The Woman
Line: "Now don't you dare look back. Just keep your eyes on me. I said, 'you're holding back.' She said 'shut up and dance with me.'"
Song: Shut Up and Dance by Walk the Moon
He spots her across the dance floor at the annual Wayne Foundation New Year's Eve Ball.
It is hardly late into the night, yet most of the guests are already thoroughly sloshed, having enthusiastically imbibed enough alcohol to tank a small elephant. They swirl about the room, swaths of gaudy color against the white walls and black parquet flooring, reflected back to themselves in hectic splendor from the polished silver ceiling. Golden streamers spiraling out from the sparkling chandelier cast shards of yellow glow onto faces and gowns, into glasses, jewels, and wine, obscuring identity, hiding intent. A parody of a music box.
His eye alights on her form flashing in and out of sight within the crowd. He has never seen her before. She is an anomaly, standing perfectly still in the middle of anarchy, unchanging as hundreds of people boil and shift around her like an island in a roiling, greedy ocean. Like the eye of the storm.
Dark hair cascades in soft curls to her middle back, and her skin has a natural olive tint, unenhanced by tanning lotions or harsh UVs. Bruce's gaze travels from the elegant features of her beautifully sculpted face, down her neck to dainty collar bones, feminine shoulders... Her figure is svelte, but her bearing and the subtle lines of whipcord muscle in her arms and legs belie a hidden physical prowess.
Her gown is simple, yet excellently cut. Matte black satin hugs every generous curve, the hem falling to her ankles before flaring out in a slight, stylish train. The slit in its side runs up nearly to her hip. She wears no jewels, offering only her astounding natural beauty to any onlooker. Without that distraction of glitz or shine, the ensemble's bold statement reads loud and clear: she doesn't need it. She is, quite simply, the most stunning woman Bruce Wayne has ever seen. She takes his breath away.
His eyes roam over her legs... Her hips... The full swell of her breasts.
Suddenly, he is imagining their weight, how they would feel in his hands… her hips grinding against his own… those perfect legs wrapping themselves around him in the dark…
Bruce can feel his body flushing. If he hadn't been sipping ginger ale all night instead of wine, he'd be certain he was drunk. Maybe he is. Has Alfred finally made good his threat to take measures toward keeping his erstwhile charge in, nights?
Musing, Bruce returns his gaze to the woman's face, and nearly chokes in shock.
She is watching him sideways, through eyes heavy-lidded and impossibly green. An attractive smirk hovers around her perfect red mouth. Bruce tries not to hyperventilate. What all did she see, how much was she able to glean from his expression? Obviously enough to read his last few thoughts.
She turns to him fully then, a flute of champagne in one hand and a quizzical eyebrow raised. Bruce takes a single step toward her.
Suddenly, four pairs of hands grab his arms and wrench him backward. It takes a split second and all of his suddenly chaotic control to realize that the fingers holding him are feminine, well-manicured, and statistically unlikely to be concealing deadly weapons. Probably not the talons of Hell dragging him to his doom, all things considered. Therefore, it stands to reason that he should refrain from flipping his assailants over his head and into the wall.
Not an attack. No violence. Calm down.
He forces his breath steady, his expression clean, slowly relaxing out of a vicious, nearly imperceptible attack stance.
His captors, harmless young heiresses all, snicker to each other. They are amused at the notorious Bruce Wayne's momentary look of bewilderment, completely unaware of their very real brush with disaster.
They would not be laughing now if they had seen that flat, violent instinct flash across his didn't see his mask slip.
Did she?
He looks over his shoulder, searching for the mysterious woman, but finds no one. She has vanished.
The moon is hanging low in the sky, drunken revelers just beginning to trickle out of Wayne Mansion's enormous double doors and into the night, when they meet again. It has been hours, and not once in all this time has he seen her, though, for security purposes, he has most certainly been looking. It is therefore rather a shock when she finds him first.
"Fancy meeting you here," a female voice remarks sultrily from behind him. "I don't believe we've met." Bruce whirls, wondering for a split second how she managed to get the drop on him - in heels - before adjusting his expression to that of Vapid Playboy.
"No, we haven't," he says, trying to keep the interest out of his voice. "We should fix that."
"That depends," she returns, smiling slightly. Her voice is lower than he would have expected, a rich alto purr that seems to flow from her lips, so unlike the unnatural, scratchy soprano adopted by most women in his social circles. "You leer at all the ladies like that?"
He winces.
"Well..." Yes. But it's usually an act for the cameras. "It's not often that one meets a woman as lovely as you," he says, feeling the words ring truer than expected. "One has to look his fill while he can. Right?"
"That also depends," she says, her smile now a downright grin. "How long were you intending to look? Because it's all well and good to enjoy the view. But personally, I've always preferred a man of... action." Bruce's eyes widen. Her words drip sex.
Bruce feels his heart rate quicken fractionally, his muscles flex.
How is this woman... Doing this?
"I think I can manage that," he says, his voice rougher, deepening of its own accord. She leans in close, her lips nearly brushing his own. Her breath is sweet, like champagne.
"Prove it," she whispers. Not a request. A challenge.
Bruce does love a challenge.
He wraps his hands around her waist, bringing her closer. She winds her slender arms around his neck and he pulls her into the fray of lingering dancers. As they move to the music, her hips swaying hypnotically against his own, he says, "I don't believe I caught your name."
"No, you didn't," she agrees, and, just to make her point, adds, "Mr. Wayne."
"Call me Bruce," he hears himself say.
"Bruce," she purrs against his throat. "I like it." Her lips brush his jugular and he swallows, fighting the sudden urge to bury his face in her neck.
A collective gasp of outrage sounds from somewhere behind him, and he wonders suddenly just how many women are currently glaring at his mysterious dance partner.
"Don't you dare look back," she orders, reclaiming his attention instantly. Her smile is downright feline. "I'm not very good at dancing, you see. I'll need your help."
She's lying. He can tell by the movement of her hips alone that she knows perfectly well what she's doing. It is his turn to whisper in her ear.
"I think you're holding back."
Her eyes darken, some new emotion evident in her face, although she is visibly attempting to hide it.
"Shut up and dance with me," she husks, the sound going through him like lightning. He places her expression.
Lust.
She's not alone either, as one glance around the room of partygoers makes evident – but she is different. For one thing, she is surprisingly analytical. Open curiosity is written on her features as though she sees right through his carefully-constructed ruse. He gets the feeling that she is mining his words and actions for clues and double meanings, just as he is, hers. It is not something he is used to. He is not sure how he feels about it.
For another thing, he doesn't know her name, address, occupation, and (statistically likely) illegal side operations.
And for a third, the feeling is mutual.
He twirls her slowly, contemplating the situation.
He should pull away. Right now. He should make a show of snubbing her – it would solidify his popularity with the room at large. The women would be pleased, and the men more willing to fork over their checkbooks in favor of the Wayne Foundation's latest efforts on behalf of the Gotham Educators Influx Plan. Getting the rich to part with their money is all but impossible, and one of the few things that Bruce's darker counterpart needs the idiot playboy to accomplish. Causing this kind of scene is absolutely not assisting that objective.
And dancing with this woman, while intriguing, is most certainly derailing his plan to initiate a feigned affair with Veronica Vreeland later this evening. But her green eyes are watching him, staring boldly into his own without a trace of modesty or fear. As though she has every right to stand in his arms and size him up as though he were any ordinary man. It is… rather refreshing, actually. Oddly attractive.
He really should pull away.
He should, but he doesn't. Instead, he leans in, his lips close to her ear. The scent of her skin is captivating. He can't place the perfume… maybe it's just her.
His hand finds the small of her back, and he murmurs,
"Gladly," before moving them farther into the crowd, away from the jealous onlookers.
The song changes, grows heavy. She brushes her lips along his jaw. Her skin is like satin and her hair curls itself around his fingers almost possessively. The space between them is charged, vibrating with electricity, making their blood run hot and their pulses align.
His fingers drift along her spine, lower… lower. The minutes pass. They circle the dancefloor with graceful steps, somehow finding a tango within the blaring beat of the house music throbbing against them. In the hot center of the crowd, where the light is dim, it is as though the very air is pushing them together.
As the song draws to a close, he can feel her tensing, steeling herself to move away. For some reason, he can't let that happen.
Desperately, unthinkingly, he wraps his arms around her, crushing her body against his own for a fleeting moment, inhaling her scent. The air goes out of her lungs, and she reciprocates his grip, surprising him by turning her face into his neck, her hands in his hair.
His thoughts are a mess, desire settling like a thick haze over his mind. Her face has turned a delicate shade of pink, her skin warm. His mouth hovers above hers. He wants to breathe her air. He wants to –
The clock chimes midnight, shattering the moment, and they fly apart. He holds her at arms' length, the both of them out of breath and appearing utterly bemused as the last echoing clangs die out and chatter resumes.
"That's my cue," she whispers, stepping out of his grasp.
"I see," he says. "Cinderella leaves at midnight?" His words carry more disappointment than humor.
"Believe me," she replies, her voice taking on a strange edge. "I'm no princess, Bruce." She turns from him, and he takes her hand, keeping her there.
They stare at one another for a long moment.
Finally, she seems to reach a kind of resolution. She lifts onto her toes, just barely, enough to let him see her intentions, but allowing him to reject them if he wishes. Obviously, he does not wish. Hesitating only an instant, Bruce leans in and, without a word, presses his lips against hers. When they separate, she lowers herself slowly to the floor, searching his face.
Something flickers in her eyes, too quick for him to catch. Then she smirks, leaning back into his chest. "By the way," she chuckles softly. "It's Selina."
Sleekly unnoticed, she slips his wallet, Rolex, and diamond cufflinks into the pocket of his heinously expensive, black silk suit jacket.
Then she is gone, melting into the dwindling crush of people without a trace. Bruce stands there a minute, considering.
His thoughts are jumbled. He still knows next to nothing about her, and that really should bother him more than it does. It shouldn't be possible, actually. This is perhaps the first time he has had so much contact with another person, and gotten so little information out of the exchange. He gets the distinct impression she planned it that way, and can't help but wonder why. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Bruce hopes the answer doesn't land her in jail.
He knows nothing about her. But now, he definitely wants to.
Selina…
Whoever she is…
She made an impression.