The curved pad of Bruce's thumb ground her clit through the silk feel of her underwear. In the luxuriously accommodating backseat of the Porsche, tinted windows rolled up, Barbara could do little but gasp lightly on her back and jerk her hips with the laborious, torturous rhythm. The tulle underside to her chiffon, indigo-colored evening gown crinkled and fluffed up towards her ribcage, blocking her view of his hand between her legs, and she didn't care just so long as he didn't stop what he was doing.
They lasted two hours (which, considering, was pretty good time with their record), abandoning the WayneCorp company banquet for the last few rows of the parking garage. Bruce made the opening announcements already. Let everyone wonder what they were up to.
With her training as the former Batgirl, she understood her self-discipline should come into play — even during fooling around — but it was Bruce. It was a fact, like the sun rising every morning, like people needing to breathe, that he drove her crazy when they were like this. Because it was Bruce. Her mentor. Her lover. Barbara tried biting down on her lips to contain any further embarrassing noises when his fingers shoved aside the moistened undercloth, to expose her fully, and his fingers were oddly cool and smooth against her skin. It took a moment to register and her eyes widened staring at the ceiling of the automobile. Bruce's satin-gloved thumb circled more slowly this time, where her body swelled hot and wanting, and squeezed her throbbing clit gently.
Bruce's eyes observed her mindfully, solemnly as the gold brocade to her dress in the center of her chest heaved in, out — as the rest of his fingers slid past the warm barrier of her flesh, massaging in, out.
"You'll be enrolled in Gotham State University during the spring term."
All business tones. Just like Bruce.
"W-was the plan…" Barbara answered, flushing and giving him a pleased, close-lipped smile that parted with a smaller, perplexed moan when he adjusted her up in his lap, removing his gloves.
He murmured, steadily running his palms to the insides of her thighs, "It's a good investment."
Her head tossed back against the seat, mussing the once tidy, floral arrangement of her long red hair and it was worth it for the feel of his lips kissing her slick entrance, his tongue worshipping inside her. He tasted her; he sucked her lovingly, and breathed so deep against her that her panting lengthened out to moans, aroused cries only to be heard by those occupied in the Porsche. Oh…oh, he was amazing. Bruce's tongue came back to the edge, stroking along her sensitive clit before licking experimentally with the folds, before thrusting completely into her dampness.
When she finally came — soundless and rushed — tightened around him and she thudded the heels of her shoes against the car door. Bruce lowered her to settle up, knees to her stomach. His mouth carefully roamed the underside of her jaw, to her lips, strong with the scent of her, and Barbara's shaking fingers pressed deliberately and kindly to the starched collar of his dinner jacket.
He abandoned the satin, white gloves, briefly wiping his shaven chin where the remains of her matte lipstick and low shine of her come smeared; it was at the same time devastatingly hilarious, and provocative — and threw them underneath the passenger's seat. Bruce stopped.
Barbara lifted herself to her elbows, woozy, and stared intrigued as well.
"…This isn't our car, isn't it?"
"… …I'm afraid it isn't," he confirmed, threading his rumpled, gelled hair, his frown twitching when she burst out laughing.
DC comics and things related to this are not mine. Batgirl Special #1 is when Babs retired as Batgirl, a year before events of Killing Joke.
The DC_Kink meme prompt:
Bruce is very good with his tongue.