Disclaimer: Standard fair. Not owning just blatantly using for my amusement. It's kind of cruel of me probably but I don't think they're complaining.
Note: In response to an LJ prompt asking for Bruce thinking of Selina in the pearls and nothing else. Not really any plot here. I know. I never do that. Allsexytimes and no character growth. Here's to change.
Le Petite Mort
Bruce Wayne had always slept like the dead. From childhood-exhausted from play-to adulthood-muscles languid, body grievously punished—it was his habit to fall asleep like he was falling into the grave. He dropped off so fast that more than one childhood sleepover with Rachel Dawes had seen her checking his breath to make sure he was still alive.
It was a weakness, he knew, but one of the few he'd never bothered to guard against. And these days, less than ever. The Batman wasn't a hero any more; there weren't any enemies to catch him sleeping.
And so it was that it took a hand on his inner thigh, nails scraping the length of an old scar, to penetrate the satin shroud of sleep that draped his mind. He fought in the manner of dreamers against heavy lids and heavier limbs, adrenaline outpacing instinct, instinct outpacing thought. And so it was that by the time speech fell thickly from his mouth, his body had already seen to the threat. "What …?" His eyes were last to adjust, sluggish pupils just beginning to accommodate, confirming what he'd already learned from scent and touch.
His addled brain inventoried position of trunk and limbs. He'd woken fully astride a body, knees pinning down hips and braced against warm, decidedly feminine curves. His right hand pinned one much smaller to the mattress. And then there was his left arm pinning a pair of shoulders inelegantly so his forearm pressed at the tender flesh of a neck. And there, in the dim glow of moonlight and distant Gotham, was a string of perfect pearls, trapped in the junction of his forearm and the intruder's collarbone. Her collarbone.
"Ms. Kyle." Her face was inches away from his own, too close, almost, to be discernible. But he could make out the sweep of her cheeks, the soft, sculpted blades of her lips. "Those are my mother's pearls."
The body beneath him was warm and pliant, no struggle lurking its limbs. She didn't even acknowledge his forearm braced across her neck except to stretch that neck luxuriously, exposing the graceful, vulnerable traces of veins and arteries. "Which is why I'm returning them, obviously," she said, like it was.
"We've met twice," he argues. "And both times, you stole from me."
"Your point?" Her eyebrows raise and he can see the exact place her lip would curve if she weren't biting down a smile.
The hand not pinned to bed had remained free, it skated down his ribs now, almost tickling. If she'd had a knife she could have gutted him with his own body weight. As things stood, her fingertips were roaming low on the plane of his abdomen. No fumbling ventures for her, he might have her pinned but she was circling like he was prey.
"Why you'd bother returning something now is not obvious." And then, because he knows she expected to unsettle him, "And why you'd do it naked …. Unless it's …. Is this guilt? Did you crash my car?"
He watches laughter take her unawares, her body shaking and features dissolving from smirk to grin. The hand on his belly stops, palm going flat as that calculated, seductive composure cracks for a moment. "You're funny. For a billionaire shut in."
She recovers quickly, limbs suddenly tense, and flips them over so he's the one trapped on his back. "I don't do guilt, Mr. Wayne," she's all glorious swagger now, breathy voice raising his auditory nerves to hum with proximity.
The heavy blankets of his bed, twice-twisted, leave little to the imagination. As if his body hadn't already noted the feel of every curve. The string of pearls swims in his vision, bright against the richer tone of her skin, hard against the soft rise of her breasts. "I'm not immune to a good sob story." Her lips drop from his ear to graze just beneath it. He's sure she's close enough to hear him swallow hard. "Orphaned boy, mama's pearls." He can almost hear an eye roll in her voice but her lips fasten on his neck and he forgets immediately. "But you did say they look better on me. What's a girl to do?"
She leans down to kiss him then. There's no rush to it. She kisses like she has all night, like she can have him however long she wants. When he realizes his hand have stayed exactly where she pinned them, even with hers wandering, he thinks she might not be wrong. He let's out a breath, one louder than he intended and commingled with some epithet not even he can hear.
"Was that a suggestion?"
"You seemed to have it all figured out." He dips a hand under the blanket, fingers moving as purposefully as hers had when their positions were reversed. That he was aroused, she couldn't have failed to notice but he didn't plan to be the only one coming undone.
She doesn't gasp when he finds her wet and warm, only closes her eyes in a self-satisfied smile, letting her head loll while her hips circle. She gazes down at him from under heavy lids. "You're going to forgive me for the pearls."
"Like you care," he says, voice harsher now more like the one he'd worn so often in the dark.
She places a palm flat against his chest, leaning so the pearls hang between their lips. Her hands wraps around him in a fist, gliding, guiding. "It feels a little like I care, doesn't it?"
He wakes up rudely, shuddering on the brink of climax, feeling electric with the lingering wet dreams of a billionaire shut in. He groans into the sheets, banishing half-remembered images of an impudent thief in nothing but a string of stolen pearls.
But his brain calls up the scent of her on his sheets and his skin remembers the warm weight, gone hot where their bodies touched. His body was not going to submit to the cold iron of his will, not after so long, not after the way she smiled. "I don't do guilt, Mr. Wayne," she'd said. He resolves to follow her lead.