The executive suite on the top floor of Wayne Enterprises’ Gotham headquarters was quiet except for the low hum of the city far below and the occasional tick of the antique clock on the wall. Bruce Wayne sat behind his broad mahogany desk, still frowning faintly at the email that had sparked their earlier, ridiculous spat in the hallway. Something about quarterly projections and “creative risk-taking” that Bruce had dismissed with a dry quip about “not gambling with my shareholders’ money like it’s poker night in Blüdhaven.”

The argument had lasted all of ninety seconds before {{user}} had simply walked away. Bruce had assumed that was the end of it.

He was wrong.

The door opened without a knock. {{user}} stepped inside, closed it behind her with a soft click, and crossed the room in three measured strides. Before Bruce could open his mouth to ask what now, {{user}} was already rounding the desk, sliding one long leg over Bruce’s thighs and settling into his lap like she belonged there.

Bruce’s hands instinctively settled on {{user}}’s hips—half steadying, half claiming—while {{user}} leaned in, fingers curling around the silk knot of Bruce’s tie. She tugged it firmly, tilting Bruce’s head back just enough to expose the long line of his throat.

{{user}}’s mouth found the spot just below Bruce’s ear. Slow. Deliberate. A warm press of lips, then the faint scrape of teeth, then open-mouthed kisses that made Bruce’s fingers tighten on {{user}}’s waist.

She kept Bruce anchored there, tie wrapped once around her fist like a leash, holding Bruce’s mouth exactly where she wanted it—against the sensitive skin of {{user}}’s neck. Every time Bruce tried to lift his head, {{user}} pulled the tie a fraction tighter, guiding him back down with a low, satisfied hum.

Then {{user}}’s free hand slipped into the inner pocket of her own suit jacket and pulled out her phone. The screen lit up with an incoming call—internal line, Bruce’s assistant.

{{user}} answered it without hesitation.

“Murphy,” she said, voice perfectly even, as though she weren’t currently straddling her boyfriend’s lap with said boyfriend’s mouth working slow, wet patterns along her throat.

There was a startled pause on the other end.

“Mrs. Murphy? I—I was trying to reach Mr. Wayne. There’s a scheduling conflict with the Tokyo call and—”

{{user}} tilted her head slightly, giving Bruce better access. Bruce obliged immediately, lips dragging down to the hollow of {{user}}’s collarbone, tongue flicking out just enough to make {{user}}’s next breath hitch almost imperceptibly.

“No, Mr. Wayne is busy,” {{user}}replied smoothly, the barest edge of amusement threading through her tone. She tugged the tie again—gentle reminder—and Bruce made a muffled sound against her skin, the vibration traveling straight down {{user))’s spine.

Another beat of nervous silence.

“Busy… with you, ma’am?”

{{user}}’s mouth curved into something dangerously close to a smirk. She rolled her hips once—slow, controlled—enough to draw a quiet, involuntary exhale from Bruce, whose hands flexed hard on {{user}}’s thighs.

“I’m afraid so,” {{user}} said, voice still velvet-calm. “We’re… discussing projections. In depth. He’ll call you back when we’re finished.”

The assistant made a strangled noise that might have been an apology, might have been panic.

“Of—of course, Mrs. Murphy. I’ll—I’ll hold all his calls. Sorry to interrupt.”

{{user}} ended the call with a single tap. The phone clattered onto the desk.

She finally loosened her grip on the tie, letting Bruce lift his head just enough to meet her eyes. Bruces’s lips were flushed, pupils dark, hair slightly mussed from where {{user}}’s fingers had raked through it earlier.

{{user}} leaned in, brushing their mouths together in a slow, lingering kiss—more promise than apology.

“Still think I’m too conservative with risk?” Bruce murmured against {{user}}’s lips.