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In Private

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Steve is lying sleepless in the dark, empty barracks when the door opens and a figure slips inside. He tenses. All he can make out is the silhouette against the shifting moonlight as the door opens and closes. Has Hodge come back for one last attempt to sabotage him?

He shifts quietly to his side, watching as best he can through his eyelashes as the man edges along the walls and pulls all the shades down. All Steve’s worldly possessions are packed neatly in his trunk, and they mostly consist of books anyway. It’s not like you can pack your trunk full of weapons in basic training. He’s running through his options when he realizes that the man is too short to be Hodge, and anyway, everyone else in his unit shipped out early that morning.

In that case, he’s probably in the clear. Still. “Who’s there?” he says, his voice a little scratchy.

The intruder whirls and says, “Oh.”

Steve recognizes that voice. He sits up in bed. “Agent Carter?” he says, incredulous, as she says, “It’s Peggy Carter, Private Rogers.”

She finishes pulling down the shades and then comes to sit where Dr. Erskine had been sitting an hour earlier. She’s wearing trousers and has her hair tucked up in a hat, but enough moonlight spills through the shades that he can see the smooth curve of her cheek and the wide arch of her lips. He’s never seen her without lipstick before. All he’s wearing is his undershirt and a pair of drawers. He pulls the sheet up higher.

“What are you doing here?” he asks, baffled, and then rushes to cover his rudeness: “I mean — I don’t mean — you’re very — welcome — er —”

She takes pity on him by interrupting. “There’s something we need to take care of before your procedure tomorrow,” she tells him. Her voice is brisk. “If you’re amenable, that is.”

He frowns. “What is it? I thought I’d finished the checklist, and Dr. Erskine didn’t say anything when he was here a little while ago.”

“It’s not on the checklist,” she says, glancing coolly at her pocketwatch.

“New orders, then?”

She snaps the watch closed and tucks it away. “No. Nothing official. In fact, officially, I’m not here at all.”

He’s still mystified. “Then what?”

“Rogers,” she says, “why do you think I’ve snuck into your barracks at night, dressed like a man?”

“So no one would suspect anything improper,” he replies. “But beyond that, you’ve got me.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” she says, looking up at the ceiling. “Must I always do everything myself?”

“I expect so,” he retorts, “seeing as I have no idea —”

He shuts up when she bolts forward and kisses him.

Her lips are soft and full and she’s leaning over him, and he’s so surprised that he doesn’t do anything at all. He doesn’t know what to do. His last kiss was when he was 15, before he’d given up entirely on that growth spurt, and it hadn’t been anything to write home about, and Gladys Coombs had never spoken to him again, so he didn’t exactly have a great track record, but Agent Carter hasn’t given up yet so he figures he’d better try —

He cautiously, awkwardly, touches her neck, puts his thumb on the sharp angle of her jaw, and kisses her. She makes a relieved sort of “Mmmph” sound, and then — that’s tongue, that is definitely her tongue, her tongue is right there so he opens his mouth a little and — and —

Oh.

This kiss is — it’s — it is the kind of kiss that he has never had before. This is serious kissing, kissing with intent, Agent Carter has intentions for him, what is happening

And then she pulls away. He makes a sad noise.

“Shh, I’m not going anywhere,” she says, and straddles him. She kisses him again, with less tongue. “It was just hurting my back to lean over like that.”

Then she sits back, right on his lap, and wiggles. He was already getting hard, but that motion —

“Oh, God,” he says.

She smiles at him with kiss-swollen lips. “I’m here, Private Rogers, because I want you —” His cock leaps against her, and she licks her lips — “and we may not get another chance.”

“Oh,” he says, out of reflex, and then when he parses what she’s said, “Oh?”

“Yes,” she says. She slides a hand up his chest to rest over his heart, which means she must be able to feel its poor irregular thundering under her palm. “I hear there’s a war on.”

He nods.

“And I hear some people are signing themselves up for risky scientific procedures,” she continues.

“Yeah,” he says.

“So time is of the essence.” Because he might die tomorrow, she doesn’t say. “Tell me, Private Rogers, do you want me, too?”

She’s sitting right on top of him. There’s no way she can’t feel his erection. He clears his throat. “Yes,” he says, “yeah, yes, please.”

“Very good,” she replies, and then she gets off the bed.

He makes an involuntary noise like he’s been punched. She laughs down at him as she pulls off the hat and starts unbuttoning the jacket. “We’re not getting much further if you don’t take your clothes off,” she tells him, but he can’t stop watching her nimble fingers pushing each button through its buttonhole.

She drops the jacket on the other bed and starts unbuttoning her blouse. The faint light skims over the curves of her breasts and shimmers on the camisole she’s wearing. Steve swallows, hard enough that she looks up.

The corner of her mouth twitches. “Yes, I suppose you do have rather a head start on me. But I hope you’re not expecting a show.”

“No, ma’am,” he croaks.

“Good boy,” she says, and a shiver runs down his spine. She bends over to untie the boots she’s wearing, giving him an eyeful of generous — if shadowy — décolletage, and then looks up at him through her lashes as she pulls off the boots and then her socks. “But you wouldn’t object if I wanted to give you one?”

His mouth opens and closes silently. “No, ma’am,” he says faintly.

“I didn’t think so.” She stuffs her socks into her boots and steps closer. “Would you mind helping me with my trousers?”

He reaches out with trembling fingers and unbuckles the heavy belt, then undoes the button and the fly. His knuckles brush against her belly, still covered with her blouse and camisole. The intimacy of it catches in his throat. He licks his dry lips and looks up at her.

She’s regarding him seriously, but something in her eyes and the set of her mouth looks — well, hungry. “Very good,” she whispers, reaching out to run her thumb over his lower lip, and then, as if she can’t contain it, “Oh, I do want you so.”

Whatever terror has kept him partially paralyzed releases him then. He’s just determined now: to be good for her, to make her feel good. He pushes out of his bed. When they’re both barefoot, she’s only a couple inches taller than he is. He pulls her close and kisses her again, letting himself be as hungry as she looks. She makes a gratifying sound in the back of her throat and slides her hands up under his shirt, returning the kiss with enthusiasm. The fact that she’s touching his bare skin makes his cock twitch where it’s pressed against her thigh. Emboldened by her wandering hands, he gathers the soft material of her blouse in his fists and untucks it from her trousers.

“Yes,” she says into his mouth. “Yes, more, now.”

She breaks the kiss to shrug the blouse off, shimmy out of her trousers, and yank the camisole over her head. He realizes, with a frisson of scandalized shock, that she’s left off her girdle. With a quick contortion and twist, she unhooks and takes off her brassiere — he actually, humiliatingly, wheezes a little when her breasts jiggle free — and then she steps out of her panties

and

she’s

naked

and the terror returns, camping out in his belly and sending tremors throughout his body and dispatching a giant lump to his throat.

“So much for the show,” she says. “Now you.”

She reaches out and pulls his shirt over his head, leaving him in his tented drawers. The drape of the shirt in her hand conceals the dark triangle of hair between her thighs. He wants to touch her down there to see whether she’s wet and slippery like Bucky told him women get when they really want it.

“You’re so beautiful,” he says, inordinately proud of himself for managing a complete sentence for the first time since before she kissed him.

“Yes,” she says complacently, “but you’re downright edible,” and he gasps out a shocked laugh as she yanks his drawers down and his dick springs out.

He steps out of the drawers, she drops the shirt, and they tumble onto the bed, kissing desperately. Her breasts press into his chest. He slides his leg between hers and she gasps and grinds against him.

“Can I —” he manages, and she says, “Yes, yes, whatever you want,” so he pushes her onto her back and lies down partially on top of her so that he can catch one of her light brown nipples in his mouth. It rises up and tightens as if to meet him. She tastes sweet.

She lets out a soft moan and slides her hand up into his hair, scratching at his scalp gently. “Yes,” she tells him, “that’s so good, just like that.”

Pride bursts in his chest at the praise. He suckles in a steady rhythm and trails his hand up the inside of her thigh. She opens for him readily. He pets at her a bit, feeling her damp and crinkly curls. He’s a little disappointed; from what Bucky said, he thought women could get wetter than this, so he must be doing something wrong. But then she shifts, lets her legs fall open even further. His fingers slip a little deeper, just barely parting her, and he releases her nipple with a sharp inhale when he feels how shockingly wet she is. She lets out a deep moan as he traces the length of her plump, sleek folds: up, down, then up again, even further. At the top he feels a hard little ridge. As soon as he reaches it, she cries out again, and her hips jerk.

“Right there,” she gasps. “Back and forth, lightly — just like that, right there —”

He rubs the little nub just like she tells him to. Her nipple is swollen where he’s been sucking, so he shifts over to the other one. When he captures it in his mouth, she pulls his hair, but she also says “Yes” so fervently that he’s pretty sure she doesn’t want him to stop doing that either.

So he sucks and rubs. Her hips buck under him, and she’s making these soft, urgent noises. He speeds up as the rhythm of her hips increases. She’s getting even wetter; there are slick sounds with every move of his fingers now. Soon she says, “Oh, God, don’t you dare stop,” and then a few seconds later her back arches and her fingers dig into his neck and she lets out a long but muffled wail into the crook of her elbow.

He keeps going at a frantic pace until she collapses back onto the bed and pushes him off. Shaking out his aching hand, he watches her heaving, sweat-gleaming breasts. Both her nipples are dark and swollen now. His fingers are sticky and fragrant, and they’re so wet that the tips have gotten a little wrinkly. He touches his tongue to them, curious, and discovers that she tastes salty-sweet and tangy. He wonders if all girls taste that good or if it’s just her.

His cock feels harder than ever before. If he hadn’t had to provide a semen sample earlier that day, he’d have come already. As it is, he’s been so focused on making her feel good that he’s been able to stave off his own orgasm. Now, though, he’s very aware of the way his cock has been pressed into her hip. He’s left a wet spot of his own on her skin. But her loose-limbed sprawl is taking up most of the narrow bed, so if he tries to shift away he’ll just fall off.

A few minutes later, she shifts over and pulls him with her so that they’re both lying on their backs, staring up at the ceiling. She has her arm around him, wrapped around his shoulders, and slides her hand down over his heart.

“Christ,” she says eventually. “That was magnificent.”

“Yeah,” he agrees, dazed.

She turns her head to look at him. “I hope you’re not insulted if I sounded surprised.”

He can’t look at her. “It’s — it’s my first time,” he confesses in a rush. “So… no.”

She withdraws her arm and pushes herself up to look at him. The movement does very distracting things to her bosom. “Well,” she says. “Apparently you’re a natural.”

He risks a glance into her eyes. “Yeah?” he says, a smile tugging at his lips.

“Yes,” she replies, smiling in return. She leans down to kiss him, slow and lingering: once, twice, three times. She traces the line of his jaw. And then she runs her fingers down his sternum, down the hollow of his stomach, to grip his erection. “Now what are we going to do with this?”

He groans at the pressure of her hand and has to squeeze his eyes closed.

“I think,” she says, sliding her thumb over the head, “I want it inside me.”

“Oh, Jesus,” he says, as his cock oozes a drop of liquid and she smears it around. And then his eyes pop open and he looks at her in horror. “I don’t have any rubbers.”

She waves a hand, unconcerned. “I’m wearing a Dutch cap, and neither of us have VD.”

“Okay,” he breathes.

And then she straddles him, holds his dick steady, and sinks down on him. He lets out a strangled noise. He was expecting the slick wetness, but somehow he wasn’t expecting the heat of her body as she engulfs him.

“You can touch me,” she says, and then she starts to move, slowly rising up until he’s just about to slip out and then sliding back down.

He carefully puts his hands on her thighs near her knees. Her skin is smooth and pale. He stares at her avidly, trying to commit the sight to memory so that he could draw it someday, if he ever dared. Her hair is still pinned up; he imagines it falling in loose curls that he could bury his fingers in. Her eyes are closed, eyelashes a dark smudge against her cheekbones. Her full lips open just a bit as she sighs in pleasure. He’d have to color deep shadows under the sharp blade of her jaw, in the hollow of her throat, under the strong architecture of her collarbones. Getting the curves and shading of her breasts just right would be tricky, making sure that they’re perfectly full and heavy without making them look cartoonish. She doesn’t have a wasp waist like the pinup girls so often do, but the flare from waist to hip is still devastating. And then there’s the tangle of shadows between her legs, where he can see himself emerging from her each time she lifts up.

He looks back up at her face and swallows heavily when he finds that she’s looking at him. Her expression is serious, but otherwise unreadable. His must be openly worshipful. She leans forward, planting her hands on either side of his head, and kisses him. Her mouth is hot and lush, like her undulating body, and suddenly he needs more. He slides his hands up to her backside and draws his knees up so that he can get more leverage to thrust into her.

She moans into his mouth and picks up the pace. She’s riding him hard now, and the sound of creaking springs and the slap of skin echo through the empty barracks. He has to break the sloppy kiss so that he can breathe. They’re both sweating in earnest, and then just as he’s starting to think he can let himself come, his dick slips out of her and slides up her cleft.

“Sorry,” he gasps.

She just sits up, reaches back, and reseats herself. “It happens,” she says.

She leans forward and starts riding him again, and he watches the powerful roll of her hips, mesmerized. Her breasts bounce toward his face. With each thrust, she’s making the same soft noises that she did before when she was close to orgasm. The rickety metal bed is thumping against the wall and the springs are screeching and her weight is pressing him into the mattress. It’s all so overwhelming — not just the sight of her, but the sensation of plunging into her, the sounds and smells of sex, the feeling of closeness to her —

“Rogers,” she murmurs, looking down at him, “you’re being so good for me.”

And that’s it for him. He groans and pushes in deep and comes so hard it feels like he’s shooting his soul into her. He’s dimly aware that she’s started rubbing herself at a frenetic pace, and then he feels her clamp down all around his cock in rippling waves that trigger helpless aftershocks in him. She presses her mouth against him and moans into his neck.

And then she collapses on top of him.

She’s heavier than he thought she’d be — not that he minds. They’re both covered in sweat, and he’s wheezing again: nothing dangerous, just a reminder of his useless lungs. His softening cock slides out of her and deflates quickly in the cool air.

He turns his head to kiss her ear and the bit of neck that he can reach. He runs his fingers along her spine.

“Mmm,” she says. She lifts her head and gives him a lazy kiss. “I’d like to do that again sometime.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he says.

She pushes herself up and laughs. “I think you can call me Peggy,” she tells him. “In private, at any rate.”

He’s smiling and smiling. “Yes, ma’am.”

Peggy leans down and kisses him again, long and sweet. “You’d better get some sleep,” she says. She cups his face in her hands and strokes her thumbs along his cheeks. “Tomorrow is rather important, after all.”

He watches, silently, as she gets dressed. Her movements were efficient before; now she’s languorous. When she’s all put back together, he catches her hand.

“Thank you, Peggy,” he says. “For really seeing me, I mean, not just for…”

“Do try not to be an idiot, Rogers, if you can manage it,” she says with asperity, but her eyes are tender. “Thanks are hardly necessary. Get some rest. I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Call me Steve,” he tells her, still holding onto her hand with both of his.

“Only in private,” she says severely. But she leans over and gives him one last kiss. He slides his free hand up her arm to cup the back of her neck, tugging her as close as he can for the long, languid twist of their tongues.

Eventually she pulls away. “Be good, Steve,” she whispers, pressing her thumb to the corner of his mouth, and then she pulls her hat over her frizzed halo of hair and slips back out the door into the night.