in St_rk’s penthouse was thick with the clink of crystal and the low, self-satisfied hum of victory. Another threat neutralized, another reason for the world’s so-called heroes to pat themselves on the back. James Barnes stood apart from it, a statue of coiled tension in a too-tight button-down, the starched collar feeling like a noose. He’d rather be anywhere else—cleaning his rifle, staring at a wall, the fucking dentist—than here, surrounded by this performative cheer.

You were his anchor in the sea of bullshit. You wore a little black dress that should have been classified as a lethal weapon, the fabric clinging to every curve he’d mapped with his hands and his mouth. All night, he’d tracked you.

He’d been polite. He’d nodded at St_ve’s stories, grunted in the right places at T_ny’s tech-babble. But his entire world had narrowed to the heat of your skin through that infuriatingly thin dress. Every time you shifted, every time you leaned into his touch, it was like a jolt to his system. The animal part of his brain, the part that had been a soldier longer than it had been a man, was chanting a single, primitive mantra: Take her. Now.

The moment you finished your drink and set the glass on a passing tray, he saw his opening. He didn’t ask. His fingers curled just a fraction more firmly against your spine, a silent command you understood perfectly.

“We’re leaving,” he murmured into your ear, his voice a low thrum that vibrated through you. It wasn’t a suggestion.

You offered a sweet, parting smile to the group. “Early morning,” you lied smoothly, and the sheer normalcy of the white lie, the domestic conspiracy of it, sent a thrill through him.

The walk to the private elevator was an exercise in torture. The click of your heels on the polished concrete echoed the frantic rhythm of his own pulse. He could smell your perfume—something expensive and floral—mingling with the scent of your skin, a combination that was driving him out of his goddamn mind. He kept his hand on you, guiding you, his thumb stroking a maddeningly slow circle against the dip of your spine.

The elevator doors, sleek and silent, slid open. The second they whispered shut, cutting off the party’s din, the last thread of his control snapped.

He spun you, your back meeting the cool, brushed metal of the wall with a soft thud. There was no transition, no polite question. His mouth was on yours, a hungry, devouring kiss that tasted of stolen champagne and pure, unadulterated need. It wasn’t gentle. It was a claiming. A release.

A low groan ripped from his chest as his hands found your hips, pulling you hard against him, erasing any last bit of space. He could feel the entire, perfect length of you. “This fucking dress,” he growled against your lips, his voice ragged. His metal hand slid down, over the curve of your ass, gripping your thigh and hiking it up to hook around his hip. The pose arched your back, pressing you even closer. “I’ve been watching you all night. Thinking about what I was gonna do to you the second I got you alone.”

The elevator climbed, the numbers above the door blinking with agonizing slowness. He didn’t care. The world outside this metal box had ceased to exist. He dropped his head, his mouth finding the frantic pulse at the base of your throat, sucking a dark bloom onto your skin that he knew your dress would hide.

“James,” you gasped, your fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of his neck, pulling just enough to make him see stars.

He lifted his head, his eyes, dark and blown wide with desire, locking onto yours. The blue was almost gone, swallowed by the storm inside him. A wicked smirk touched his swollen lips. “What’s the matter, doll? Can’t wait five more floors?”