Work Text:
The first time that Bruce Wayne saw you, he didn’t think anything of you. He didn’t think that you would end up being anything more than the latest lab technician at the new federally funded lab that he had to oversee as CEO of Wayne Enterprises. He certainly never thought that he would end up introducing you to his children at the next Wayne Foundation Gala.
It was supposed to just be something that Wayne Enterprises could write off on their taxes—something about quantifying carbon sequestration in the coastal marshes so that the monetary values of coastal marshes could be quantified for conservation purposes. It was important PR, important enough for Bruce Wayne to go to Gotham University himself, to recruit local seniors who were still looking for a job.
That was the first time he saw you, in an auditorium in the basement of the sciences and engineering hall. He got to give a talk on the importance of the work, on how giving marshes a monetary value for how much carbon they could take out of the atmosphere to combat greenhouse gas effects and global warming, if more sites of coastal marshes were able to be designated for conservation and preservation, and if their monetary value was high enough. He spoke about it as if it were something that he was passionate about, something that he studied himself, instead of something that his assistant suggested to invest in as a PR stunt for good press.
The way that he spoke was entrancing. Bruce Wayne spoke to an auditorium full of over two hundred biology majors, but he was so charismatic, so magnetic that it felt like he was only speaking to you. Every word, every breath of air was somehow directed at you in the center left section of the seating. The stagelights highlighted the silver strands that graced the mostly black hair by his temples and the satin tie around his neck.
Something—something—“marsh grasses.”
That was when you realized that his eyes were blue from the third row.
Something—something—“great research opportunities and prioritizing local ecosystems.”
Your friend elbowed you then and giggled at you for gawking at a billionaire twice your age.
-_-
You thought that it was nothing short of a miracle when you got the email that confirmed you got the position. It was a generic email, the type where some secretary fills in your name, position, a contact, and a starting date. The rest of it was some predetermined “we’re so happy to inform you that your application was exceptional… etc., etc., etc.,” kind of BS that everyone who got recruited to work for Wayne Enterprises got. It said that you were a part of a family now. The absurdity of such a statement from such a giant conglomerate made you laugh.
It was your first industry job, sure, you worked in your professor’s lab for credits and volunteer hours, but this was real. On your first day, you may have been overdressed, but you were going to meet the people behind this entire project, the people who signed off on the research grants, the people who paid for the lab space and supplies. You had to make a good impression so that they wouldn’t decide to despise you and use that as a reason to defund the entire project. Or, at least that’s what you told yourself.
That was when you found out it was only Bruce Wayne funding the research. No one else, no angel donors, no rich tree-huggers or nepo-babies with a too-big heart. Just Bruce Wayne, the billionaire, who was somehow concerned for coastal marsh ecosystems. It was almost refreshing to see such a mythical public figure seem so concerned for something that you had just gotten a degree in, something that you knew all about.
On the last Friday of every month, everyone in the lab would make their way up from the basement lab of Wayne Tower to the conference room, all the way on one of the top floors, the ones with all the glass walls. Every last Friday at ten in the morning, it would be the head researcher, the handful of graduate students whose degrees were being paid for by Wayne Enterprises, another handful of undergraduate students being used for free labor in exchange for experience and class credits, you, the lab technician who was in charge of cooridinating mostly everything and the Bruce Wayne asking all of you about the research that was being done.
-_-
You had been working there for an entire year, twelve Friday morning meetings with Bruce Wayne and the rest of your lab, when it happened. The catalyst for the mess that had become your recent life. The turning point in your career at Wayne Enterprises.
That was the week that the entire lab had driven to a saltwater ecosystem conservation convention in North Carolina and were meant to come back well before 10 am that Friday. You had stayed back at the lab in Gotham to keep weighing dried-out biomass samples to meet the deadline two weeks from now. You expected to meet the rest of your lab mates to meet you in the conference room, half-asleep and on their third cup of coffee.
That’s not what you saw when you got off the obnoxiously long elevator ride to the forty-third floor or whatever too-high floor it was that housed the conference room.
No one was there. No one except you and Bruce Wayne. The Bruce Wayne and no one else. Not even someone to keep him company, not even someone to get him coffee. Just you, the lab technician, and the CEO of the company that you work for. This was the man who had captured all the hearts of Gotham with his return to the public eye, only to adopt a young boy, and then another, and another, and another, until it was a comedy bit on late-night shows. The man who had enough money to pay off all of your student loans and then purchase the entire school you went to.
Apparently, there had been an accident on the highway, and the rest of the lab wasn’t going to be there for hours. It was awkward at first, being in a room with someone who had so much confidence, so much self-assurance, like he knew that he was supposed to be there, like he knew that this space was his own. A stark contrast to you, sitting in your usual chair at the conference table, fidgeting with your laptop and chewing on your bottom lip much less subtly than you had thought.
But he saw you from across the table, saw the nerves that were making you dig your fingernails into the palm of your hand, the nerves that were making your left foot tap the floor hard enough to feel the pressure in your ankle but not make that obnoxious tap, tap, tap that your mother always scolded you for.
And contrary to the stone-faced expression that seemed to be a Wayne trademark, he started talking to you. At first, just asking how long you had been with Wayne Enterprises, but eventually devolved into you recounting the time that you and your freshman roommate at Gotham University had tried to sneak into the yearly Wayne Foundation Gala without tickets and failed miserably. So miserably in fact, that your friend resorted to flirting with the security guards who threw you out so that he wouldn’t call the police.
The story had made him snort out an undignified laugh, and he made a comment about his sons sneaking out of galas but never into them. It was like someone opened a window to let in fresh air—Bruce Wayne went from being this figure, this unapproachable man who lived on a pedestal in the minds of most Gothamites, including yourself, to someone real, someone whose eyes crinkled in the corners when he laughed. He was someone with grey dappling the otherwise dark hair by his temples, someone whose bottom teeth weren’t perfectly straight but overlapping just enough to be charming in such a splendidly human way.
Bruce had become so interested in you. Maybe he shouldn’t have been so enthralled by the way you spoke with your hands or the way that your lips quirked up when you explained the differences in marsh grasses; you were, after all, younger than his two oldest sons. That should have stopped him; it should have made him shake the thoughts out of his head and go back to his more stoic public persona that the employees of Wayne Enterprises knew.
But he couldn’t.
The way your eyes sparkled and how your lips quirked upwards when you spoke about carbon sequestration made him lean in whenever you spoke, even in the following weeks when the rest of your lab was able to join the two of you at those monthly meetings. He seemed to start deferring to you in almost all matters that regarded the lab. Not the Ph. D.s that ran the lab, not the grad students who were basically in charge all of the time, but to you. It made you feel special, like there was something about you that the others didn’t have. And Bruce didn’t know what it was, just that you were the only person who had it.
You were working for Wayne Enterprises for almost a second whole year when Bruce came to see you in the lab. He never came down to the basement to see the labs; he only ever saw the pretty glass walls of the upper floors.
Bruce had walked in unannounced, catching you just as you were putting biomass samples that you didn’t have time to sort back into the freezer. It was one of those iceboxes that lay on the floor, the kind that opened up like a coffin. It was a big freezer, and the undergrad students who came into the lab for credit hours always left it in disarray. You always spent the last hour or so of your day rearranging the samples in the proper corners of the freezer—or at least what you had decided were the proper corners. It was a system that you had implemented in the first week of working in the lab, something that actually let the undergrad assistants find the samples they needed without asking you a thousand times.
Biomass samples 3dR through 8dT always had to stay on the left side of the freezer in descending order, while samples 15cK through 24cP were piled together on the right side like a very specific, strategic game of Tetris because those samples were smaller and much more brittle. To do that, you would lean against the annoyingly tall side of the freezer, so that the edge of the lip propped your lower half up to let you bend at your hips. It let you lean all the way into the freezer without having to kneel down on the hard linoleum floors that were always covered in a dusting of dried grass samples and dirt. You didn’t have to hold onto the sides of the freezer; you were able to move all the samples with both hands, keeping them flat and from getting crushed.
And besides, you were always the last one there, so it wasn’t like anyone was going to see you bend over the icebox like that. You would put your earbuds in, listen to whatever album had been stuck in your head that week, and resituate the icebox like your life depended on it so that the lab supervisor didn’t have to scream his head off at you in the morning. Or at the undergraduates for asking too many repetitive questions too close together.
That was the sight Bruce was greeted by when he entered the lab: you bent over the side of the icebox, ass high in the air, while you whispered the lyrics to a Knocked Loose song that was playing through your earbuds.
He walked into the lab and froze. You were so young, so unassuming as you bent over the icebox. Bruce could see how the seam of your trousers wedged itself between your ass cheeks more and more as you bent into the freezer—emphasizing just how plush it was. You didn’t even know that he was there; he could walk up right behind you and just grab you, let himself feel how the soft skin would give way to the pressure of his thick, calloused fingers. You were so young, probably around twenty-three? Younger than Dick, younger than Jason even. What would you think?
Would you think it’s unprofessional if you caught him staring at your ass? Would you even know that was what he was doing? Had you ever caught grown men staring at you like this before? Surely you had to, you looked so perfect every day, there was no way that the other people around you didn’t notice how explicit you could look even in business casual.
Bruce cleared his throat, shaking his head side to side as if that could free him of the improper thoughts that were pestering his psyche. He shouldn’t—couldn’t—be thinking of an employee like this; it was an abuse of power, something that he would scoff at and reprimand someone else for thinking. But he couldn’t help it; you just looked at him with eyes that were so sparkling, so enthralled by the mere idea of catching the interest of someone like Bruce Wayne.
Clearing his throat didn’t break through the noise-cancelling barrier that your earbuds had made, so you kept sorting through the freezer to your heart’s content. So Bruce walked to your side, trying again to clear his throat and get your attention without startling you.
It didn’t work.
He seemed to just appear in your peripheral vision, and you practically jumped three feet in the air. It was a miracle that you didn’t fall into the freezer when you finally saw him. Bruce felt horrible, like he had just accidentally stepped on an innocent puppy’s tail. You practically ripped out your earbuds because technically, you weren’t allowed to wear headphones, earbuds, or the like when you were in the lab. Something about a safety hazard
“Sorry, I didn’t hear—see you,” you scrambled, trying to tuck your earbuds into your pockets, acting like the reason he scared you wasn’t totally because you were doing something you were told explicitly not to do. “Is there anything that you need, Mister Wayne?”
Bruce froze. You were just standing there, chest heaving from scrambling upright, blinking your nervous, almost meek eyes at him. It made his thoughts take a hard left-hand turn from trying to control his thoughts to just giving up entirely.
Those eyes.
Bruce couldn’t stop thinking about what those eyes would look like under him, one of your legs hitched around his waist, a hand on your ass—squeezing. Would they get all watery and distant if he tried to stretch your pussy around his fingers before trying to fit his cock into you? Have you ever tried to take a cock like his before? Could you take it?
“Mister Wayne?”
“Oh—yes, don’t worry, I’m not here to bust you for listening to music in the lab,” he huffed out, trying to sound less official, less in charge, less like he was imagining what it would be like to fuck you bent over that freezer. “And there’s no need to call me ‘Mister Wayne,’ Bruce will do just fine.”
You forced out a nervous laugh, still shoving your earbuds further into your pockets like a nervous tic. Your weight shifted from foot to foot, waiting for Bruce to continue speaking, to tell you why he had made his way down to the basement lab in the first place.
“Well, Y/N, I seem to have an extra ticket to the Foundation Gala this year, and I couldn’t help but think of that story you told me about you and your college roommate unsuccessfully trying to sneak into one. Would you be interested in taking the extra ticket off my hands?” Nothing about Bruce seemed to give away how nervous the question made him. His voice was steady, and so were his hands. But that didn’t change the fact that he was, he was afraid that you would find it improper, that you would find him inappropriate and perverted for asking a girl half his age to the Wayne Foundation Gala, even though he simply asked you to take the ticket off of his hands, not for you to even go with him.
It made your heart skip a beat. A real ticket to the Wayne Foundation Gala. Something that you had only seen in your dreams. Your face lit up in such a way that made Bruce suppress a startled smile. How could such a simple gesture make you so happy? If that was all it took to see a smile like that, as he had somehow handed you the world by inviting you to a company event, he would put your name on every single Wayne Foundation Gala invitation list; he would make you his plus-one for any event he was invited to.
You had the kind of smile that made him forget why he walked into the room, the kind that made him feel like some sort of school boy with a hallway crush. It was the kind of smile that made Bruce forget himself, made his heart stutter in his chest.
“Oh. Oh. Like a real ticket? Like actually? You’re not jerking me around, are you?” You asked him, biting your lip and bouncing your weight back and forth from your heels to the balls of your feet. There was this light, fluttering tone to your voice that reminded him of how much younger you were than him.
You looked so giddy, like you were a child asking her father if he really did mean that she could have ice cream before bed. It made something churn in Bruce’s stomach, like maybe he was doing something wrong, but he wasn’t; you were twenty-something years old, younger than two of his sons, but you were an adult nonetheless. And there certainly wasn’t anything wrong with him giving you a ticket to a gala you had already expressed interest in going to, albeit a casual interest in passing conversation. It wasn’t his fault that he seemed to just remember the things that you said, like you were trying to implant them into his brain like some sort of witch.
“No, I am not. It’s a real ticket,” Bruce told you, nodding calmly. “I figured you’ve been doing a lot of very good work for us here, so I figured I would need to give you some incentive to not jump ship if another company decides that they want you to clean up their labs the way that you’ve done for ours over here.”
It was a shitty excuse to say that he wanted to see you all dressed up, to maybe convince you that the ticket was supposed to be for his plus-one, and then maybe get to treat you to a nice night just to see that smile again. Bruce was quickly realizing the lengths that he would go to just to see you smile like that again, but this time, at him.
“Oh my god! So, you’re serious? It’s next weekend, right? Oh, god that means I’m going to have to get a dress,” you exclaimed, practically vibrating out of your skin because you were going to get to go to the Wayne Foundation Gala! Something that you had wanted to go to when you found out that some students of Gotham University somehow got tickets to go sometimes. Your hopes were crushed when you found out that only the marketing or business students were the ones with access to the tickets.
Bruce only nodded again, like the gala was a solemn affair instead of one of the most decadent nights all year in Gotham, made to convince the other one percent to give up some of their precious money to actually help the people of Gotham.
But people had fun at these events, they had a good time, and he always saw the young women at galas smiling. He wanted you to be one of those women smiling at him at the Gala. If his sons were going to give him literal Hell for being forced to make an hour-long appearance, he at least wanted to be able to be around a person who wanted to be there. It would also help him survive the event when you were moving up on the list of people he enjoyed watching do the most mundane things.
-_-
It wasn’t until you were about to walk into the Gala that you started to get nervous. You had pulled out a dress that you had gotten for a club formal during college. It was buried underneath your old business formal clothes that you had gotten in preperation of your post-grad job interviews and never touched again.
The dress was a rather slinky number, still managing to fit after a few years. Sure, it was a little bit tight on your chest, but it pushed your boobs together in a way that made your roommate cheer for you. So, really, it was a win. You had used your expensive makeup palette, used your nice perfume, and even worn the heels that you said you’d never be able to walk in.
It felt like too much and not enough at the same time. It was the most dressed-up you had gotten since the lab’s holiday party, but you were going to the Wayne Foundation Gala. You had been trying to get an invite to go to that for years, and now it was finally happening. There wouldn’t be college students or coworkers here; there would be heiresses, and millionaires, and God knows who else. And you were wearing a dress that pushed your boobs together because it was a half-size too small.
You managed to get to Wayne Tower just fine, feeling rather pleased with yourself that you were able to not only pull the whole look off, but also just manage to not chicken out because you were technically going alone. Sure, it did seem like Bruce had hinted that the ticket he lent you was one of his, but he never actually told you that; he never said that it was a ticket for his plus one. He was a rather blunt man when it came to office communications, so surely he would have said something if that was what he had meant when he offered the ticket to you? Right?
The more you thought about it, the more you got insecure about showing up to the gala in the first place. Your dress felt too cheap, your makeup felt too sloppy, and your jewelry suddenly felt like it belonged in a costume store rather than at a gala when you looked at the others walking around.
You had your ticket folded up in your phone case because you didn’t have a fancy little clutch, just a backpack and a tote bag—neither of which would ever see a Wayne Foundation Gala. Outside the doors, you stepped aside, turning the ticket over in your hand while looking at the ornate lettering, the way that it was written in what looked like gold—it shimmered in the low lights of the buildings and neon signs of Gotham.
You got a glimpse of another ticket and saw that it had the name of the invitee printed on it. Yours didn’t have that. Where there was a name written on other tickets, it was simply left blank on yours, like it was never even supposed to have a name written on it, like it was a ticket that was supposed to be given at the last minute disgression of someone else.
What got you moving was the last conversation you had with Bruce at the end of the monthly meeting. He had asked you if you were a heavy drinker, if you had a favorite drink. You had told him no and no. Then he commented on being the one to have the privilege of supplying what would most likely be your only drink of the night.
It was a comment that threw you off balance, a comment that made you blink twice at him before you responded, but you just laughed nervously and pretended that his gentle, polite smile wasn’t turning your knees into jelly.
Soon enough, you psyched yourself up enough to walk over and hand the oh-so-pretty ticket over to the attendant.
She was an older woman with salt and pepper hair pulled back into a tight bun at the nape of her neck, and she wore a suit with the name “Sadie” pinned on her lapel. She smiled at you when you handed her the ticket and quickly scanned the barcode on the back so that a little blurb of text popped up on the screen of the scanner. Whatever it was must have been interesting because she looked up at you briefly, eyes flicking up from the scanner to your face, so quick you almost didn’t see, and she smiled. Small and subtle, but a smile nonetheless.
“Oh, it seems that Mister Wayne decided to invite someone to keep him company this year,” she mused, more like she was talking to herself than talking to you. She didn’t even wait for your reaction; if anything, she ignored the way that you raised your eyebrow and screwed your face up at the comment.
Bruce decided to invite someone to keep him company this year.
She only said that after she read whatever it was that popped up after she scanned your ticket. Your ticket, the ticket that didn’t have a name on it. You were confused and trying not to read too hard into it, but some little voice in the back of your head kept telling you that he had invited you to be his plus one at his own foundation’s gala.
-_-
By the time Bruce had finished his rounds, he had found you exactly where he had planned to. The seat that was assigned to your ticket number. You were sitting down, legs crossed like you were afraid to take up too much space, and your cheeks flushed from probably one too many flutes of the champagne that was being passed around by the waitstaff.
So much for only having one drink.
You definitely had at least three too many flutes of champagne. There was no doubt in your mind about that. You didn’t know anyone at this gala aside from Bruce, and the others at your table seemed not to even know who you were, although they all knew each other. It was a table full of men, or at least the ones who were sitting down. Two of them looked to be grown, the other two were probably teenagers, if you had to guess. It was entertaining to watch them bicker and prattle on amongst themselves, even though most of what they said didn’t make much sense to you.
Rich people things, you had assumed.
But then Bruce came over. He came over with the suave, socialite smile and that mostly black hair that was speckled with salt and pepper streaks by his temple. The crystal glass in his hand had some sort of brown liquor in it, sloshing around as he walked towards the table. Something about seeing him smile like that, like he wasn’t at work, made your stomach flip; it made you hope that he invited you as his plus-one on purpose.
You didn’t expect him to sit down next to you, but that just reaffirmed the currently outlandish theory that he invited you to be his plus-one to his own gala. But then he turned in his seat to face you, his smile genuine and a little haze in his eyes, like maybe he also had one too many classes of liquor.
“I am so pleased that you could make it,” he told you, leaning in a bit closer than was appropriate for a boss and his employee. But, he smelled nice, like expensive cologne and a brandy you probably couldn’t pronounce. “You look wonderful, like a dream—truly.”
His comment made you flush. And then, because you were a little bit too drunk for this, you giggled like some sort of middle school girl with a crush.
“I’m assuming that you’ve had a chance to meet my boys? These were the ones that accepted my bribes to show face,” he continued, like he didn’t just upend your tipsy little world with seven little words.
You look wonderful, like a dream—truly.
Like a dream.
His smile didn’t falter, his hands didn’t shake, but he kept nursing whatever caramel colored liqour was in the crystal glass he held in his left hand.
“Uhm—no, I don’t think that I have,” you mumbled, realizing that you did just spend your entire time sitting at a table with four other people, not talking to them, and just looking around the ballroom, watching all of the people of Gotham’s upper crust in their ostentatious attire.
“Oh, don’t worry, they can forget their manners sometimes,” Bruce responded quickly, almost waving them off before he raised a hand in their direction, clearing his throat. The action made them turn around, pausing whatever squabble they had gotten themselves into now and listening to Bruce. “Boys. This is the guest that I told you about.”
Told you about. He was talking to people about you. You, the lab technician at the lab that had been started so that Wayne Enterprises could write it off on their tax deductions.
They all looked like they had seen a ghost. One of the boys muttered a curse, another straightened his lapels, the third looked at you like you were part Rubik’s Cube, and another looked at you so sternly you thought that his eyes were going to burn holes right through you.
“The one that you told us to behave in front of, Father?” The youngest one asked in a rather stiff voice, his tone seemingly overly formal.
Bruce pursed his lips together, as if to say, of fucking course it is, without actually saying that. Soon, they all made their way to your side of the table, introducing themselves one by one.
“Oh! Hi, well, it’s certainly nice to meet you,” the first boy had said, extending his hand for a handshake. His eyes were concerningly blue, in a way that made you almost weary. “I’m Dick, one of Bruce’s sons.”
“Nice to see that he does actually talk to people outside of the Manor. I’m Jason,” the second boy had told you. He had what looked like a bleached streak in his hair. It must have been some sort of fashion statement that hadn’t made it to your side of the internet yet.
Dick and Jason seemed to be the oldest of the bunch, and judging from the slight crows’ feet that Dick sported when his smile got too wide and the bags under Jason’s eyes, they seemed to be older than you if you had to wager a guess.
“I’m Tim—nice to meet you.” The third boy was pale, and he seemed to be waiting for your reaction, as if he wanted to dissect all of your actions under a microscope. You’d probably get along well with them if you made a good first impression.
“I am Damian,” the youngest boy said. “I am glad to meet the person he invited to pay attention to instead of us so that he would leave us be during this utterly wretched affair.”
The bluntness of his comment made you giggle. So, these were the sons of the Bruce Wayne, the sons that GQ magazine made an entire spread about. Your roommate bought it and hung up the fold-out poster on her wall when you were in college.
After that, it seemed to ease the tension at the table. Bruce stayed next to you, and most of the interjections that he made were in reference to you, the work that you do for the lab, or an anecdote you had told him once about yourself. The champagne made your lips loose, and your composure even more so. Soon enough, you were giggling, joking around with Bruce Wayne and his four sons, two of whom you learned later in the night were older than you by a few years.
Bruce didn’t touch you until Dick had told a story about him climbing up the rafters as a young child at one of these events, only to end up on the chandelier and refuse to come down until Bruce let him get his own trapeze bar at the Manor. For some reason, maybe it was how Dick told the story, or the way that the flutes of champagne just kept coming, it made you laugh so hard that you shifted your weight in your chair enough to almost slide off. The slinky fabric of your dress only made it worse.
Bruce’s hand shot out to grab your shoulder, and his other hand put down his drink so that he could grab your arm. His hands were bigger than you thought they would be, and they were warm. They were very warm. Warm enough to make your skin break out in goosebumps but still lean into his touch, like he was some sort of cushion to catch you.
He just smiled at you, like he was happy to do that, like he was waiting for an excuse to put his hand on you without it being inappropriate. You didn’t tell him to move his hands. You let him pull your chair closer when he hooked his ankle around one of the legs. You let his hand settle between your shoulder blades when you laughed so hard that you doubled over. It felt nice when his fingers started to rub along the stitching of your dress, where the fabric kissed your skin. The dress had a low back, something you could thank the fashion trends of your college days for, but that just meant that his hand was resting right on the small of your back, fingers tracing and touching and skimming your skin.
Back and forth. His fingers went back and forth from left to right like a subconscious motion, like he wasn’t even thinking about it—like he was playing with the fabric, like he was playing a game where the point was to see how hard your breath stuttered when his fingers slipped underneath the fabric of your dress. It wasn’t an unwelcomed intrusion, even if it made your shoulders stiffen—just a surprise that you welcomed because the idea of the Bruce Wayne wanting to touch your skin seemed to be more intoxicating than all the flutes of champagne that you had seemed to put back.
You even decided to lean on his shoulder when you had to catch your breath from laughing so hard at a deadpan comment that Damian had made in the middle of one of Tim’s intricate stories about his own personal theories about what was being hidden in Area 51. You had to catch your breath somehow, and Bruce’s hand already settled lower on your back, right above the swell of your ass, right where his fingers almost grazed the fabric of the thong that you wore under your dress. Each time his fingers got too close, but didn’t quite touch your panties, you could feel your cheeks heat up. You could lean your head on his shoulder, right? You were both drinking; you couldn’t get fired for this, right? Surely, your boss couldn’t yell at you for this?
Bruce was too warm, and he just smelled too good for you to even care, in all honesty. You figured out what was so special about his eyes right then, when you were leaning against his shoulder and smiling, breathing heavy, and sipping another glass of champagne. It was enough alcohol to not care that you were cuddling up to your boss, at a literal gala, where there were journalists with cameras.
His eyes were a vulnerable shade of blue, the kind that don’t look like blue from afar, just like dark pools of something until you get a bit closer, the ones that you can only see the golden flecks and green rings once you get close enough to smell the alcohol on his breath.
That was one of his sons, Dick, if you were remembering correctly, who cleared his throat before stage coughing, mumbling something about media presence and then coughing again. It made Bruce lean into you, his lips just barely brushing the shell of your ear. His breath was warm and fanned out over the side of your neck. It made you shiver when you smelled the alcohol on his breath.
“It’s getting kind of stuffy in here, no? We don’t have to stay here the whole time, darling,” he whispered into your ear, his lips grazing one of your earrings. When you turned your head to face him, you could see the smirk that plastered across his face. It was the kind of smirk that made you think of the old tabloid pictures of Bruce Wayne, the ones that your older cousins would cut out and tape above the desks, it was a smirk that oozed confidence, high class, and a sort of luxury that you hadn’t even heard of, like he could get away with anything if he wanted to. He probably could. He probably already had.
That was how you ended up grabbing his hand, trailing behind him, giggling as he pulled you out of the main ballroom, leading you up a set of stairs that seemed to be tucked away from the main crowd, or really any crowd. His fingers dug into your hand, but his nails were blunt, so there was no sting, only pressure. You didn’t even realize that he had led you into some sort of sitting room until you heard a door click shut behind you.
When you spun around to see a shut door you hadn’t even known was there, you spun too quickly, too fast for how many glasses of champagne you drank. And you were wearing those illogical, impractical heels that you had trouble walking in when you were sober. So Bruce held you up. He grabbed you by your shoulders and tucked you into his broad, warm chest. It made your stomach flip when one of his hands settled on the nape of your neck, his thumb pressing into your jugular just to feel how your pulse rabbited.
“I-I always knew that you were so tall, but I feel like you’re taller now,” you giggled at him, your smile bashful, making your youthful face scrunch up in a way that his intoxicated thoughts weren’t able to keep up with. The corners of your eyes barely even crinkled when you smiled at him like that. You seemed like something out of a dream, no lines from worry or age etched into your face yet—you weren’t as weathered as Bruce was.
It made him gravitate towards you like some sort of magnetic field just pulling and pulling on him until he gave in, until his hands were cupping your face, his fingers squishing the apples of your cheeks just enough to remind him of how much younger you were than him. The two of you locked eyes for one sobering moment, blinking at each other like an unspoken conversation.
I’m old enough to be your father.
Do you think I care?
His thumb brushed over your bottom lip before he leaned down to kiss you.
It was gentle at first, tentative almost, like Bruce was waiting for you to change your mind, like he was waiting for you to realize that you were so vibrant, too vibrant for Bruce Wayne. When you didn’t pull away, when you tried to lean forward into the kiss, tried to boost yourself even higher on your tiptoes so that you could press against his harder—that was when the kiss turned hungry.
Bruce’s tongue swiped across your lips, an encouragement to open your mouth, to let him in. When you didn’t part your lips against his, instantly his thoughts ran wild.
Had you never kissed someone like this? Had no one ever wanted to kiss you like this, to kiss you so intimately? Had no one ever had the insatiable urge to try to inhale whatever it was about you that made you sparkle like that?
But then your lips parted, letting his tongue inside of your mouth, sliding against your own before he took your bottom lip between his, sucking and letting his teeth graze it. It got messier than you realized. His spit was on your chin, and your teeth clanked into his. He tasted like breath mints and alcohol.
When you pressed your body against his harder, Bruce started to let his hands wander. The skin on his hands was rough compared to yours. One hand slid down the outside of your arm just to land on your waist, calloused fingers catching on the delicate, slinky fabric of your dress while they dug into the flesh beneath.
It was a greedy kiss, the kind that only came from a need to have something that you felt like you weren’t allowed to have. You weren’t allowed to kiss the boss of your boss’s boss. You shouldn’t be kissing a man who was twice your age, a man who was in charge of you, yet here you were—one arm wrapped around his neck, fingers tangling in the silver-speckled black hair, your other hand fisting at his suit shirt.
Bruce wasn’t allowed to make a romantic, let alone a sexual advance, on a subordinate. That was unethical, a fireable offense, something to be frowned upon. He was abusing his power, or at least that’s how he felt when your young, soft body pressed against the hardened, venerable planes of his own. He felt like he was taking advantage of you, like maybe you were just doing this to placate him, like he was somehow usurping the innocence of your youth while his tongue explored the inside of your mouth.
Bruce only broke the kiss so that he could drag his lips from the corner of your mouth down to your jaw. The warm brush of his lips from below your ear down your neck, where he pressed into your skin, his teeth grazing the goosebumps that had spread on your skin where the dress didn’t cover.
The feeling of his teeth on your skin made you gasp, the dull pressure forcing a small, quiet whimper out of your mouth while heat pooled between your legs. It was so filthy, the drag of his teeth against you brought a fresh wave of heat between your legs. The only thing you could think to do was squeeze your thighs together and let out more needy noises so that Bruce knew not to stop. His hands were moving with the kind of confidence that would only make sense for a man who seemed to have a different woman on his arm with each new issue of a gossip magazine. He seemed to keep his hands on your waist, your shoulders, your neck. It wasn’t until he felt your hands dip between his dress shirt and his sports coat, sliding down the back of his shoulder blades to feel just how solid the muscles of his back were through the fabric of his clothes.
It wasn’t until he felt your own hands explore his body, a physical cue that you wanted this just as much as he did, that Bruce let himself do the same. One of his hands migrated down to your ass, palming you through the fabric of your dress, his fingers digging in hard enough to leave bruises. The other hand moved up from your waist, caressing your breast—his thumb flicking over the thin fabric between the air and your nipple until it poked through the material of the dress.
Your body had started to move against Bruce’s with a newfound confidence that only alcohol could give you. The outline of his erection pressed through his slacks and into your dress. The dress didn’t allow for much movement, didn’t allow for Bruce to really get his knee between your thighs for you to grind down on, but he was able to press between them just enough for you to gasp into his mouth.
You didn’t notice when Bruce had shed his tie or even his sports coat. The music from the gala leaked through the cracks in the walls, infiltrating the silence with muffled tunes from the band. The soft music filled your tipsy head, making the room sway to the beat while Bruce kissed and sucked at your skin, backing you up against what felt like the arm of a couch. It was dark, and you didn’t bother to open your eyes when Bruce’s fingers slipped below the fabric of the low-cut back of your dress. His fingers dipped low enough this time to graze the lace edges of the too-thin thong you wore tonight. Bruce’s lips curved up into a rather greedy smile that you could feel against your skin. It made you shiver.
“Did you wear this for me, darling?” He groaned, as if the thought of you wearing something for him physically hurt. His voice was breathless in a way you had never heard before, making a flush creep up the back of your neck if there wasn’t already one there. “Did you wear all this on purpose? You’re a smart girl, you know how this dress makes you look.”
Bruce pulled his face away from your neck so he could see the way that your pupils were blown out, so he could see how your lipstick had smeared across your cheek and down your chin. He wasn’t faring any better than you, his breath coming in ragged pants, his perfectly gelled hair now twisted and knotted to hell.
You want to respond to him, to tell him that maybe you did wear your nicest everything for tonight. If it was for him or for the gala, you didn’t know. In this moment right now, you were glad that you wore that lacey thong that was certainly not worth twenty dollars, glad that you wore those impractical heels that always made your feet cramp because Bruce thought that it was for him, that you had done all of that just for him. And maybe in some subconscious part of you, the part of you that fixated on how he always insisted on you calling him Bruce, the part of you that fixated on how he always seemed to come to you with questions about the lab instead of the professors who were in charge of it.
“Maybe I did,” you told him, your voice bubbling out of you in a giggle, your attempt at trying to be playful. You couldn’t help how wide the smile that spread on your face was while you waited to see the way his face contorted in response to your words. His stupidly beautiful face just smiled back down at you, one end of his mouth quirking up higher than the other while the most endeering crows’ feet crinkled at the corners of his eyes. You wanted to climb up him to kiss them.
Bruce let out a huff from between his teeth, through his smile, like he was glad to be exasperated.
“Oh? So then you wouldn’t mind if I saw, then, right? If you wore this all for me, you wouldn’t mind if I saw underneath this pretty little dress of yours?”
His whisper made you shiver. Or maybe it was how his hands danced along the straps of your dress, like he was waiting for you to say that he could take it off of you, so that he could see you. Bruce wanted to see what he’s been imagining in his head for the past two years every time he saw you in those monthly meetings. He wanted to see what you would look like bent over without those slacks you always wore.
All you could do was nod. If you were sober, you would have been embarrassed at how eager you were to bob your head at him, but the champagne made you just drunk enough to ignore the flush heating up your face. You just wanted him to touch you, to see if all the things that you had imagined about him were true.
“Y-yeah, you can—the zipper’s—it’s—” you stammered out, suddenly embarrassed because Bruce’s hands had found the zipper on the side of your dress faster than you were able to tell him where it was. It was like the arousal that was prickling underneath your skin had started to migrate into your brain, making your thoughts just that much harder to grab onto before you spoke them.
Or maybe that was just the champagne.
The only thing that you were wearing under this dress was a too-thin, lacy thong that wasn’t visible through the fabric of your dress. No bra, no other layer—just you in your too-tall heels, your lacy thong, with your fully dressed boss. The thought of being completely bare in front of your boss made that liquid heat that pooled low in your belly only get hotter; you could feel it making the insides of your thighs sticky. You two would probably go back to kissing, definitely keep fondling, if you were lucky, maybe you would—
“Don’t you worry your pretty little head, darling,” Bruce cooed gently at you, as if he were talking to a spooked fawn, trying to coax a little bit more confidence out of you. “I’ll take care of you if that’s what you want. It is, isn’t it?”
It took you a moment to process what he was even saying. I’ll take care of you. What was your life? Bruce Wayne, the Bruce Wayne, billionaire and CEO of Wayne Enterprises, just cooed at you like you were a wounded bird and offered to “take care of you” like you were in some silly romance book?
“You do want it, right, darling? You want me to stretch you out with my fingers before I actually fuck you, yeah?” His voice dropped, almost like he was mocking you for drenching your lace panties because of how he was touching you, because of how he was talking to you.
Bruce was asking you like you never had sex before, like you never had any situationships or flings throughout all your college years, like you were some kind of blushing virgin just for him.
How dare he talk to you like that? Like you didn’t know what you were doing, like you weren’t a grown woman?
It made your face flame from the embarrassment.
That didn’t stop you from nodding.
“That’s not quite enough, I need to hear your words, pretty girl,” he murmured, almost as if he was scolding you. He didn’t stop one of his hands from twisting the zipper of your dress between his fingers, waiting for you to speak the words. “I need to hear you say that you want me to fuck you.”
It felt like bees were living under your skin, like your legs had been replaced with jelly, like your brain was submerged in syrup.
“Can you—just—I want you to fuck me, Bruce,” you finally managed to whine out, doing your best not to shiver when he unzipped your dress.
The straps slipped off your shoulders with ease, letting the fabric pool around your feet, to get tangled in the straps of your heels, letting Bruce Wayne see you in nothing but your sheer, lacy thong. It was too thin to hide your arousal from Bruce’s fingers when they made their way between your thighs. The gentle touches made you gasp, your body tensing up like a bowstring pulled taut.
“Uh-uh-uh, you don’t get to hide from me now. You think you get to act all shy after sticking your ass up in the air whenever you bend down into that freezer? I have been waiting for this, waiting for you to tell me that you want this from me.” He wedged his polished shoe between your feet, spreading your legs back open for him.
You let him with an embarrassing whimper.
“You’ve been waiting for me?” You asked him, tipping your head up so you could blink your hazy eyes up at Bruce like some unassuming dove. You asked him that like it was impossible for a man like Bruce Wayne to not only want you, but to wait for you.
“How could I not when you look at me like that?” He asked you like he was answering a simple math question. Was two plus two not four? “You look at me like I’m some sort of—some sort of, I don’t know—”
Bruce’s voice dropped into a rough laugh while he looked you up and down, hands brushing down your arms, down your bare waist. His lips were quirked up like he was a kid allowed to open more than one present on Christmas Eve.
“Like I’m not some sort of dinosaur. Sweetie, you’re half of my age—two of my sons are older than you, I can’t believe that you’re even looking at me like this.”
You couldn’t hold back the drunken giggle that tumbled out of your lips when he called himself a dinosaur. Maybe he was just as drunk as you were.
“Well, you are old, prehistoric, if you want to be specific—but that doesn’t mean you aren’t hot.”
The words were leaving you with a surprising amount of confidence. You could thank the excessive amounts of champagne and the way that the Bruce Wayne admitted to waiting for you, like you were in some sort of insane parody of a romcom.
The only warning you got that Bruce was going to spin you around was a low, gravely laugh. His hands were planted on your hips, spinning you around so that your back was against his chest. This way, you were pinned between Bruce and the arm of the couch. There was nowhere for you to go now, stuck between the heavy piece of furniture and an immovable wall of muscle who was your boss.
“Oh, so now you have an attitude? Do you think if I fill you up just right, you’ll drop it? Hm?” His voice was low and laced with faux-sympathy, like he was trying to get a reaction out of you. But really, how could he expect a reaction to his words when his fingers were already pushing your lacy thong aside?
You opened your mouth to say something, but all you were able to do was suck in a sharp gasp while your jaw went slack because his fingers already parted your folds. You were wet, so wet, in fact, that you could hear it despite the muted music coming in through the locked door and the heavy breathing starting to fill the room. The filthy wet noises only made your breath stutter harder, a rather pathetic-sounding whine leaving the back of your throat when the surprisingly calloused finger grazed your clit. It had to be swollen by now from the friction of lace on flesh, probably all red and puffy, oversensitive from all of the stuttering movements between your dress and his suit, even though the poor bud had barely gotten any attention since this gala started.
But you had been so wet for so long, and all you had gotten was a light press of his knee between your thighs. Not nearly enough to get you close, but enough to make it hard to remember why maybe this wasn’t the best idea in the world. So, when two of his big, calloused fingers found your clit and gave it a lazy swipe—it felt like all of the buzzing under your skin migrated between your thighs and settled at the base of your spine. It made you dizzy.
“Well, if that’s any indication, I think you’ll love getting filled up, hm?” He hummed into the top of your head, right into your hair.
His fingers went further, gathering and smearing the arousal that had pooled in your cunt just to coat his middle finger. You could hear the drag of his fingers against the velvety folds, his rhythm faltering only because of how wet you were. His fingers were sliding around without any resistance.
That was when his thumb found your oh-so neglected bundle of nerves and just started rubbing lazy, gentle circles. They were the kind that made your hips twitch and squirm against his chest because you needed more.
Bruce gave you more; he let his middle finger start to prod at your entrance, the ample wetness making it easier than he expected to slide right in. There was a little bit of resistance, of course, there was, but you welcomed him in so greedily.
“Fucking—oh my god, Bruce—!” You squealed, trying to wiggle around because it was so much and not enough at the same time. Slow, gentle circles on your clit with his thumb, his middle finger stretching you out, while his other arm wrapped around your middle, keeping you trapped between him and the armrest of the couch.
If he wasn’t holding you up like that, if he wasn’t pinning you against the couch, your knees buckling would have left you shaking on the floor. But Bruce’s other arm held you steady. Maybe because he knew your legs had given up on spending the energy to keep you standing, or maybe it was because it made it easier for him to grind his painfully hard dick against your ass.
“Yeah, yeah, I know, sweetheart. It’s a lot, isn’t it? Are my fingers better than your own?” Bruce didn’t expect an answer because that was his way of telling you that he was going to slide his index finger inside of you, too.
The noises were obscene—the wet squelching noise from between your legs every time Bruce thrusted his fingers, the heavy pants that left both of your mouths, the faint orchestral music that drifted from the ballroom through the locked door of the sitting room. It all combined to make some kind of pornographic symphony that only served to make you flush harder and clench around his fingers in more erratic pulses.
Your jaw was slack, lashes fluttering, and breath shallow. You were embarrassingly close when Bruce let out a dark huff and bullied a third finger alongside the first two. It made your hands fly up from where you were clutching the plush arm of the couch with white knuckles all the way to where Bruce’s arm was wrapped around your middle. Your fingers pressed hard into his forearm, nails biting through his button-down while you tried to adjust, unable to even stay still while he tried his best to stretch you out. The feeling of three of Bruce Wayne’s fingers inside your cunt, scissoring and spreading out to make sure that you could fit him inside of you.
The stretch made you whine like an injured animal on the side of a highway, keening because a car tire had crushed its leg. You would kick out your legs if you could, as if to fight the more than welcomed feeling of pleasure with a little tinge of pain at the edges, but you were so close to Bruce and so close to the heavy couch. You could barely move when you were pinned between the two, barely able to even breathe.
“I know, I know, don’t worry, you’re almost ready, darling—almost there, just wanna see how much wider I can get you to open up for me,” Bruce murmured against the curve of your neck, like he was talking more to himself than to you. He was bending down to reach you, his lips brushing your skin, which gave you the chills despite how you felt like your entire body was overheating, like the bees under your skin had been replaced with molten lava.
It was an uphill battle to try to wrangle the thoughts in your head to form a coherent sentence. Picking words and a point to talk about felt like trying to pick up water with your bare hands, you could touch them, hold onto them for one fleeting moment, but then when you went to say them, they left, falling between your fingers and back into the abyss you had tried so hard to grab them from.
“Br-Bruce, please just—please jus’ fuck me, Bruce,” you whined to him, leaning your head back against his chest, trying to look up at his face. You would wiggle more if you could, but your thighs were practically pinned to the edge of the couch’s armrest.
“Oh, so now you say ‘please?’ Glad that you’re sorting out your manners,” his lips still teased the shell of your ear, his breath spreading across the back of your neck and leaving goosebumps in their wake. You could feel the smirk on his face, the way his lips twitched against the top of your shoulder. It was a dead giveaway.
Bruce was mocking you.
“Since you asked so nicely, I will, of course, give you what you want, darling. You just had to ask politely. I know that you’re a smart girl, and smart girls know how to ask for what they want the right way. Isn’t that why I made sure to hire you? A two-for-one, a nice piece of ass with a big brain. Isn’t that right?”
The switch from the Bruce who politely asked you if you wanted his spare ticket to the gala to this Bruce, the one who was unzipping his trousers and growling in your ear about how you were a nice piece of ass, almost gave you whiplash. It would have given you whiplash if he wasn’t already pulling his fingers out of your cunt, helping to distract your mind with a much more important issue—the fact that he wasn’t fucking you yet. But he was about to.
He pulled himself out of his trousers, and you could feel the heat of him against the bare skin of your ass, your lace thong not doing much, not that he had it pulled to the side.
“Th-Thank you, thank you, Bruce,” you whimpered, lashes finally fluttering shut when you heard him stroke himself once, then twice before he unwrapped the arm around your middle. Before you could ask him why he was letting you go, his hand found itself splayed between your shoulder blades, pushing you down into the couch cushions, hips draped over the armrest.
“‘Course, pretty girl,” he whispered against the back of your neck, following you down to lean over your back while your face pressed into the plush materials of the couch. He pressed kiss after kiss down the back of your neck, down the slope of your shoulder, before settling back in a standing position.
This was his favorite. Now he could see you clutch at the pillows, while still getting to watch the fat on your ass bounce every time he bottomed out against your ass. “Are you ready? Ready for me to fill you up? Y’know, I’ve been imagining what you would look like bent over with your ass in the air for me ever since I saw you reorganizing the freezer after the undergrads fucked up all the samples.”
That was six months ago. The undergrads mixed up all of the samples in the freezer six months ago. Bruce Wayne had wanted to see you naked and bent over for six fucking months.
Was this even real? Were you high? Did someone slip something into your drink?
Before you could bring that up, before you could lift your head out of the pillows to turn back and look at Bruce’s face to ask him how long, he spread your thighs apart just a bit more. His touch was firm enough on the inside of your thighs to make you lose your train of thought. You weren’t able to see him, to see how painfully hard he was for you, or to see how his leaking tip flushed such an angry shade of red, how the mushroom tip of his dick was so swollen with want that just grazing the swell of your ass knocked the air out of his lungs.
One hand steadied your hips, keeping you still and propped up just right despite the involuntary squirming and the faint tremors in your legs, while his other hand guided him between your legs, only nudging your entrance. Your muffled whines of protest were met with a quick click of Bruce’s tongue, like he was chastising you, before he dragged the length of his cock between your folds. He wanted to get it all wet with you before he tried to thrust inside. He also just liked hearing how the couch cushions muffled the impatient noises coming from your mouth.
The moment that you started to feel the tip press into you, to sink inside inch by torturous inch, you tried to curl into yourself. It was too much, it wasn’t enough, he was stretching you so wide you thought you were going to break in half, you were going to cry if he even dared to stop.
His hand that had previously been steadying your hips moved up to your back, right between your shoulder blades. He pressed you down into the couch to keep you still while he hissed curses that your head was too fuzzy to understand as he bottomed out in one utterly devastating movement of his pelvis pressing into the fat of your ass.
You gasped into the pillows, your fingers grabbing into the overstuffed cushions at the totality of Bruce bottoming out inside of you. He was thicker than he was longer, but he was long. You could feel the veins rub against your fluttering walls, pressing into all those spots that made your toes curl. The head of his cock—that bulbous mushroom head tip, that had been such an angry red waiting for you—practically all the way in your guts, pressing into your lungs.
“This what y’needed sweetheart? Needed my cock to stretch you out so you forgot all those big special words you paid all that money to learn?”
His voice was filled with faux-concern. It only made you press back against him harder, and your face got warmer.
“Don’t gotta worry, I gotcha—I gotcha,” he cooed at you, starting to drag himself less than halfway out before pushing back inside, just slow enough to have your thighs shaking because it wasn’t enough.
The soft smacking of skin on skin and the squelching noises that followed filled the dark room, only interrupted by your own moans and the groaned curses that felt Bruce’s mouth every time your cunt pulsed around his length like a punishment for going too slow.
“Can you—Bruce, faster—” you whined, finally craning your neck to look at Bruce behind you. His perfectly gelled hair had fallen in limp waves around his eyes, the greying bits catching the low light of the secluded sitting room.
Bruce didn’t respond right away, not with words at least. He stopped moving, is what he did. He stopped completely fucking you just to curl his top lip in a rather cruel-looking grin.
“Don’t be a fucking brat,” he spat out before the hand between your shoulder blades left to grab your hair that had tumbled across your shoulders and the couch. He wrapped it around his hand, wringing it around and around until an involuntary noise left the back of your throat because now he was forcing your back into a devious arch, while his other hand held onto your hip so hard there would be bruises in a few hours.
And then he sped up.
The pace he took was almost unkind at first, with the way he started rutting into you, before you got used to the feeling of having his hand yanking at your hair, the sensation varying in intensity as Bruce fucked you hard enough to feel him in your throat. It was thrilling. It was electrifying to be fucked into oblivion by your boss.
Your arms felt useless as the minutes dragged on, trying to prop yourself up on your elbows only earned you a sharp tug of your hair and the pace was simply brutal enough for you to forget other fine motor skills besides clawing at the cushions hard enough to leave divots in the fabric from where your nails were digging in that hard in an effort to ground yourself.
“That better, darling? This’s what you wanted, yeah? Wanted me to fuck you ‘till your little pussy makes a big mess on my dick, hm?” Bruce rasped out, bottoming out just to grind against you. You couldn’t help how it made your hips twitch, how the only way you could answer him was nodding into the couch with a rather pitiful whine until he started fucking into you with a renewed sense of vigor.
He pulled your hair just enough for the pain to twist with the pleasure of being split open on Bruce’s cock until you were babbling nonsense into the pillows. It was like each time he rutted into you so hard it made your brain bounce around in your skull, killing off more and more brain cells each time. It only made the heat between your legs become more, the pit of tension in your lower belly getting tighter and tighter with each ram of his hips into your drooling pussy.
“Huh, looks like you’re really likin’ this? First time I saw you, didn’t think you’d let me bend you over the first thing you saw—thought I’d have to—fuck—thought I’d have t’try a bit harder than some champagne to get you underneath me.”
Each condescending quip only made you clench around him, sucking his dick back in like you wanted him to stay there, filling you up forever. Your moans got louder with each frenzied thrust. Bruce only babbled more when he twitched inside of you.
Your skin felt like it was too small, your legs felt like they needed to kick out, but you couldn’t do that, so you kept clawing at the couch, mewling with each new spot he plunged into. The heat between your legs and in the pit of your stomach had turned molten, and you couldn’t stay still anymore. You were writhing against the couch, your hips spasming and jerking, only to be redirected with a yank of Bruce’s hand wrapped in your hair. The coil that had been getting spun tighter and tighter and tighter with each word that left his mouth and each new angle was getting too tight, too wound up. Your thighs trembled so hard that anyone else would think that someone was shaking you.
“Oh, darling, you’re close, aren't you? Hm? Gonna make a big mess? Gonna—sh-shit—make a big mess on your boss’s cock, huh? I know, I know, you’re gonna make a big ol’ mess on my—hah, fuck—on my cock during a gala where anyone could unlock that door? Holy fucking Hell, darling, c’mon—jus’ come on my cock, darling—make a mess f’me an’ I’ll fill y’right up—”
The coil in your belly finally snapped.
The wail that you let out could have only been described as a noise similar to a wounded animal, crackling and desperate and gone. If it hadn’t been for Bruce’s sudden move to lean down to you, so that your back and his chest were flush together, you would have folded in on yourself like a collapsing star. Your drooling cunt fluttered around Bruce, clenching around him like a vice in erratic bursts, like you were trying to absorb him into you. Your hands were cramping from how hard you were gripping the pillows on the couch.
“Yeah, yeah, that’s right, pretty girl. Mhm, jus’ like that, darling—f-fuck!”
Bruce’s hips only continued to get more frenzied, faster, harder, while he pulled your hair tighter around his fist and dug his fingers into the plush of your stuttering hips even deeper. One thrust, another one that was even more erratic than the last, and then you could feel his dick twitching inside of you because he spilled into you. He rolled his hips against you, riding it out despite how each movement seemed to make you twitch as he elongated the aftershocks that were pulsing through your body like a metronome.
It took a while for the two of you to catch your breath, to stop panting like dogs. You were practically limp beneath Bruce as he lay on top of you, propped up on his forearms so he didn’t crush you. He had let go of your hair and started pressing kisses to the crown of your head while you both came down. Your hands shook in a way that made it obvious that you were still drunk off of champagne, and Bruce’s uncoordinated attempt at fixing the way your necklaces had tangled with each other gave him away, too.
“So, do you still think I’m prehistoric?”
Bruce answered his own question a few moments later when he stood up from the couch, to discover that his shoulder made a new clicking noise when he tried to put his suit jacket back on.