I cannot love Bruce Wayne. The way his lips graze my downy hairline as we lay together is foreign and strange. The way he silently traces patterns into the skin of my shoulder blade, claiming me, when he thinks I am asleep against him is childish.
I cannot love Bruce Wayne. I do not need the heat his body offers me in the middle of rainy, frigid nights. I do not need his lips against my ear as he pulls me close, whispering, "It's okay, I'm here." I do not need the pad of his thumb, rough and calloused but impossibly soft against my hot cheek, wiping away the one tear I have missed.
I cannot love Bruce Wayne. I do not need his distractions, the stupid text messages he sends during board meetings from across the room that make me struggle to turn my laughter into a hasty cough. I do not need him standing in my office doorway watching while my hair is coming undone, my blouse untucked, fingers smeared with ink from signing too many documents, telling me to come to lunch. I do not need to see the concern etched into the lines of his face as he watches me over his glass of ice water to make sure I eat enough. I do not need to see the glint of heat in those amber eyes when I lick a spatter of sauce leisurely from my fingertip as we wait for the check.
I cannot love Bruce Wayne. I do not need to feel him hard against me as he kisses my neck, bites so softly over the pulse of my jugular that I mewl out his name. I do not need him to take comfort in me, to feel the way he fits so perfectly inside no matter how hard he fucks or how gently I make love to him. I do not need to hear Talia, Talia in that beautiful, ragged voice as he nears. I do not need to think about the fact that in these sweaty, breathless moments, I am seeing this man more human than he has let himself be in decades.
I cannot love Bruce Wayne. I do not love our morning jogs, the way he refuses to simply let me win when we race. I do not want the baths that follow, our limbs entwined in tepid bathwater as he reclines against me in the sprawling tub, kissing my knuckles and ignoring the scrapes and scars. I do not love the way he rests his head against the hollow of my collar and closes his eyes, nor the noises he makes in his throat as I kiss down the side of his wet, soapy neck.
I cannot love Bruce Wayne. I do not need to feel protected, to feel cherished, to feel precious and beloved. I do not need his charming smiles, do not need to catch him gazing at me across crowded boardrooms and from one foot away as I read on the sofa. I do not want the safety of his arms, the understanding of the scars carved into so many inches of pale, bruised skin, like mine. I do not want his humanity, nor the humanity he finds in me.
On the night he said I love you, I did not want that, either. But, thoughtless, I gave it right back, pressed in a whisper to the hollow of his throat, and now it remains there, a tattoo, a mark. And I wonder, with one of his own pressed into my skin too, in the soft flesh right below my ear, when these both will turn to scars.
I cannot love Bruce Wayne. It is against nature. It is not good for me to love that which, in the end, I know I will destroy.
I should not love Bruce Wayne.
But, fool as I am, I do it anyway.
2087
theartofmadeline
areudirty
titsay
jacobvanloon
