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rear suspension - [bruce wayne]

free drinks at the iceberg lounge sounded all too tempting when you first heard of tonight’s event, but what you hadn’t known is that some of gotham’s finest faces would be in attendance, and a certain suit and tie has his eyes set on you…

ft. batman / bruce wayne x f!reader

18+ MDNI. if you do not have your age on your blog you will be blocked, you must be 18+ to interact with and follow this content.

content: smut, p in v, safe sex, v fingering, car sex, chance encounter, playboy bruce wayne, tiny bit of alcohol, one batman mention, comic bruce with batman forever inspiration (happy thirty years batman forever <3)

word count: 10.5k

ao3 ver. (must be a registered user to view)

Ice at the bottom of a hurricane glass. You swirl it idly as it melts down, nudging increasingly smaller cubes with the end of a straw. You contemplate another as you swing your feet with your boredom but the bar staff are already inundated with constant orders. You’d hate to contribute to the onslaught any more than you already have.

But, for you, the night has already run its course.

While others are just finding their momentum, whisked away in the mindlessness of a drunken buzz, you’ve about run out of the patience you had reserved for the evening. And even then you didn’t start with much.

It’s Oliver Queen’s birthday, or so you’ve been told. You haven’t actually caught a glimpse of the man all night but on occasion you’ll hear a voice obnoxious enough to be his echo over the crowd. Raucous laughter always follows but it’s hollow, performed to please and believed by the man in the middle.

It’s the kind of people you’d expect to find, suits and ties and dresses with plunging necklines. All of these people attend as a formality, business partners and investors, acquaintances and maybe even rivals. You doubt that there’s a single person among them who would call tonight’s host a friend.

At least that’s one thing you have in common.

Maybe it wasn’t worth being here after all. You weren’t invited but it seems like nobody formally was. Queen had rented out The Iceberg Lounge, opened the doors, and given it no further thought. Even as a total stranger getting in was easy.

And sure, the couple of drinks you’d managed to get from the open bar certainly tasted pleasantly expensive, but the novelty quickly wore off thanks to all the tipsy businessmen you had to trade pleasantries with.

You should leave before they get any worse.

Though, just when you thought you’d found a safe table tucked in the corner to call yours, yet another suit and tie decides it’s the perfect time to meet your eyes. But he’s not just any suit and tie.

“Mr. Wayne.” If you had a sip of your drink left you may well have choked on it.

Dark, slicked back hair with a few strays that hang down from a widow's peak and reach the eyebrows. Greying strands by the temples and a clean shaven, sharp jaw. His expression is steeled and eyes cold behind thin framed glasses, but there’s a flashing glint of acknowledgment that shines briefly. He looks gorgeous, as neatly put together as is typically expected of him.

But he almost looks startled when you address him, despite standing across the table you’re clearly situated at. Although he quickly muscles down the telling way his brows jumped up.

“Apologies.” He nods, clearing his throat and fixing you a stare down his nose. “I didn’t realise there was anyone over here.”

You’re not sure if you should think of him as rude for that. Though, it is quite true that the corner you’ve tucked yourself into is otherwise desolate.

It’s not particularly close to the bar but instead above it on one of the balcony type floors the venue boasts, giving you a good look down at it. The DJ of the night is as far from you as you could manage and the wall speaker that should be interrupting you is broken, creating one of the few pockets of relative quiet in the whole building. The light is less abrasive, too. The rest of the place favours white light that stings like LED headlights but they don’t reach you over here. It’s a nice spot, actually.

And the man across from you must’ve thought the same.

If you knew him you would’ve known that he considers this ‘his table’, would’ve known that this is where he always slinks away to when the unpleasant company of the place becomes too overbearing. No one ever joins him over here, it’s an unspoken rule of sorts, so he stands unsure for a moment upon making eye contact with you.

His tolerance for socialising has already been pushed to a limit this evening, patience worn down even worse than yours. But something about you makes him hesitate. He looks you over, eyes sweeping up and down what isn’t blocked by the table, and reaches for the chair opposite you.

“Is this seat taken?” Mr. Wayne asks with a casual confidence about him, a voice that’s smooth as velvet. He doesn’t wait for your answer before he starts pulling the chair out.

Nervousness makes a grab at you, upskittling something uneasy like butterflies in your stomach. His gaze is immobilising, it wipes your mind of any rebuttal. You nod, pursing your lips and sitting back in your seat in an effort to look more presentable.

All night you’d been trying your hardest not to get trapped with someone like this, successfully making a getaway the other times men of money had tried to engage you. The energy it takes to humour them and their out of touch conversation topics is never worth it, after all. But now you’re cornered.

“Sorry to intrude,” He starts, setting a mostly empty whisky glass down on the table. “I hope you don’t mind too much.”

You glance at it beside your own. No ice. Neat. And right about now the last sip of it is looking like the perfect remedy for your throat that’s suddenly gone dry.

“That’s alright. I was just about to make my way out of here, anyway.” You shrug, trying not to look at him for worry your expression will give away your antipathy.

“So soon?”

But you can't deny that the sound of his voice is alluring. He’s well spoken, purposeful, and lacks the grating drawl that all of his associates seem to possess.

“Uh, yes.” You stammer, made shy under his unwavering gaze. “Not to be rude but this isn’t my sort of crowd. I can't stand these types.”

He either ignores or fails to realise the fact that the generalisation you made includes him, and hums a low noise of understanding.

“Not rude at all. Neither can I.”

It seems the irony is lost on him.

You can’t help but laugh, trying to bite back the coy giggle that begs to fall from your lips, poorly hidden behind your closed fist that conceals your smile. The sound sets goosebumps running down Mr. Wayne’s arms, a little electric thrill that catches him by surprise.

Maybe it’s not so bad that you’re here, after all.

A more muted, polite chuckle comes from across the table, a deep rumble that’s heavy in its charm. His social battery is suddenly rejuvenated, awake and alive as the sweet sound of you fills his ears. The stare he gives you only becomes more brazen as he looks through his brows with something like a hankering starting up at the back of his mind.

You feel scrutinised. Ear tips flush hot and a shudder down the column of your spine has you clearing your throat and stopping your tittering with a cough into your first.

“Sorry.” The whisper comes before you can register the thought. “I don’t know why that tickled me so much.”

A grin tugs his lips, a flash of white teeth that’s most fetching. You’re not a regular, he can see that much, and he’s disappointed by the idea that you won’t be here to rescue a sour night in the future. The realisation brings on a sense of urgency.

He can’t let you slip through his fingers.

“Are you sure I can’t interest you in another drink?” He prompts, reaching for his glass to polish off what’s left.

There’s a pause, a moment of reservation, surprised by both his asking and the fact that you don’t immediately hate the idea. You’re loosening up, growing somewhat used to his company and finding yourself intrigued by his unexpected chatter. But maybe it’s just the jealousy over that last sip.

“You’d be lucky to get to the bar.” With a nod you guide his eyes to the crowd of drunkards surrounding the place from all angles. All seats are taken and some unsophisticated types have taken to sitting on the bar top, much to the chagrin of the staff.

Mr. Wayne hums. “I suppose that does look rather univinting, doesn’t it?”

“Mhm.” You look back at him.

There’s a poignant pause, a tsk of his lips pursing and you feel inclined to reach for your glass again, maybe swirl the ice around some more.

You thought he’d be glad to hear that you’re leaving, working under the assumption that he was seeking solitude as you’ve heard that he so often does, not half the socialite he’s said to be. You also thought you’d be in more of a rush, that you would’ve stood by now and taken your leave. But something keeps you in your seat.

“Well then. Can I at least see you to your car?”

Eyes dart up, something like bemusement lingering. But behind thin glass lenses the look he gives you is as resolute as ever, giving nothing away. You want to groan but you bite it back.

“Oh, I appreciate it but that’s alright. I walked, actually.”

Finally, his expression falters.

It’s discreet, something you would’ve missed had you not been staring. But a crease pulls between his brows that knit taut together, the bridge of his nose scrunched, and the corner of his lip twitches with what could’ve been a frown. He composes himself too quickly for you to know for certain.

It’s a late night in Gotham and a weekend too, Saturday having turned to Sunday only a couple of hours prior. It’s the worst night for it, really, at least according to patrol records. But the greater of his worries is this damn event. All of the criminals that would typically be in the lounge at this time have been kicked out for the sake of this egofest, making the streets an even bigger risk than what’s typical.

Walking home amongst them, especially looking as you do, would no doubt be a grave mistake.

“Right.” Mr. Wayne nods, curt and visibly tense.

The pads of his fingers drum on the table in front of you and he glances into his empty glass as if the idea he’s looking for will be swishing at the bottom. You wait, left to sit with your confusion while he muses.

“I’d hate to be…” He starts, trailing off in uncertainty. It takes him a moment to find the right words, suddenly careful in how he regards you. “Brash.”

You watch him wince, growing skeptical. “But?”

“But,” He huffs. “I know this area well enough to suggest that walking home isn’t the best idea, unfortunately.”

Another pause. Shorter this time. You glance at your hands where they rest in your lap, thumbs twiddling. You can feel his gaze draped heavy on you, expectant and resolute.

“Well, I don’t really have another option.”

He jumps in rather hastily. “I can drive you, instead.”

You don’t dare to look at him, knowing you’ll find out how persuading he can be. “I appreciate that, Mr. Wayne. I really do but—“

“Bruce.”

“Pardon?”

“Call me Bruce. I insist.” He sits back in his chair and holds his head a little higher, recovering some of the nonchalance and bravado that’s typical of him.

The tension is nearing on stifling, a heady presence in the air that feels to push on your chest with its eagerness to have you acknowledge it. It doesn’t look to make the same impression on Bruce, though. He’s relatively composed by comparison, but with another glance down at your lap you miss the way he tugs at the collar of his shirt as if it’s suffocating him.

“Oh.” You feel your cheeks warm, whole body flushed by an ardent heat that makes you shy.

“Well, Bruce, as nice as it is for you to offer, I'd hate to waste your time.”

He almost looks offended, incredulous that you’d suggest such a thing.

“You wouldn’t be wasting my time, you can be sure of that. I was looking to get out of here myself, anyway.”

And just like that he’s twisted your arm.

A combination of his charming timbre and steady tenacity were sure to be your undoing. You’d anticipated it when he sat down, but still you could kick yourself for it. Although, you could soon be thanking yourself instead.

“Well, only if you’re sure.” You concede.

“But uh, without sounding rude, should you be driving?” He raises a sharp brow and you point at the empty glass that his fingers are still wrapped around. He scoffs but finds your concern endearing.

“This is all I’ve had. But if you’d prefer, I don’t mind sitting a while to sober up.”

To your relief he takes no offence, shrugging suited shoulders coolly. If anything he’s glad to have the opportunity to talk some more, set on bypassing the formalities and banal small talk, all of the things that create an obstacle between you both.

“I’d like to, if that’s alright with you.” You nod, a polite smile pulling at your lips. His breath hitches in his throat, a skip of his heart.

All this over a smile. He has to wonder if you know what you’re doing to him.

“Of course. But let’s talk there, not here.” Finally, Bruce lets go of his glass and rises from his seat, walking around to your side of the table. Extending an open palm he offers you his hand, his stature imposing at this angle.

Your heart races as you slip your hand into his, the heat of his touch bristling up your arm when he closes his grip.

“My car is right outside. Shall we go?”

The music fades, the bass grows weak, lost beneath the crowd of murmurs that you leave behind. You’re surprised no one notices him passing by, a head above the horde with a notorious grin that’s sure and no doubt on show right now. But no one seems to care.

You don’t know why you thought that they would. After all, a dolled up and otherwise unfamiliar girl hooked onto the arm of Bruce Wayne is nothing if not typical. But to you it’s slightly troubling.

For no apparent reason you expect someone to notice that your hand doesn’t rest comfortably on his blazer clad bicep, that your steps don’t fall in a nice rhythm with his. You don’t feel like you fit the bill of his usual conquest and yet he himself has this eager glow about him, satisfied to have you at his side and keen to escort you out of this underwhelming event.

To think that your evening has strayed so far from expectation, it’s nerve-wracking but electrifying. Perhaps you would be better off taking it in your stride.

This isn’t an opportunity you’ll see again, after all, company you’ll likely only share in once.

You hold your head a little higher and by the time you’ve somewhat quieted your mind you’ve reached the back exit. Security offer Bruce a steady nod and a man of intimidating stature opens the fire door for you, holding it steady as you both pass through, you ahead of Bruce.

The night is bitter, a biting breeze turning the air cold and eliciting goosebumps down your arms. You look over your shoulder for Bruce who is barely a step behind you. His hands take purchase on your upper arms, tepid palms sweeping up and down to encourage some warmth into your skin.

“That’s me over there.” He nods ahead and you follow his eyeline, landing on a pristine black jaguar.

You know it immediately from the hood ornament, the big cat polished and proud. However, despite this it’s a less flashy pick than what you had expected. It’s no doubt expensive, of that you can be sure, but it’s otherwise a classic little car that’s surprisingly quaint.

With a grip that's steadfast on your arms he walks you toward it, his presence behind you acting like a push forward. He only takes a hand away to fish in his pocket when you’re standing by the passenger side. It’s three doors, relatively low to the ground, and through the window you can see the beige leather interior.

It only takes a second for him to have it unlocked, the jingling keys hooked onto his index finger as he opens the door for you. But before he invites you in he unexpectedly folds down the passenger seat. It slides forward on its rails and opens up access to the back bench, a comfy, deep seat in the same pristine leather.

Bruce steps back, an outstretched arm holding down the collapsed front seat when he turns to you.

“I figure we can sit in the back for now, if you don’t mind. More comfortable since we’ve got some time to kill.”

“Oh?” You utter, barely more than a breath. But he isn’t discouraged, looking at you with a patient smile. You nod and duck into the back seat, shuffling over to the furthest side.

It only takes a moment to appreciate that he’s right, it is more comfortable. Relaxing against the back bench you find it to be surprisingly spacious, having been concerned about the amount of room when you first stepped in. It looks cramped from the outside but once you’re situated it’s more than pleasant.

Tinted rear windows offer a sense of security and privacy while blocking any harsh light that tries to shine in. And with the front seats pushed forward you’re allowed plenty of legroom, which is a clear necessity for Bruce as he gets comfortable next to you.

Leant forward he pulls the car door closed, leaving the seat folded as he leans back with a sigh. His knee is pressed snug against yours and for some reason it makes your heart jump, a giddy skip of a beat while he doesn’t even seem to notice. You make no attempt to move away.

“Much better, don’t you think?” Bruce asks, a sidelong glance over his glasses trained heavy on you.

You nod, returning a less confident look. “Mhm.”

The tension is mounting again already, if it had ever abated at all. There’s something about him that’s causing this nervous energy to thrum through you, an eruption of butterflies in the gut and a heat down the back of your neck.

It’s commanding you but you feel no inclination to stop it. If anything, you're enjoying it.

“I haven’t seen you before, have I?”

And there he goes making it worse. The question comes impassively enough, innocuous on the surface but you’re not ignorant enough to not hear his further implication.

When you give no answer he reaches for you with an assertive hand taking purchase on your leg. Lithe fingers hook around your thigh while his thumb sweeps soothing strokes just above your knee, an unexpectedly chaste ministration. Regardless, a breath catches in your throat, a gulp you strain to swallow down.

“Uh no.” You manage your quiet retort. “This isn’t my kind of place.”

Bruce hums, now gazing passively at where his touch rests. “Then what brought you here?”

You shrug. “Honestly? I just wanted to sneak a couple of free drinks, they were letting anyone and everyone in, so.”

“Of course they were.” He seems unimpressed. “Queen’s security are a joke.”

“Don’t mention him. It was bad enough knowing I was in the same building as him.”

Bruce laughs, a break through his composed and collected attitude to something more hearty and sincere. He’s glad you’re finding your voice now, working past that shyness and giving him a proper look at you in all your sweetness.

“Not a fan then, I take it?” He asks knowingly.

You’re quick to shake your head and mimic a more coy type of laugh. The mirth that’s found its way around you allows a far greater sense of comfort, abandoning your unease as you’re finally able to drop your shoulders and give up your performative properness.

“Good, me either.” He squeezes your leg and the press of his fingertips makes you shudder. But he doesn’t comment.

He’s eating up every reaction, every giggle, every smile. It’s all so earnest and he simply isn’t used to it. But he needs more of it, craves being a familiar person to you, not someone new you have to hide yourself from.

But he knows that isn’t an option. Instead, he’ll need a quick fix, something a little more improper that can still sate the desire you’ve roused in him.

“Will I see you again?”

As easy as that he shifts the mood, a sense of severity brought in by his raspy timbre.

“Hm?”

His hand slides up your leg, resting mid thigh. “Well, given that this isn’t your type of place, do you think I’ll see you again?”

For some reason you find it difficult to answer, tempted to ask him to repeat himself just to buy some time although you heard him loud and clear. It’s a weighted question and you don’t want your answer to be taken as rejection. But you speak truthfully.

“I suppose not.” You again shrug and sigh. “I can't say I liked it in there.”

Bruce nods. “What about out here?”

“Out here’s much better.”

He smiles and you do too, a silent understanding.

“In that case,” He keens forward, ducking his head close to you and glancing at where his hand rests. Your heart thunders and you can do nothing but stare at his smug smirk. “If I may not get to see you again, how about we make the most of this?”

Your response is uncharacteristically quick. “Is that why you brought me back to your car?”

He scoffs, nonplussed but pleasantly amused. The smirk becomes something toothier.

“Not entirely. I will still be making sure that you make it home safely tonight. But if that’s all you need from me we can get in the front and—“

Then his hand starts to withdraw, whether because he’s unsure or because it’s his way of giving you the choice you don’t know. You grab it anyway. Perhaps a little too eagerly.

“I uh, I thought we needed to kill some time first?”

Finally his gaze flickers upwards, a glint in his eye as he stares over frames that slide down his nose.

“You’re right.” He’s absolutely beaming, eyes pushed to squint by a grin so wide it pulls dimples into place either side of it. His touch climbs higher, a tenacious grip that stills once his fingers brush the hem of your dress.

“Is this okay with you?” He asks patiently, trying to tamp down his hungry grin.

You nod, a breathy whisper of ‘yes’ falling from your lips.

“Come on then. I want you on my lap.”

Brows shoot up, your heartbeat droning in your ears as it quickens. You forgot to anticipate his boldness, forgot that this is nothing atypical for him. But it only furthers your excitement as he reaches over you to take you by the waist, a guiding pull and command to straddle him.

Take it in your stride, you remember. Enjoy the experienced touches he can offer you and let go of your inhibitions.

Knees plant either side of his hips, the leather seat moulding beneath the weight of you both. The hem of your dress is forced upwards as your legs spread over his thighs and his eyes immediately dart to the exposed skin, gaze greedy and climbing up your figure until your eyes meet.

“There you go.” Bruce hums, hands resting comfortably on your waist. His grip falls stronger now, thumbs pressing valleys into the soft give of your body. “How’s that, sweetheart?”

You gulp, the pet name hitting your ears heavy. He sees the way you shiver, the way your eyes glisten and hips unknowingly shift. He swears to himself that he won’t miss a thing, that he’ll truly make the most of this, of you.

“Good.” You nod with a sweet half-smile, your hands coming to rest on his broad shoulders. He returns the grin, again leaning forward but even closer now, his breath fanning hot on your cupid's bow.

“Good. Can I kiss you?”

One hand comes up to cup your jaw and his thumb rests idle by the corner of your mouth. You feel dwarfed in his hands.

You nod into his palm and he pounces.

Haste lends him to roughness, a bruising kiss that’s all hunger and no hiding. Bruce pulls you toward him with fingers hooking around the back of your neck, thumb resting on the apple of your cheek and he could groan at the heat radiating off of your skin. You can’t help the gasp you let slip into his mouth, fingertips curling into the collar of his blazer as if to brace yourself.

You feel you should be startled but the way his affections immediately set shockwaves rolling over your skin leads to something much more pleasant. You’re brimming with excitement, pulse quick and body pliant.

It’s a fumble to match his fervour, trying to follow his lead but he’s evidently got a better handle on this than you do. The press of his lips is confident, a graze of teeth on your bottom lip while your ragged breaths dance over his defined cupid's bow.

A muffled yelp peaks at the back of your throat and seems to snap him out of his carnal greed.

Bruce slows like it never happened, becoming much more deliberate with his actions and offering slower, sweeter kisses like apologies before pulling back. You’re left breathless at the loss of his lips.

“Sorry.” He clears his throat with no real sense of remorse to be found in his tone. His glasses are askew and the lenses foggy, cheeks ruddy and smile boyish. The sight makes your eyes wide and you feel the same smugness he so often shows for the first time tonight.

“Getting ahead of myself, aren’t I?” He laughs airily. “You’re just so sweet I can’t help it, darling.”

Mimicking his cheery laugh you turn away from him as bashfulness bubbles up in your chest. You can feel his spit on your lips and it makes you dizzy, mind slowly but surely fogging over with lust. His hand settles back on your jaw while you catch your breath, a light touch that now seems to hover patiently. You can hear his expensive watch ticking with his hand so close to your ear and it only scrambles your mind more.

“I don’t mind.” You utter after a moment, leaning into his touch and lifting your head. He immediately locks eyes with you, pupils blown and murky with something lying within.

“You don’t?” Bruce’s voice falls deeper, raspy with his asking.

You shake your head and find yourself unable to break the fierce eye contact. You could swear that a spark bounces between you, something unseen but palpable, perhaps even undeniable.

His hand falls away from your waist as he reaches to remove his glasses, folding them neat and discarding them on the neighbouring seat.

There’s a shift, his gaze far more intense without the obstruction. He favours your thigh now instead as fingertips nudge underneath the hiked up fabric of your dress and grope at supple flesh. They rest like they belong there, squeezing experimentally.

“Good.” He hums, low, satisfied. “Wouldn’t want to scare you off now, would I?”

Another laugh, short lived but earnest with your nervousness boiling over.

“It would take a lot more than that.” One of your hands slides off of his shoulder and down his chest, palm pressed flush against toned musculature. Despite his cool demeanor his heart is racing just as fast as yours, thundering beneath your touch.

“That’s what I like to hear.”

He’s back on you in an instant but maintains his composure this time around. His kiss is teasing and brisk, making you shudder as the chaste exchange does little to satiate the way he’s got you wound up already.

You know he’s doing it purposefully when you feel his pleased smile and your little whinge of protest only makes him worse. Pausing a breath between each slow kiss he tortures you with his sudden leisure, touch drifting from your jaw to your neck.

It forces your hand, spurring you on to chase him and press deeper into the kiss in search of what you ache for.

A low huff hits your lips when you reach and tug his tie, desperate hands seeking to urge him closer. His shoulders leave the back seat as he leans deeper in answer to your command and the leather creaks with the shift of your bodies. It makes your head spin, having not anticipated the way he bends to your wishes so gladly, emboldening you all the more.

Your breath hitches when his hands take purchase on your hips, one over your dress and one pushing further under it. With a steady grip he pulls you flush against him, hips to hips, and you shiver when he very intentionally guides you to grind over his lap.

A shy, unbidden moan escapes the back of your throat. You can feel him beneath you, a hard, heavy warmth that nudges your thigh as he rocks your body into his.

His doting deviates away from your lips, open mouthed kisses along the line of your jaw that drift down the column of your throat. A shaky breath tumbles from your mouth and you tip your head back to accommodate and encourage him.

Without thinking you begin to rut down against his lap, pliable in his hands and following his lead as if urged to. Bruce easily slows and lets you take over with your newfound fervor driving you.

It’s as if he’s been showing you precisely what he wants and guiding you to do it, wordlessly asking by planting the seed and pushing to advance the exchange.

First, the kiss. He was heedless and unabashed, immediately looking to dash decorum that had kept you at arms length when he first found you and instead make way for prurient curiosity. Then, his touches. His hands search your body like they know it already, brazenly exploring and searching for soft skin, mapping out the shape of you. There’s no time to be proper or reticent, no need either.

Bruce simply needed to show you that, show you what you can have and encourage you to seek it out, invite you to match his ardour.

Biting your bottom lip you find your breathing becomes more ragged as you beg to chase the sensation that’s shaking you. It’s like a fire starting low in your gut, embers steadily coming to life that make you hot from head to toe. But it’s not enough friction.

His lips pepper a generous slew of kisses over your collarbone, nipping testingly and seeing what kind of rise he can get out of you. All the while you’re panting above him.

His hand under your dress shifts, making a path from your hip over the top of your thigh, fingers rolling around to the inside and resting by your bikini line. The pad of his thumb barely nudges you, a featherlight drag over your underwear.

It sends a searing spark bouncing up your skin.

You gasp and your hand flies to reactively grab his wrist, lithe fingers wrapping around the line of his pulse. His touch stills.

“You okay?” Bruce rasps against your skin, hovering at the base of your throat. With bated breath he watches you swallow a gulp and nod a strained ‘mhm. But he stays frozen for another maddening moment before pulling back.

“Need to hear you say it.” He says flatly, meeting your eyes with an immobilising gaze as he sits back. “Can you do that for me?”

Your momentum is halted and it dizzies you for a moment, pausing to gather yourself. “Yes.” You choke out with a dazed look about you.

Your eyes flicker to his lips and you slowly let go of his wrist, thumb gliding along the pulse point there for the satisfaction of feeling it thunder when you say; “Touch me. Please, I need it. I need more.”

A grin takes over his features, wicked with satisfaction.

“More?” He croons. Turning his palm to the sky he picks back up with torturously drawn out movements. Your dress is more like a belt as he pushes further beneath it and forces it to gather above your hips, leaving you open to him. With eyes on you he cups the bump of your cunt over your underwear, middle two fingers gingerly grazing a line over dampened fabric.

“More.” You nod ardently. With a roll of your hips you try to press down into his palm but his other hand on your waist keeps you held how he wants you, stuck still in place.

“Please.” You repeat, a weaker voice and shakier breaths.

Bruce hums like contemplating your pleas, kiss bitten lips smirking.

The pad of his thumb barely skims over your clit, light enough it could be mistaken for an accident, but the way he’s observing you now tells you it wasn’t. Nothing is an accident with him. He’s very meticulous, learning your body and responding in kind to what your reactions give away to him. You’re putty in his hands.

A small, shuddering sound escapes you and your eyes close instinctively. You’re wound so tight that frustration begins to make a home with you and you’re biting your tongue in order to not whinge at every fleeting sensation he offers you. But he can feel it how tense you are, see it in how your jaw is clenched. His pity is your liberator.

Two fingers press heavier, rubbing you through your underwear and teasing the wet spot that’s gathered there. The fire in your gut flickers and eyes close tighter, face scrunched and chest heaving. Hot breath fills the car and the windows begin to fog.

“Eyes on me.” His thumb comes back and nudges tentatively, drawing loose circles that have you arching with anticipation. Static thrums beneath his fingertips, it warms your skin and steals your breath, taking you a moment to concede.

Blinking bleary eyes open you find him staring, ink drop pupils trained on your face.

“There you go.”

Lithe fingers push sodden cotton by the wayside and his middle draws a line up the centre of your cunt, spreading you open and gathering a wet pearl on the pad of his finger. You shudder deeply and your hands fly to his shoulders, bunching up luxury fabric in clawing at his blazer. He doesn’t seem to mind.

Steely eyes never once leave your own as he begins to toy with you. Smearing the wetness he finds you sat in he returns his attentions to your clit, rubbing loose rings. His touch is much firmer, purposeful, as he begins to dote on the sensitive bud.

You fold with the force of it, head hanging down as you grit your teeth around a sharp moan you struggle to bite back. Bruce clicks his tongue but his ministrations don’t still.

Shockwaves rove up your skin like electricity making bouncing connections that wrack you from head to toe. It comes on fast, facing the brunt of your frustration head on and amplifying each sensation. But it already begins to feel like bliss.

With thumb replacing his finger Bruce steadily works you open, easing the tension out of your body and coaxing you to be pliable in his lap. His other hand migrates from your waist to your stomach, trailing up, up, until he’s brushing his fingers along the bottom curve of your breasts. He pushes gently, a steadying touch that sits you up right so he can see you properly.

Your neck cranes, your mouth slightly ajar, and he smiles a particularly cloying smile when he’s got your focus back.

You expect him to speak, to croon a sweet something that’s equally smug. But he just bites his lip and brings his middle finger back to your weeping cunt, shallowly nudging and teasing your hole.

The emptiness suddenly becomes glaringly urgent, a chasmal nagging low in your gut that aches to be soothed. You squirm, your thighs burning to keep yourself seated still.

“Please.” Is all you can manage through a gulp. He can see the desperation in your half lidded eyes, feel it in your fingertips pitting into his shoulders. His gaze shifts to something contemplative, an unsure brow.

“Please, Bruce.” Your voice comes splintered by a whine, kiss swollen lips almost daring to frown.

“Fuck.” Bruce surges forward, a strong arm wrapping around your waist as his chin comes level with your collarbone, hot breaths rolling over the hollow of your throat. Slowly, oh so slowly, he pushes his finger inside you, crooking ever so slightly at each knuckle until seated.

“You’re irresistible, you know that?”

The shy moan you let out rumbles beneath his lips as he peppers delicate kisses down your neck, overwhelming your senses and wasting no time in beginning to pump his finger. He barely pulls back, working steady and deep and delighting in the way your hips buck in response.

Frustration melts away, the sparks come alive and fire flickers low and lascivious. It’s just the beginning but it already feels so good and you’re wrapped up in the heat of it all. His cologne engulfs you, spicy and sharp and perhaps dizzying, or maybe that’s the soft press of his lips searching your neck for that tender spot he knows will make you shout out for him.

Once he finds it he’s a headache.

You shudder deeply when his lips drag over the soft spot and he zeroes in on it, open mouthed kisses sullying your skin with a hint of tongue to soothe. Your mind is hazy, thoughts thrown somewhere else, extent to which you don’t realise his ring finger teasing alongside his middle until he’s pushing in hurriedly.

Choking out a ragged moan you again grit your teeth and tense involuntarily. It’s a welcome intrusion but his fingers are larger than your own and noticeably so as it takes you a second to let out the shivering breath you found yourself holding. But now he’s got you right where he wants you.

It’s not a rush but Bruce doesn’t waste time, fucking you on his fingers and keeping the best pace he can muster without getting selfish. You welcome him easily, rivulets of arousal running over his knuckles with each pump inside you, slick and soft and so ready for him. He can't get enough.

You make him want to be selfish.

Picking back up those languid circles he again bullies your clit beneath the tip of his thumb, this time aided by the wetness spread over you that makes a mess of you both.

His name slides off your tongue, over and over again in increasing volume as he picks up the pace of both fingers and thumb. Your eyes water, lash line beaded damp, and the ripples of pleasure begin to pool something tight in your gut.

Deft fingers strike deep and rhythmic and at a seconds notice he curls them, seeking and soon finding the sweet spot nestled inside you. Your body jolts, you throw your head back, and an unflattering cry escapes your throat.

“Fuck!” It’s right by his ear when your head drops again and he groans against your skin, shuddering as the beautiful sound rings in his ears. Teeth graze and lips suck at your neck, a particularly sharp suck before he parts in order to get a good look at you, taking in your undone state.

You’re trembling. You don’t realise it but he does and cradles you tighter, muttering strings of praise to get you through.

“That’s it.” Bruce coaxes, timbre low and thick with lust. “Just like that. You’re doing so good, sweetheart.”

The fire burns blue, all encompassing and ardent as it soars brighter with each passing second. With every upsurge of his pace you’re feeling the knot tie low in your stomach, tantalising but harsh with how it makes your legs quake and breaths short.

The strike of his fingers is unabating and he draws increasingly tighter rings with his thumb, never sloppy and always blissfully precise. Your nails are in his suit, if you had the mind to think you’d worry about damaging it but there’s nothing in your head other than the heat of his hand, the puddle that has been smeared to the crease of your thighs, and the cord pulled taut that signals your approaching climax.

“Bruce,” You whine, broken and breathy. “I-I think I’m gonna—“

He sits back hurriedly and levels you with a dazed stare, nodding like encouraging you with actions never once letting up or faltering.

“Go on.” He grunts. “That’s it. That’s right.”

You screw your eyes shut, body thrumming with red hot anticipation that hurtles you towards the edge. You’re whining, panting, grinding down into Bruce’s hand all up until you’re sent falling into your orgasm.

A screaming moan is pulled from your chest and you collapse in on yourself with the force of it. It cascades over you in a blistering wave, seizes agency of your legs as you shake through it, and there’s nothing you can do but ride it out.

Through the fog you can hear Bruce croon fondly and faintly. His hand slows but doesn’t stop, guiding you through the high of nerve-numbing bliss. You can’t stop the trembling when you slowly come back down, slumping your head onto his shoulder with hands braced on his biceps.

“There you go.” Bruce rasps, kissing at your hairline as his free hand sweeps up and down your back. It’s surprisingly sweet and grounding. “God, you’re beautiful, that was beautiful.”

You hiss as he withdraws his fingers, your wetness running sticky all down them and into his palm. He doesn’t mind one bit, though, as he spreads the gush of your orgasm just to hear your overwhelmed whinge right by his ear.

“Sorry, darling.” He isn’t.

Watching as his hand comes away from under your dress you see the sheen on his skin, sitting yourself up as he brings the two digits to his tongue. You almost feel inclined to look away but you can’t, mind hazy and transfixed on everything about him. It makes you flush warm as he hums and pulls sullied fingers from his mouth, his spit replacing your slick. You bite your lip.

“Fuck, that’s good.” His voice is gravelly, timbre deep, and he huffs with amusement. Licking his lips with a small dart of his tongue he pauses to muse, eyes sweeping you up and down before ultimately landing between your legs.

“Oh shut up.” You finally manage, words finding you again.

His head shoots up. “Hm?”

Nervous laughter rolls off your tongue, shoulders quaking with giddy mirth. He’s got that bemused look again, incredulous, and sharp brows crease in the middle.

“What? Do you think I don’t mean it?” It’s lighthearted but you can hear the lilt of challenge, the suggestion of a point to prove.

“Well—“

“Because I do.” He doesn’t waste a second. “I can even show you how much I mean it.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Give me your hand.”

It’s not as if you were genuinely harbouring any self doubt in this moment, your mind too scrambled to even consider it, but if you were it all would’ve melted away.

With a domineering grip Bruce guides you to palm him through his trousers, hard cock twitching the second your touch grazes him. Your breath hitches in your throat and your words die on your tongue, mouth going dry and face burning hot.

Fingertips trace the outline of him, rubbing with the heel of your palm and shuddering at the way he groans a throaty sigh. He’s straining against the fabric and between the weight of his cock in your hand and the way he holds your touch against him you notice the ache creep back in almost immediately.

Desire. It bubbles up inside and fills you with an ardent, commanding need. The same type of urgent lust that’s afflicting Bruce.

“See?” He stares, trying to catch your eye but you don’t look away from the tent in his pants. “You’re really getting to me, driving me crazy.”

Your eyes deviate to his belt, as does your other hand.

“Can I?”

His hands withdraw to make way for you, idle at his sides. “Please do.”

The leather snaps against itself as you hurry to pull it loose and the clink of the buckle seems to ring in your ears. You don’t bother to pull it free from the belt loops, instead hastily unfastening the trouser button and rushing down the zip. Then you push your hand beneath the clothing.

As Bruce tips his head back with a groan you see his adams apple leap, the sound rich and rewarding. You run your thumb along his cock over white briefs, silently gasping a breath when you find a small but noticeable wettish patch by the tip. You rub at it and feel his cock jump at your touch. It makes brisk heat roll over you in a shiver, molten down your spine.

He clears his throat and levels an indiscernible look at you. “Teasing me now, hm? I suppose it’s only fair.”

Pulling his dress shirt free from beneath the waistband he rucks it up around his waist, a peek of happy trail and a surprisingly defined v-line gracing your eyes. He notices you stare but you don’t get the privilege of seeing any more than that.

“But I really can’t wait any longer, sweetheart.”

Thumbs push beneath both briefs and trousers and usher them down his hips just enough, no more than is necessary to fist his cock out from its confines. Your eyes flicker from his eyes down to where he slowly strokes himself, spit pooling in your mouth as he spreads the sheen of precum over the ruddy tip, and you hear him huff a chuckle that’s all air through the nostrils.

“Me either.” You mutter, forcing yourself back to his eyes and meeting him with a glassy gaze. He smiles, surprisingly sweet, and looks at you fondly.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Bruce leans in to kiss you but the hunger he displayed before is nowhere to be found. It’s a chaste peck, soft to an almost startling extent. You go to lean in, to chase him for something headier, but he’s already pulling away and leaning his forehead against yours.

“Just give me a second then, darling.”

With brief difficulty he shucks his blazer off, freed of the fabric that had been stifling him as the heat in the car had risen. Uncharacteristically, he doesn’t fold it, just sort of screws it up and ditches it on the seat with his glasses. But not before reaching into the pocket for a recognisably square packet.

It occurs to you to roll your eyes, click your tongue or have any quick witted thing to say because of course he keeps a condom, if not a couple, sat waiting in his blazer pockets. But you don’t care enough to poke at him for it, because today it’s worked to your advantage. Besides, there’s barely any thoughts left between your ears at this point, too blinded by the oneiric bliss that’s within your reach.

He makes quick work of it, you’d expect no less, and the foil is abandoned somewhere on the floor of the car.

“Ready?” Bruce asks gently, eyes searching yours for any forthcoming hesitance. But there is none. You nod and smile coyly, hands taking purchase on his shoulders while one of his takes you by the waist.

You hum a terse ‘mhm’ and let him guide you into position. Weak legs strain a subtle burn as you sit up, hips forward and hovering above his, anticipation eliciting goosebumps down your arms. With his free hand he makes sure your underwear is suitably pulled to the side before encouraging your hips down, pausing when his cockhead nudges your cunt and you shudder deeply.

“Let me hear you say it, sweetheart.” He drawls. “You know how this goes.”

You can’t help the frustrated groan you let out, head slumping forward and you scoff, unbelieving.

“C’mon, Bruce.” His name falling from your lips, exasperated but still sweet in your way, tugs at him more than he’d like to admit. “You know you want this, too.” It doesn’t sound half as confident as you’d like, mousey if anything, but it does the job.

“Of course.” He smirks, canines biting his bottom lip. “But I want you to tell me how much you want it, too.”

His fist wraps around the base of himself to guide and again he drags his tip over your cunt. It’s slow, teasing, and sets a spark bouncing up your skin that’s torturously tantalising. You moan quietly behind closed lips and rock your hips forward to chase the motion.

“Bruce,” You begin, hand trailing down his chest with nails barely grazing. You watch him suppress a shiver that emboldens you.

Fingers wrap around the luxury black tie he wears and with a tug he’s brought forward until your lips are level, your tepid breaths fanning over his sharp cupid’s bow.

“Fuck me, please? I thought that’s all you wanted?”

Dark brows keen up and his mouth falls ajar, bravado dying on his tongue. You wait in the silence and keep him pinned with a begging stare, eyes wide and hopeful, pupils darkened and blown.

Another drag has you both tense as he lines up at your entrance, the hand on your waist encouraging you to ease downward. His grip keeps him steady as you comply and begin to sink down onto his cock, the fat head bullying inside you as you hiss through gritted teeth and screw your eyes shut.

“But, for the record,” Bruce grunts, words bristling over your lips. “If I were to be so lucky, I’d want an awful lot more than just this.”

“Wha—“

You’re left without a second to process his words as he greedily snaps his hips upwards while continuing to tug you down, forcing his cock to seat deep inside as your bodies become flush, hands now squeezing your hips with an iron grip.

“Fuck!” You gasp, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes and nails again digging into his shirt-clad shoulder.

The sting throbs, not impossible but not yet comfortable as you try to get used to the stretch. It’s not subtle, at all, it feels like he’s split you open but it stokes the fire within you so thoroughly. There’s a fullness about it that's hot in the gut and without so much as meaning to you’re rolling your hips in search of the sensation.

He groans but doesn’t interfere, staring down at where your bodies meet and reaching to slacken his tie, unfastening the shirt's top button that seems to choke him. The windows have long turned foggy, the temperature in the car a stark difference to the bitter night outside and neither of you care to remember where you are.

“There you go.” He croons. “Just like that. Good girl.”

The praise goes straight to your cunt and you squeeze around him, earning a chesty moan that rumbles free from his throat. You pick up a more confident pace as you grind on him and your hips stutter with the exertion, but the sting is slowly melting away with each rut forward and turning into something fervid.

He notices your expression relax, monitoring your reactions until your face is no longer scrunched and your mouth falls open with strings of whines so hushed they barely reach his ears. You wrap his tie around your first and yank as if holding yourself up on it. Bruce can’t help but to smile cloyingly.

“Does that feel good, sweetheart?” He hums, honeyed and sickly saccharine, almost tipping toward mocking. “Making yourself feel good on my cock, yeah?”

“Oh god—“ You mutter beneath your breath, the best answer he’s going to get.

Hands on your hips begin to slowly raise you up just a fraction, barely an inch before bringing you back down. But it sets off a whole other shockwave. It starts light, raises the hair on the back of your neck, but elicits fiery flickers low in the body where that pooling of lust sits.

With commanding touches Bruce bounces you on his cock, steadily working faster, bringing you higher, until you’re left with barely the tip before he slams you back down and seats himself fully inside you. It’s bliss for both. Every stroke gets easier as he works you open even more and your dripping arousal spreads a mess on both of you, making it easy for him to slip inside with every motion.

Lewd, wet noises start to echo already but you’ve no mind to be embarrassed about it, too wrapped up in every slap of skin to care. You have to wonder if the car is rocking, unsure if that’s what you’re feeling or if it’s just all Bruce, but you could swear you feel the back of the car jounce.

You let yourself be moved by him, arching your back and biting your bottom lip hard when he begins to snap his hips up to the same rhythm.

It sends bolts of electricity running through you, a bone deep, nerve sizzling pleasure that fills your body. The heat curls low and wet, all encompassing and distracting. It seems to block out the world around you, everything but Bruce, no concept of time or place, nothing.

Or so it seemed.

Your heart jumps a frog in your throat and you stiffen up, head snapping to the side.

From outside of the car suddenly comes an awful lot of chatter. The drunkenness is apparent from both the volume of the voices and the way the words spoken sort of slur together, many drawn out and others said wrongly. The people holler and giggle, you hope just passing through the car park, filtering out of the venue, but it makes you unsteady.

Bruce groans at the sound of them, unbothered if not inconvenienced, but notices the way it startles you. His hips slow, but don’t stop, and one of his hands comes up to cup your jaw and coax you to face him.

“You okay?” He asks carefully. “Does that bother you?”

Your eyelids flutter, torn between resting closed as ripples of pleasure still grip you or snapping wide open and trying to check behind you.

Eventually, you give a small nod. “Can they see us?”

Only then does Bruce go still, leaning forward and attempting a glance through the steamed up windows, then over your shoulder at the windscreen. Nothing. He sits back and shakes his head.

“Nope. If I can’t see them, they can’t see us. Is that okay?”

“But the car—“

“Suspension’s good, ‘promise.”

You aren’t quite satisfied with that answer and he can see it in the knit between your brows. His thumb sweeps soothing over your cheek and he leans in close, a gentle, tender kiss that stays pure for a moment.

“Come on, sweet thing.” He coos, timbre low and velvety. “I’ve got you, it’s alright.”

Slow and testing he starts again with his hips, barely rocking and encouraging you to ease back into a steady rhythm. You let your eyes close and lean your sweat dewy forehead to his, sighing shaky before you nod.

“That’s it.” Another kiss, reassurance and coaxing. “It’s just me and you, yeah?”

The dulcet ‘yeah’ you huff against his lips is all he needs to allow himself to pick the speed back up, this time holding you still and focussing on thrusting up to meet you. It’s even easier than before and your body immediately gives in to whatever he makes of you. Your inhibitions gradually melt away again, brain enveloped in that same haze that allows your salacious side to take the helm, worries assuaged and desires reignited.

You slump your head onto his shoulder and your hands brace on his stomach, fingertips curled to claws that bunch up his shirt. He scoffs a laugh and his dominant hand comes down between your bodies, seeking the bump of your cunt and immediately zeroing in on your clit.

A hot jolt surges through you and you arch with a choked moan of his name falling free. Your ears begin to ring, every grunt and groan he lets out bouncing around inside your head and boring a way into your memory.

More voices pass by but you don’t allow yourself to care, forcing focus on the heat of his body, the snap of his hips, and the calloused pad of his thumb. He reintroduces the tight circles immediately, a heavy pressure under the tip of his thumb that bullies your poor, oversensitive bud.

“Oh shit.” You squirm in his lap, fingers digging dips into his sides and you can feel his muscles tense with every upward thrust. Pressure coils in the deepest pit of your stomach, tying a taut knot that scorches with ticklish familiarity and sets off the trembling of your thighs, if it had ever really stopped.

“God.” Bruce curses, head lolled against the back bench, chin tipped skyward. “You feel so fucking good.” His other arm snakes around your back, hand anchored on your waist, keeping you posed perfect right where he needs you.

Again you feel the car begin to jostle, mimicking the rhythm he maintains with subtle rocking up and down on the rear wheels. Bruce either doesn’t notice, or doesn’t care.

Your head feels heavy with the haze and you let it take over. The fire turns blue much faster this go around, nagging more desperately with each ripple of pleasure that tears through you. It’s funny how it makes a priority of itself, how quickly other matters are pushed to the wayside in carnal pursuit of your climax.

“Bruce,” You utter meekly, words bristling against his neck where you duck. You feel him hum more than you hear it, the thrum vibrating through you.

“Please, I’m so—“

“Me too. Fuck. Me too.”

Resisting the weight that bears down on you, you pull back to look at him, really drinking in the disheveled state you’ve brought him to. His perfect hair falls tousled from how he had it neatly styled, a couple of stray strands long enough to reach his eyes while others stick to his forehead. The shirt he wears has been creased plenty by your grabbing and his tie is much the same, loose, askew, and you’re drawn to reach for it again.

A tug and your next moan has his eyes flickering open, fierce eye contact locking you in. His jaw is tense, throat bobbing. He smiles.

“Are you going to come for me, hm?”

His voice is thick, gravelly, pulled from a throat slowly growing hoarse from each groaning utterance he lets slip. You nod urgently.

“Please, please let me.”

The rhythm is lost, his hips stutter and with his steadfast grip he slams you down against him, the ministrations of his thumb never breaking. The heat is blistering, the knot is wound so taut it splinters, and you bite your bottom lip so hard you could pierce it.

“Let me feel it, sweetheart.”

A surge shoots bright hot up your spine and you crush in on yourself, eyes forced shut as white flashes blindingly behind closed lids. The tension snaps and your legs jerk as you briefly lose command of your muscles. You’d be surprised if your roaring moan couldn’t be heard from outside of the car.

But it’s heaven. Hot, wet heaven that gushes and squeezes around Bruce’s cock.

The shocks it sends through you is like nothing else, deep satisfaction that bounces between nerve endings and flushes your whole body with a wave of warmth. You lose yourself to it.

“Yesyesyes—“

Bruce hisses through gritted teeth. His hips buck wildly and both hands grasp roughly at your waist, pulling you down and using the leverage to push him over the edge. It has you teetering on the verge of overstimulation as he slams you down once, twice, and one final time as he crashes head first into his own orgasm.

He cranes toward you with the power of it, face returning level to your collarbone and nose nudging at the base of your throat. You can feel him quaking, large thighs tensing and relaxing in quick succession as he spills into the condom and blabbers incoherently into your skin. Your nails rake up the nape of his neck into his scruffy hair, cradling the back of his head as you both roll through the high.

The world slows and the car goes still but bodies continue to shake, wracked with aftershocks in the comedown.

Then he chuckles. Not at you, not at anything, he’s giddy in the glow. Sitting back lazily against the leather bench he pulls you with him, a much softer embrace as you both gasp down breaths like panting dogs, chest heaving and hands shaking as they wrap around his neck. His touch stays resting around your waist but goes lax from the bruising grip he had, now favouring caressing up and down your sides dotingly.

“That was…” You start but trail off for a lack of words, head spinning while you try to hold yourself up.

“Mhm.” Bruce grunts, draping chaste kisses along the sharp of your jaw, the underside of your chin, anywhere he can reach. It brings you back down to earth, helps you back into your body, but keeps you blushing warm.

Steadily, you raise, guided by his hands. You both cringe when he slips out of you and you whine at the rush of cold air, features scrunching up as you startle. Dutifully, he reaches and rights your underwear back into place, regardless of the sullen state of them.

“And,” He says, bringing his hand between your bodies with the face of his watch angled up, still ticking away.

“I think we killed plenty of time.”

A smirk tugs at his lips, pulling the corners up with the worst smugness you’ve seen of him yet, simpering sly.

“Shut up.” You scoff, incredulous. But it does earn him a small laugh, that same giggle that enchanted him earlier. Bruce leans in to steal another kiss and lingers for a second longer than needed, greedy for the sweetness as your night together draws towards its end.

“I’ll give you a minute. Still got to get you home, yeah…?”

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