Wine and Love

The Avengers Tower was silent at 2 a.m.—everyone asleep, the city lights flickering far below like scattered stars. Maria Hill’s private suite glowed softly from a single lamp and the low hum of jazz drifting from hidden speakers. She stood by the floor-to-ceiling window, a crystal glass of deep-red Cabernet in her hand, still in her charcoal blazer and pencil skirt, stockings sheathing her legs like a second skin. Peter Parker slipped through the door in nothing but black boxer briefs, the outline of his arousal already pressing against the fabric.

“Close the door, Peter,” she said without turning, voice velvet and steel. He obeyed, the click of the lock loud in the quiet.

She finally faced him, eyes raking over his bare chest, the faint scars from old battles, the tremor in his thighs. “Pour yourself a glass. Then come kneel.”

Peter’s hands shook as he filled a second glass from the decanter on the side table. The wine was rich—black cherry, smoke, a hint of spice. He took one sip, then set it aside and sank to his knees on the thick rug, the city’s glow painting silver lines across his skin.

Maria circled him slowly, heels clicking. She trailed a fingertip from his shoulder blade down the groove of his spine, stopping just above the waistband. “You’ve been thinking about this all day, haven’t you? While you were swinging between buildings, saving the world… your mind was here. On your knees for me.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he breathed.

She smiled, took a slow sip of wine, then tilted his chin up. “Open.”

Peter parted his lips. Maria leaned down and let a thin stream of Cabernet trickle from her mouth into his. The wine was warm from her lips, tart and intoxicating. He swallowed, throat working, eyes locked on hers.

“Good boy.” She set her glass on the windowsill, then unbuttoned her blazer—slowly, deliberately—revealing a black lace bra that cupped her full breasts. The blazer stayed on, open like a frame. She unzipped her skirt just enough to let it ride low on her hips, the lace tops of her stockings now visible. Still fully in control, still clothed where it mattered.

She straddled his lap without touching him, hovering an inch above his straining cock. “Hands behind your back.” He clasped his wrists. She reached for the bottle, poured a ribbon of wine down her own sternum. It pooled in the hollow between her breasts, then spilled lower, soaking the lace.

“Clean me.”

Peter leaned in, tongue tracing the path of the wine—salt of her skin, the bite of the Cabernet, the heat of her body. He lapped at the lace, sucked gently at the soaked fabric until her nipple hardened beneath it. Maria’s fingers threaded through his hair, guiding, not gentle.

When she’d had enough, she pushed him flat onto his back. The rug was soft; the city lights spun above them. She stood over him, skirt hiked just enough to reveal the damp patch on her black panties.

“Take these off with your teeth.”

Peter rose to his knees again, mouth brushing the inside of her thigh as he caught the lace edge between his teeth. He tugged slowly, the fabric sliding down toned legs until it pooled at her ankles. She stepped out, kicked it aside.

Maria poured the last of the wine into her glass, then tipped it over Peter’s chest. The cool liquid ran in rivulets down his abs, pooling in his navel. She knelt, licked a slow line from his hipbone to his nipple, tasting wine and the faint salt of his skin.

“Beg.”

“Please, Maria… let me inside you. I need—”

She silenced him with a finger to his lips, then guided his hand between her thighs. She was slick, swollen, ready. “Feel how wet your obedience makes me.”

Peter groaned as his fingers slid through her folds. She rocked against his hand once, twice, then pulled away.

“Not yet.”

She pushed his briefs down, freeing his cock—hard, flushed, a bead of precome at the tip. Maria wrapped her fingers around him, stroked once, slow and firm. Then she reached for the wine bottle—empty now—and pressed the cool glass neck against his lips. “Hold this. Don’t drop it.”

Peter clamped his teeth gently around the bottle’s neck. Maria straddled him again, this time lowering herself until the head of his cock nudged her entrance. She sank down inch by inch, eyes never leaving his. The bottle trembled in his mouth as she rolled her hips, taking him fully.

She rode him slowly—controlled, deliberate—her blazer still open, breasts bouncing slightly with each thrust. The city lights reflected in her eyes, wild and commanding.

“Drop the bottle and I stop,” she warned.

Peter’s jaw ached, but he held on. Maria’s pace quickened, her breath hitching. She leaned forward, whispered against his ear: “Come with me, baby. Now.”

She clenched around him, a low moan escaping as her orgasm hit. Peter followed instantly, hips bucking, the bottle clattering to the rug as he spilled inside her with a broken cry.

Maria stayed on him a moment longer, both of them panting. Then she kissed him—soft, wine-sweet, possessive.

“Clean up the mess,” she murmured, nodding at the spilled wine and the bottle. “Then come to bed. We’re not done.”

Peter smiled, dazed and utterly hers. “Yes, ma’am.”