Lightning and muscle

A few months later, Avengers Tower gleamed once more, but this time it wasn’t for a celebration; it was for forgetting. Loki was imprisoned in Asgard, New York had stitched its wounds, and Thora Odinsdottir and Steve Rogers had thrown a private party on the top floor: just the two of them, a bottle of single-malt Scotch, and a room whose floor-to-ceiling glass framed the neon nightscape of Manhattan.

Thora, in golden, mirror-bright lingerie that looked more like erotic armor than underwear, raised her glass. “To the devil’s defeat, and to surviving.”

Steve, in dark jeans and a white T-shirt stretched tight across his chest, clinked his glass and smiled. “And to a night no one interrupts.”

The whisky burned. Thora set her glass down, stepped in, and slammed Steve against the glass wall. Her hand closed around his throat—not to ****, but to anchor. “Tonight I want to forget everything. You too.”

Steve’s eyes darkened. “Then let’s begin.”

Their mouths crashed together—rough, ravenous. Thora dragged her teeth across Steve’s lower lip, tasted blood; he groaned in answer. His hands found her waist, snapped the straps of her lingerie; the golden fabric peeled away like a second skin. Thora ripped his T-shirt down the middle, nails raking his chest, drawing thin lines of crimson.

“On the floor,” she ordered.

Steve dropped to his knees. Thora stepped back, spread her legs, and fisted his hair. “Eat me, Captain.”

Steve growled and lunged. His tongue went straight for her clit—sucking, swirling—two fingers plunging inside, pumping like he meant to break her apart. Thora arched, lightning crackling from her fingertips, dancing across Steve’s skin. He didn’t stop; he added a third finger, stretching, twisting, until Thora screamed—a sound that rattled the glass—and came hard, her release flooding his mouth.

But Thora wasn’t done.

She hauled him up, spun him, and threw him onto the couch. One yank and his jeans tore open; his cock sprang free—thick, rigid, pulsing. Thora sank to her knees, took him to the root in one deep suck. Steve’s head fell back with a guttural moan. She worked him—head bobbing, tongue swirling the crown, hand squeezing his balls—until he came with a choked cry, hot pulses spilling down her throat.

Thora swallowed, grinned, and climbed aboard. “Now I ride.”

She sank onto him in one slick drop. Steve groaned, hands bruising her hips. Thora set a punishing rhythm—hips slamming, ass slapping his thighs. Lightning flared from her skin, racing over Steve’s, making his muscles clench. He wrapped a hand around her throat, thumb pressing just enough, and met every thrust.

“Harder,” he snarled.

Thora leaned in, bit his neck, drew blood, and flipped him. Now Steve was behind her, cock driving deeper, rougher. Thora on all fours, head down, ass high. Steve gripped her hair, yanked, and pounded—each thrust a claim. His palm cracked across her ass, leaving red handprints.

“Come for me, Captain,” she taunted. “Show me how brutal you can be.”

Steve lost it. Thrusts turned savage, hips snapping, hand raining slaps that turned her skin scarlet. Thora screamed, lightning exploding from her core, racing down Steve’s shaft. He came with a roar, buried deep, flooding her.

But Thora still wasn’t finished.

She dragged him to the floor, straddled his face. “Eat me until you’re hard again.”

Steve’s tongue plunged inside, sucking, lapping, until Thora came again—gushing over his chin. When he was rigid once more, she slammed him against the wall, legs wrapping his waist, and rode him at a frenzied pace—until they both shattered in a simultaneous scream, lightning, sweat, blood, and raw pleasure fused.

They collapsed in a tangle of limbs, gasping, bodies mapped with bite marks, handprints, and scorch lines. Thora laughed—low, sated, feral.

“Next party?”

Steve’s hand settled on her ass, possessive. “Every night you want, goddess.”

Manhattan’s night rolled on below, but up here there was only the sound of their breathing and the scent of sex.