Bucky's run for Congress was a ride. He wasn't even sure he'd make it in, but then the votes came and he won. His first call was to his secretary; he needed someone he trusted, and she was looking for a way out of past troubles. She was his obvious choice, and she said yes.

Problem? He had history with her. A big one. Friends? Yes. Fuck buddies? Absolutely. Feelings? Always there but never acted on, as she got into her mess before he could properly confess and vanished for a while. Now she was back, and she kept teasing him.

It started small. A message here. A flirt there. He'd bite back because his interest had never waned, and she was still as beautiful as he remembered. But it grew. Riskier, hotter, until sometimes Bucky felt like a teenager again with their workplace games. Hiding in dark corners of the Capitol building, catching her smirking when she "accidentally" brushed too close, replaying her voice notes in the middle of the night with his fist around his cock. She was driving him deliciously insane, and he knew he was doing the same to her.

Lately it was getting out of hand. There were days he was so worked up, so hard just from the thought of her, that he had to palm himself under his desk for relief. Days where he ducked into the bathroom before a meeting to jerk himself half-raw just so he wouldn't walk around the Capitol with cum-stained boxers. He knew she would have loved that, would've laughed, maybe even licked it off him. That thought alone made him groan into his fist more than once.

She knew exactly what she did to him. That's why she stood so close, wore that perfume he loved that drove him crazy—feral with need. The small huff of amusement when she stood behind him or presented points for upcoming meetings, catching the slight movement of his arm under his desk. That telltale sign of what he was doing to himself in that moment. The smirk that never failed to have him biting his tongue until he tasted copper to stop groans from tearing out of his throat.

At the moment, he was in a meeting with staff members, desperately trying to listen as his erection strained against his pants. This was what he got for checking those messages before the meeting. The images she had sent were seared into his brain; her in that sheer lace set, delicately framing and highlighting everything so perfectly, the embroidered florals barely covering what needed to be covered, and the suspenders holding up her thigh highs. The photo was clearly taken in the bathroom just before this meeting, so he knew she was wearing that very set right now. In fact, her skirt had ridden up, and Bucky could see the white ribbon of her suspender.

Bucky's jaw clenched so hard he could taste blood. His hand twitched toward his bulge but he forced it down, trying to focus on the meeting. Words floated past his ears—names, reports, updates—but none of it mattered. He could feel the heat pooling low in his stomach, the desperate thrum of his cock in his pants. He clenched his teeth, silently praying for a distraction.

Then—a ping. A new message. He didn't even have to look at the screen to know who it was from.

That was it. His hand was back on his cock before he registered the movement, palm moving roughly over the tented fabric, hips shifting beneath the table slightly to get friction without drawing notice. His leg bounced, his throat clenched, and he let out a tiny, desperate groan muffled into his fist with a cough. He could smell her perfume, feel the curve of her hips, the warmth of her thighs against his face as he devoured her pussy in his imagination. Every nerve screamed her name, and he knew that if this meeting didn't end right now, he was going to lose all control entirely—just spread her out like the feast she was on the table, witnesses be damned.

Another ping. He looked over to where she sat, seeing the smug smirk on her face as she subtly waved her phone, gesturing for him to check his messages. He did, and Bucky couldn't take it anymore. He adjusted his tie with a sharp tug, jaw tight, sweat prickling at his temples as he slammed his folder shut a little too hard. Everyone around the table jumped, eyes snapping to him. His smile was tight, politician-smooth, but his voice was low and dangerous when he finally spoke.

"Meeting's over. We'll pick this up tomorrow."

The staff scrambled to gather their things, muttering, shuffling papers, filing out quickly under his impatient stare, confused but not questioning him when he clearly seemed upset. He didn't hear a word. His gaze was fixed on her across the room, the picture of innocence as she jotted something in her notes, skirt riding just a little too high, those stockings still peeking out like a promise meant only for him.

"Stay," he said. Just one word, but it hit like a command.

The door clicked shut behind the last staffer, and suddenly it was just them. Just him, throbbing in his pants, and her, still pretending she didn't know exactly what kind of hell she'd put him through for the last hour.

Bucky leaned back in his chair, eyes dark and hungry, palming his cock shamelessly now that no one else was there to see. His voice came out rough, dripping with every ounce of pent-up need he'd been choking down since her first text.

"You think this is funny, doll? Sendin' me pictures like that before a meeting? Teasin' me while I'm tryin' to run a goddamn office? ... You think you're clever?"

His hand squeezed himself harder, a growl rumbling in his chest as his head tipped back, eyes still locked on her. Then he leaned forward, elbows on the desk, the predator finally ready to pounce.