DC – I am Batman

The cot creaked when she pushed him down onto it.

Narrow. Thin mattress over a metal frame. His back hit it and the frame complained and she was already climbing over him, one knee on either side of his hips, her weight settling. She reached behind her back and unhooked her bra in one motion. Pulled it off. Dropped it on the floor without watching it fall.

He watched. Her body was lean, muscle close under the skin. Shoulders built from pulling herself over walls and fences and whatever else the SRR put in front of her. A burn scar on her left shoulder, round and old, the skin tight and glossy. Her clavicle was sharp above small breasts, nipples hard from the cold, and she caught him looking.

Her eyebrow went up.

"First time seeing a woman undress?"

"First time it mattered."

Her mouth opened. Closed. Her eyes went warmer for half a second. Then she reset. Jaw set. Chin up.

"Smooth."

"True."

She leaned down and kissed him and her breasts pressed flat against his chest and the skin-on-skin after all the layers was a jolt. Hot and close. He put his hands on her waist and her ribs expanded under his palms when she breathed. Her heartbeat was fast. Faster than she was letting on.

His thumb found the scar on her hip before his eyes did. She'd shifted and there it was under his hand. Knife wound, old, diagonal, about three inches. The skin puckered along a ridge where it had healed badly. He traced it. The rough edge of the scar tissue under his thumb.

She pulled back from the kiss. Looked down at his hand.

"Don't get sentimental."

He leaned forward and kissed the scar. Pressed his lips to the puckered skin. Soft. Deliberate.

Her breath caught. Short. Her hand went to his hair and her fingers tightened and she held him there a beat longer than she probably meant to. His mouth on her hip and her fingers in his hair and the laundromat humming below them.

She pushed him back down. Flat. Hands on his chest.

"Stay."

Her fingers went to his belt. Fast. The same efficiency as the bra. She had his jeans open and her hand was on his cock through his boxers and her grip was firm and she felt the size of him and her eyebrows went up.

She pulled his jeans and boxers down together. He kicked them off with the boots, graceless, laces catching. She looked at his cock. Her jaw worked once. She looked at his face.

"You've been holding out on me, Wayne."

She stood from the cot to strip her own jeans. Boots first, unlaced fast, kicked to the wall. Jeans down, stepped out. Black underwear, plain. She pushed them down and stepped out and she was naked. Lean everywhere. Muscle in her thighs, the line of her hip bone visible. The knife scar was longer than he'd realized. It curved from her hip toward her inner thigh. Whoever had done it had been aiming for the femoral artery.

She caught him looking at it.

"Hong Kong. And I killed him."

She said it flat. Climbed back over him.

She straddled his hips and the cot groaned under their combined weight. Her pussy was wet when she settled against the length of his cock. Heat and slick. She rocked forward once, sliding along him, and the friction was warm and deliberate and his hands tightened on her thighs.

"Condom," she said.

"Jacket pocket."

She leaned across him to reach the jacket on the floor and her breast was right there and he turned his head and caught her nipple between his lips. Sucked. She made a sound. Short, clipped. Her hand froze on the jacket.

"I'm getting the condom, Bruce."

"Take your time."

His tongue circled her nipple and she shivered. Her hand found the packet and she sat back up and her cheeks were flushed and her jaw was set and she tore it open with her teeth. She rolled it down onto him with one hand, calluses rough on his shaft, and her thumb dragged along the underside and she watched his face when she did it and the corner of her mouth pulled when he reacted.

She rose up on her knees. Positioned him. The head of his cock pressed against her, wet and hot, and he watched her face.

She lowered herself and her mouth fell open. Her eyes shut. The sound she made was quiet. A breath that broke in the middle.

She was tight. She sank down slow, taking him in degrees, her thighs flexing, her weight settling inch by inch. Her hand was flat on his chest, nails pressing crescents into his skin when she took the last of him. She sat there. Full. Her breathing adjusted around the stretch.

"Okay," she said. To herself. Then her eyes opened and her jaw set.

She started moving.

She set a pace and it was athletic, efficient, her hips rolling with precision. The cot protested beneath them with a thin metal whine on every stroke. Her stomach muscles flexed with each rise and fall. The flush on her chest was spreading up her neck. Her skin was warm where his thumbs rested on her hip bones and getting warmer.

He let her lead. Hands on her waist, steadying. Her eyes were open and focused, watching his face while she rode him.

The sounds between them were wet and rhythmic. Her pussy was slick and tight and each downstroke bottomed him out and each upstroke dragged friction along his entire length. His cock was hard enough that the sensitivity was building and every clench of her body sent a pulse through his abdomen.

He thrust up to meet her on a downstroke and she made a sound. Sharp. Involuntary.

"You're-" She stopped. Her rhythm stuttered. He did it again, harder, and her hands slid on his chest.

"Christ."

He put his hands on her hips and guided her into a slower grind. Deep. Her weight fully on him, his cock buried to the base, the movement small and circular. She resisted for a second, still wanting to set the pace. Then the angle hit and she shuddered.

"'Nn-" Her head dropped forward. Hair falling around her face, loose pieces stuck to her neck with sweat. Her collarbone was slick. "Right there. Don't- just- there."

He held the angle. Kept the grind slow. Her hips were moving on their own now, the precision gone. The wet sound between them was loud in the small room. Her breathing was ragged. She was getting wetter, the slick sound changing, louder with each roll of her hips.

Her pussy clenched around him every time she rocked forward. Each clench harder. His cock deep enough that every shift registered when her hips circled. His hands on her waist, the muscles working under her skin, and his own breathing was getting shorter because the slow grind was more intense than the riding had been, deeper, tighter, his cock pressed against the front wall of her and the friction was constant.

She made a sound. Small. "Ah-" Bitten off. Her jaw clenched and her thighs tightened on either side of him.

She leaned down and bit his shoulder. Hard. Her teeth sank in and the pain was bright and it mixed with the feeling of her around him and his hips snapped up. She bit harder. Grinding against him with her teeth in his skin, her sounds muffled against his shoulder. Getting smaller. Getting quieter.

He wrapped an arm around her lower back. Sat up.

Her weight resettled. His cock pressed deeper at the new angle and she gasped against his neck. They were face to face. Her straddling his lap, legs wrapped around his waist, his arm tight around her lower back. Chest to chest. Her skin was hot and damp. Nipples hard against him. Her pulse hammering through the wall of her chest into his.

Her hands went to the back of his neck. Gripped.

Her forehead pressed against his.

She was moving in small tight rolls, pressed too close for long strokes, and the friction was direct against her clit every time she rocked forward. The wetness between them was soaking, slick, audible. Her breathing was shallow and fast against his face.

"Bruce." Quiet. Against his mouth.

"Yeah."

"Don't stop."

His hand on her hip. Keeping the angle. Keeping the pressure. Her forehead against his, eyes shut, mouth open, her breath on his lips. The sounds she was making were small and closing inward. Getting quieter. Her jaw tight, the muscles in her neck standing out. Her fingers digging into the back of his neck hard enough to leave marks.

Her thighs trembled against his hips. Her breathing was coming in catches, each catch smaller.

Her whole body clenched. Thighs, stomach, arms around his neck pulling tight. Her pussy gripped him in hard rhythmic waves and her mouth pressed shut and a sound came through anyway, low, locked in her jaw. She shook. Her hips still moving in tiny circles as she came and the clenching pulled at him, each wave tighter, and the sensation went straight through his spine and his control broke.

He pressed his face into her throat. Her pulse hammering under his lips. Soap and sweat. He came with his mouth on her neck and his arm locked around her back and for a second there was nothing in his head.

The cot creaked. Settling.

Her forehead against his temple. Fingers loose on the back of his neck. Breathing slowing. His too.

She didn't move off him. He didn't let go.

The dryer hummed below them. Through the curtain the light was going gold. A pipe in the wall ticked with water.

She pulled back enough to look at him. Her hair was wrecked. Pieces stuck to her neck and jaw. Her face flushed. Her eyes clear. Her mouth was soft, the usual tightness at the corners gone.

"That was," she said. Stopped.

"Yeah."

She laughed. Short, quiet. Her forehead dropped back against his.

"I had a plan."

"How'd it go?"

"Shut up."

She climbed off him. Slow, careful, the separation tangible. Cold air where her body had been. She sat next to him on the narrow cot, her shoulder against his arm, and pulled the thin blanket across their laps.

His shoulder was throbbing where she'd bitten him. He looked down. Teeth marks, red, bruising purple at the edges.

"Nice bite."

"You'll live." She looked at it. Her fingers touched the edge of the mark. Her thumb traced the outline. She pulled her hand back when she realized what she was doing. "Sorry."

"Don't be."

She looked at the curtain. The dripping sink. Then she looked at him.

"I don't know what this is," she said.

"That's okay."

"I'm leaving in four days."

"I know."

"And Alfred-"

"I know."

She exhaled. Her head tipped back against the wall. Eyes closed. Her body warm against his side. The bite mark on his shoulder pulsing.

"This was supposed to be simpler," she said.

He put his hand on her knee under the blanket. Her hand came down on top of his. Her fingers threaded through. They sat on the narrow cot in the room above the laundromat and neither of them said anything for a while.