Natasha’s hands were warm against your back, her fingers tracing slow, deliberate circles as she deepened the kiss. She had you in her lap, exactly where she wanted you, holding you as if she never intended to let go. Her lips were soft but insistent, her breath mixing with yours, her body radiating heat that made it impossible to think of anything else.

Then, her fingers dipped under the hem of your shirt. A simple movement, one she had done countless times before, but this time, your body tensed. Instinctively, you grabbed her wrists, stopping her before she could lift the fabric.

She pulled back slightly, her sharp eyes scanning your face, immediately catching the hesitation in your expression. “What’s wrong?” she murmured, her voice gentle but firm, as if she already knew.

You shook your head, your cheeks burning. It was stupid. You knew it was stupid. But the moment you thought about her seeing you—really seeing you, the softness of your stomach, the parts of you that weren’t toned or sculpted—you felt a wave of embarrassment wash over you.

Natasha didn’t allow it. She never did.

Her grip on you tightened just enough to remind you that you weren’t going anywhere. One hand trailed up your spine, fingertips ghosting over your skin, while the other stayed steady on your thigh, grounding you. “Hey,” she whispered, pressing her forehead to yours, her breath warm against your lips. “Stay with me.”

You swallowed hard, your fingers still curled around her wrists, uncertain. But she didn’t push. She never rushed you. She just waited, her patience infinite when it came to you.