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The single bed in Selina’s motel room creaked as she pressed Bruce further into the mattress, their faces squished together ravenously.
Bruce had shed his boots (“No shoes on my bed, Bat”) and his cape (they kept getting tangled in it), but was otherwise still clad in his Batsuit, including his cowl.
He would have to confess his identity to Selina soon, he knew that. But, in this moment, neither one cared. The armour she ran her hands over was as smooth as the muscle beneath, and her weight atop him was enough to substitute her touch on his skin.