Natasha won't. There are things she'll regret about this, but the bruises won't be one of them.

As she rides him, the rhythm of of her breathing changes, the gasps coming huskier in her throat. The inhuman pattern of her hips evolves into an urgent shimmy—all but weightless over him. Her pedipalps grasp at his hips as fiercely as his claws do hers.

Her climax, when it hits, breaks like a dam. First a crack, then a trickle, then a sudden, overwhelming, primal wash of relief.