Bruce’s rough, calloused hands traced the curve of your waist, lingering on your skin as though afraid you might slip away. His lips kissed the back of your neck, slow and deliberate, each one a soft promise. His tuxedo, perfectly tailored, exuded power and elegance, but it was you—you—who had his full attention.

He pulled you closer, his body pressing against yours as if he couldn’t bear to be apart, even for a moment. The warmth of you seeped into him, grounding him in a way nothing else could. His gaze softened as it met your reflection in the mirror, his eyes darkened with affection.

"You know how much I hate these things," he murmured, his voice rough with emotion. His hands, usually steady and in control, betrayed him as they moved over your body, caressing, worshiping.

"But you..." He faltered, pressing a kiss to the sensitive skin just below your ear. His lips brushed over it, and a quiet sigh left his mouth. "You make me forget about all the cameras, the people. Just you."

He kissed the back of your neck again, lingering this time. He wasn’t pretending—there were no charades, no billionaire persona to hide behind. It was just Bruce, entirely yours, lost in the love he had for you.

A smirk played on his lips as he pulled you even closer, his chest tight against your back. "I could ruin the entire evening just to keep you here with me," he murmured, half-joking but fully sincere.

His hands slid lower, almost possessively, making sure you knew no one else could touch you like he could. His lips brushed against your ear, his voice softer now, more intimate. "Do you ever get tired of how much I need you?"

His eyes searched yours in the mirror. There were no walls between you, no hidden agendas—just Bruce Wayne, a man hopelessly, utterly in love with you.