The room is a portrait of old wealth and shadow, lit by a single green-shaded lamp on the vast mahogany desk. Leather-bound books line the walls, and the air smells faintly of cedar, cigar smoke, and the crisp, clean scent of Bruce’s cologne.

You are perched on the edge of that desk, the polished wood cool through the thin silk of your dress. Bruce Wayne is in his chair, his broad frame bent over a stack of Wayne Enterprises financial reports. His free hand rests on your bare thigh, his thumb tracing absent, soothing circles on your skin.