A/N: So I couldn't just let it go and not have the scene in between. I've rearranged the chapters to fit this in between. Look at it this way, now you can go back and read it all again...
The restaurant is a quaint out the way little place. When they arrive, the maître' d takes them upstairs to the private room and seats them at a table with soft candle light. Once alone, she rests her chin on her hand and looks around before her gaze falls on him once more.
"It's a Saturday evening and there's not a single other patron in sight."
He looks around and feigns surprise for a second, but can't hold the pretense the way she's looking at him so he fesses up. "I rented the entire place for the night."
Her musical laugh floats over him as she flips her napkin into her lap. "Would that be because you want this to be a secret or that you just want to keep me to yourself?"
The corner of Bruce's mouth lifts into a shy smile. "Is 'both' the correct answer?"
"Possibly. Depends on the reasoning."
He reaches across the table and takes her hand in his. Her fingers are long and graceful, but strong. She levels a steady gaze at him designed to elicit the truth but he holds her look a moment longer before he answers. "I'd like this to just be about us for a little while, to enjoy each other's company. Is that too much to ask?"
"Not at all. I think that's a wise choice. We wouldn't want to get Alfred's hopes up."
"Please," Bruce scoffs. "He's been picking out china patterns since he discovered you were joining me in this crazy endeavor."
"Very simple bone china with a gold band around the edge," she states matter-of-factly.
"I think we have that." Bruce plays along. "It has a little W in the center. Is that okay?"
"Well, I am Wonder Woman."
"Yes, you are." He sips at his wine, a little embarrassed at how effortlessly they slipped into a fictitious conversation about the future and a pretend marriage where she might share his last name all because of the designs of his doting butler/father figure. The embarrassment compounds with the realization that their teasing has butterflies buzzing around in his stomach at how that ideas suddenly sounds plausible to him.
The first course comes and they enjoy easy conversation with their food. They've eaten together a hundred times before, by candle light even. Alfred's doing. There is comfort in their familiarity underneath the excitement that comes with the new understanding that this is an intentional date. Complete with overt romantic ambience that elicits lingering gazes and prolonged smiles.
Somewhere between the salad and the entrée, he turns his hand palm up and she places her fingers in his. He gives her strong fingers a squeeze and when he lets go, she keeps her fingers in his hand. The pad of her middle finger delicately traces light circles over his palm. Her touch is electric and he finds himself hypnotized by her ministrations and the soothing tones of her voice.
Dinner comes and goes and he's in a trance, thoroughly bewitched by her. It's all he can do to keep up with the conversation. The great detective, master strategist, fearsome vigilante has been rendered mute by a beautiful woman. The more he thinks about it, the more he could get used to this feeling. A sense of peace and dare he say…happiness…as the object of her attention.
He trails after her as she leads him down the hall to her apartment. With each step his anticipation pulses in time with his heartbeat and he keeps his hands in his pockets to affect a casual air. What will she say? How will he respond? He's never really been nervous taking a woman to her door. There's the standard 'will they or won't they dance', which more often than not ends with his suit on her floor, a nice few hours where he can forget who he is and then the clandestine slip out that same door before the sun is up. Though in all honesty, those liaisons have been fewer and further between over the last few years. And in truth, non-existent since he met Diana a year ago.
Wow, he had it bad.
They stop at her door and she fishes the key from her shimmery bag. There's a moment of pause, her expression open and expectant. She takes a breath like she's waiting for him to speak.
"May I kiss you?" is what he says because he can't seem to stop looking at the shape of her mouth, remembering the softness of her lips when he kissed her like a stupid lovesick fool after Clark's engagement party.
Those same beautiful lips pull into an ironic smirk. And the arch of her eyebrow practically dares him to bent his lips to hers before she even speaks her next words. "You do not need to ask for my permission."
"I kinda do." He tilts his head in earnest. "I'd hate to take you off guard and have you send me through the wall."
Immediately he regrets his words. He's made her frown and that sits uncomfortably in his chest. But she runs her palm over his lapel and the heat of her flesh soothes away any reservations of his misplaced quip. "I apologize for reacting so…violently," she says. "I, too, was being childish."
A laugh catches in his throat. "I never admitted to being childish."
"Let's agree to disagree." The haughty air of her royalty punctuates her tone and he smirks.
"Why do I have the feeling that's something we'll be saying a lot?"
Her eyes glimmer as she teases, "Probably because you're a stubborn man and I'm an impossible woman?"
"With a memory like a steel trap." He finds himself caught in her gaze and once again he can't stop smiling.
She curls her fingers around his tie and tugs. "Are you going to kiss me or do I have to do everything?"
"Take it easy, Princess, this is called verbal foreplay."
"I'm done talking." With a huff, she turns out of his arms, a perturbed line on her lovely mouth. Her feistiness is a turn on, as much as her mystery and he's unwilling to let her get away now that he's so close. He snakes his arm around her waist and pulls her back flush against his body. She slams into him. Her eyes above his with the benefit of her stilettos and he has to elevate his chin. Every inch of her presses keenly against his front from his shins to his collar bones and he thinks he might finally die a happy man if the world were to end in this very moment.
Her breath puffs from her lips in surprise and ghosts over his chin like a whisper. The delicate scent of chocolate and cabernet mingle with her breath and he's intoxicated. No more hesitation, he captures her mouth in a deep, sensual kiss. Her lips part and his tongue slides into the warm space of her mouth tasting that sweetness. The spice of her essence rich and powerful explodes on his taste buds.
A yearning like he hasn't felt in ages grips strong and swift, more powerful and heady than he's ever known. He's uncertain whether it's because he's out of practice touching a woman he has burgeoning feelings for or if it's a magical illusion because she's an exquisite goddess and he's a mere mortal. Either answer holds its own set of dilemmas he's not sure he's prepared to acknowledge.
The kiss deepens further as his hands travel between her solder blades to find the sweep of lower back. A soft moan rises in her throat as her fingers rake deliciously through his hair over the back of his skull. She presses closer. Her other hand traces his jaw and down his neck, tender and sweet with hints of a sensuality barely hidden beneath the surface.
He knows she'll consume him, knows it's inevitable. He's been hopelessly obsessed since the second he laid eyes on her all those months ago, even before she tempted him with 'borrowing' his drive. Way before he found out that he had indeed never met a woman like her.
When he ends the kiss, slowly pulling back from her warmth, there's a dreaminess in her eyes that hits him square in the chest and he realizes this has always been so much more than just a flirtation, an experiment or challenge. She is special. What she makes him feel is different, new. These feelings, whatever they might be, are delicate for both of them. Something to be cherished and nurtured. Protected.
He takes her hand in his and presses his lips to the smooth backs of her knuckles. "I'm going to get back on my jet now."
"You're leaving?" Her eyes are twin pools of rich velvety desire comingled with disappointment.
His mind unwillingly conjures an email. Thank you for bringing him back to me. And how he ruthlessly taunted her, prodded her selfishly into action after some 100 years of pining. I've never heard of you until Luther lured you out by stealing a picture of your dead boyfriend. His shame stings anew. Not that he has room to judge. He doesn't. Never has.
"I think it's best."
"Are you afraid of me?" Her confident façade he's grown so accustomed to slips into insecurity and it flays his resolve.
He kisses her lips gently, chastely and softly caresses her cheek with his thumb. "No, Princess. Not like that."
She terrifies him on an entirely different level.
"Then what is it?"
He cannot explain to her what he cannot even express to himself so he says, "I think we need to take our time. Get to know each other."
This seems to resonate with her since she smiles then, that teasing, pleased little smile. She runs her fingers over the knot in his tie, smoothing it back in place. "I think I like this gentlemanly side of you."
He opens his mouth to speak but he doesn't know what to say. He's never been a gentleman but her goodness seems to bring out characteristics in him he never knew existed. So there's that. She chuckles at his discomfort and curls her fingers behind his head, pulling him in for another sweet, slow kiss.
Her smile spreads wide when she pulls away as her thumb swipes at his bottom lip to wipe off her lipstick. He already misses her taste. Stepping back, her hand trails down to the end of his fingertips. "Go. Before I throw you over my shoulder and have my way with you."
He grins like he hasn't since he was thirteen and Silver St. Cloud pushed him into the coat room at the Park Savoy. A faint blush heats his cheeks and he can't believe he's been reduced to a prepubescent boy again by her pure boldness. Her radiant smile makes his heart stutter. He takes four full steps backwards before he says, "Good night, Princess."
Her smile is almost his undoing. Almost.
"Good night, Bruce."