Part 4
by Darklady
Location: DC Universe... 'Bird' AU.
Rated: PG-13 for het. sex (implied).
PS: Standard Disclaimer. I don't own the characters. If I did, do you think I would share? Really?
( Dinah's POV)
^^V^^ ^BC^ ^^V^^ ^BC^ ^^V^^ ^BC^
So few men know how to dance. Most either slouch around until you get tired or take it as a chance for a free grope. Bruce danced. Not every dance, but enough to show that he preferred me and music to politics and power-mongering. Not that that should be such a hard choice, but most men I know would go the other way. Instead, he saves our rare breaks for his real friends and the truly interesting.
Two hours into the party, on a night when I should be combat jazzed and edgy, instead I'm having the best time in memory. I spare a thought for 'where does Barb *find* this guy?', then another for 'and why would she share?'. Barb has Mr. Trapeze, of course; but me? I'd keep them both.
The band takes a break, and Bruce somehow produces a Zesti for me from the nearest champagne tray. He's not Zantarra's brother, he's just damn smooth.
"Wonderful party you throw."
His thumb rubs against my palm as he passes the glass. "Too crowded." His smile amps up and his eyes get *very* blue. "I'd prefer something smaller...say...two?"
Ah, The obligatory pass. I start automatically on the obligatory turn down, then....well.....
"That would depend. Which two?"
The clink of crystal acknowledges my wit. And my acceptance. He takes a sip of his mineral water and smiles.
There's a certain sharpness now to those perfect teeth. What did I expect? With his looks and style and cash - of course he's a wolf. Lucky I've always had a fondness for wolves.
He whispers. "We keep an apartment upstairs. Beautiful view of Gotham by moonlight."
Beautiful view of Dinah by night light? I'm no ones fool. I know the lines as well as he knows I know them.
Is this some thrill thing? Does he want bragging rights on a meta, or does he want me? No. If he just wanted tags, he'd have them. Hell, he does. If you trust the Observer. I flip through my list of favorite starlets, and the only ones he *hasn't* had are on TV in black-and-white. But the League? The J.S.A.? Titans? Not a date.
And me? Do I just want the boy billionaire, or do I want *him*? No. If I wanted scalps, I'd have them. Ghod knows I've had offerers . Some polite. Some even moral. But I've always gone for the bad boys. The tough guys.
'And been trashed', the little voice reminds me. Maybe it's time to elevate my tastes.
I smile back, putting some voltage in it. "Could we get there..... discretely?"
Answer enough. He deposits the cups on a passing tray and raises my fingers to his lips.
"I know a back way.."
^^V^^ ^BC^ ^^V^^ ^BC^ ^^V^^ ^BC^
He does. Down a service hall, through the managers office, and finally to a private elevator operated with a palm print. Security plus. Which means he either owns this place or is tight with whoever does.
No entryway. Rich people don't share. This elevator opens directly into an apartment I'd guess to take up a quarter of this floor . At least, that's how much skyline the picture window has.
He leaves the room dark, and the lights of the city and the sky shine in. I can't help being drawn to the vision.
"Beautiful view."
He breath is soft on the back of my ear. "I agree." He's not looking at the window.
Confident hands glide to my shoulder, then my waist. I feel my straps go with them. Firm lips brush my neck, warm and persuasive. I lean back into shoulders broad enough to give the illusion of support.
Is he Mister Right? Who knows. I'm not even certain women like me get a Mister Right. But he feels like Mr. Right-For-Now.
So Bruce is not a genius, or a kung-fu Master, or the Wrath of God Incarnate. He's a nice guy. A *really* nice guy. I think ......I know..... tonight, I need a nice guy.
I turn, raising my face for his kiss. Perfect. He knows how to press, and how to tease. How to lure me past 'I-don't-know' towards 'oh-yes-that' without space or time for doubt.
By the time he whispers "Shall we?" the question is more then answered for both of us.
My "Please" brings out the brightest smile of all. Pure triumph, feral and glorious. But somehow sweet, as if - having won - he's happy to share.
The bedroom is softly lit, and the sheets turned down. Navy satin. Talk about advance planning. Confidence? Or just being prepared? No matter. I admire both in a man.
My fingers tremble a bit on his shirt studs. He has no such problem with my dress. The various hooks and snaps yield as swiftly as I do. He eases me back, and my hands go unthinking to his shoulders as the ice glide of satin strokes against my now bare legs.
Not archer's shoulders, but broad. Very broad, with the heavy bones below muscle that speaks of long-term conditioning.
A deep torso. Flat waist. Serious biceps. Wonderful tan skin, hot and tight, with the faintest hit of spice from the sable curls of his chest.
I let my palms wander in the curves and plains. The glassy edge under my palms surprises me. Ghod knows I've felt enough scars, but on him?
He must feel my surprise.
"I play hard."
So he does. These are an athletes muscles, not the sort bought in a gym. Too agile for weights alone. Too strong for racket-ball. Karate bones. Fencer's arms. Climber's legs. A few more damaged ridges that tease my finger tips. What did he do? Ski an avalanche? I never had much patience for extreme sports, but if it builds a body like this? As his lips come down on my throat I think, 'I could learn'.
Then I don't think at all.