As though he'd hit - a button, or something, found some sort of string to tug that had wrapped around her spine and pulled her into an arch. Automatic and entirely out of her control, it was her body's natural response and if it had been anyone else, anyone but Clint, she would have been something close to embarrassed by the jolt that rolled through her, the obvious display of it. But there was no room for that here, it was just - joyful, and easy, and of course that was what happened: Clint Barton put his mouth to her collarbone and his hands to her breasts at the same time, and her body bowed up into his as though she was some perfect shot he'd lined up and loosed.
It made her laugh, and for a second, she didn't recognize herself. He'd picked her up, he'd laid her on her back, hot mouth and calloused hands and God, she would have known that touch anywhere, and suddenly she was laughing because the joy in it was too much to hold in her chest without some of it leaking out. She worked her hands between them, snapping the button on his jeans and pushing them down his hips, just enough that he'd be able to wiggle them out of the way, but it wasn't enough to touch his hips, his chest, his shoulders, her hands had to cradle his face again, stroke along the sides of his jaw.
"Use your mouth on them, a little, I love that," she told him. "While you can. Soon I'll need to kiss you until I can't fucking breathe, you're - perfect." His favorite word, and she hadn't understood it until now, but she did, she did.