She is not patient, nor is that something which he had any
right to expect.
Bruce knows that, mind and body, she has been waiting for
him for longer than he has been -- knowingly -- forcing
himself to wait. Now --
Her body is --
There's a coax in the fall and subsequent sweep of her
hair, an urge in the way she drops her belt in just the
right way to cause a clatter. The echoing screech of the
bats is not, truly, punctuation, but Bruce is no longer
sure such a thing could be necessary.
When he kisses her, there is acceptance, but not as much
pleasure as he'd hoped. It is, perhaps, the limit of
whatever patience she has left, and the twist of her body
against his own speaks of nothing more nor less pointed than
the fact that he is not yet naked, and that he has stopped
her from becoming so.
"All right," he says, because he understands that the sound
of his own voice -- the length of time needed for it to be
heard and understood -- is another tease. The sound she
makes when she drops to the mats is another. There seems to
be no connection between it and her motions, her stretch and
writhe.
She's telling him that she can tease, as well.
Bruce strips himself as quickly as he can, then, resenting
the cowl for obscuring the sight of her, and the way she is
using the time he is taking to stretch her legs, her arms.
The scarred and muscular length of her back.
He drops to his knees and resists the urge to take her face
in her hands and kiss her, once more. Instead, he offers
her the open cup of those hands and a raised eyebrow.
She bites her lip --
She springs away, quick and graceful. And returns with *his*
belt.
"The lubricant," he says to the uncaring arch of her shoulder
blades. She places it in his hands.
And rolls over onto her hands and knees.
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