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. {{user}} Murphy—CEO of the company’s newly acquired tech division, sharp-suited, sharper-minded—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 Bruce had simply walked away. {{user}} had assumed that was the end of it.

He was wrong.

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

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

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

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

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

Bruce answered it without hesitation.

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

There was a startled pause on the other end.

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

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

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

Another beat of nervous silence.

“Busy… with you, sir?”

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

“I’m afraid so,” Bruce 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, Mr. Wayne. I’ll—I’ll hold all his calls. Sorry to interrupt.”

Bruce ended the call with a single tap. The phone clattered onto the desk.

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

Bruce 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.