King of the Amazons

Bruce looked at Diana, wondering how she felt as she relaxed into the recliner chair aboard his Gulfstream. This was the state of the art in luxury travel, one of the few rich man’s toys he allowed himself for reasons beyond selling the illusion of being no more than a disaffected playboy. With the number of women he was involved with, their children, and the frequent intermingling of his personal life with Justice League business, he needed a jet that could transport plenty of people and cargo at a moment’s notice. The Batwing certainly couldn’t do that.

But Diana could fly even faster than the Jetstream. Did the resplendent surroundings compare to the thrill she’d get from flying under her own power, barreling her own body into cloud formations and feeling the wind caress her bare skin? Or did she prefer making the journey sitting down, relaxing, and sipping champagne rather than exerting herself one iota?

Even now, it was hard for Bruce to say. Diana was much like a cat. Easy to love, but hard to know. Far more willing than him to indulge herself with all the pleasures of the modern world, yet equally committed when called upon to serve. It was hard for Bruce to not simply ascribe to her whatever reasoning he’d find most attractive. She was far more than a fantasy object. She was reality.

Their last five years of marriage had been highly enjoyable, sybaritic, but their enjoyment of other partners had never imperiled their romance. Diana’s commitment to Bruce never wavered, while Bruce was as driven to keep her happy as he was with all his wives. Still, there had been challenges. They’d been trying for another child with no success. And Diana had talked about retiring from being a superhero—finding other ways to do good—while Bruce could not think of a more perfect way to weld his obsession and the world’s needs than as Batman. He knew it was a sort of madness. That he needed it as much as others needed the Batman. But it was so perfectly balanced between the good it did him and the good it did others that he was in love with it as a solution—a love affair that predated any of his wives.

Now they were on their way to Greece for the Terraforming Symposium. After years of finding ways to fix and improve the earth, it was time to begin discussing using those technologies for other planets. Wayne Enterprises, Stark Industries, AIM, STARR, Pym, LexCorp, Queen—all the power players would be there.

Diana rose to her feet and stretched. She was cracking her neck when Bruce took her by surprise and wrapped her firmly in his arms, getting a good feel of her sharp nipples pressing tautly into his chest. He pulled her even closer, making her legs spread slightly so that the bulge of his member rubbed softly between them. Even the crisp denim of her jeans seemed to scintillate his senses and he felt the flesh of her right thigh pressing between his own legs as he began intensifying the contact. Diana was quick to join in.

He would show her one advantage that travel in his jet had to even her ability to fly.

***

A swish of water brought Bruce out of his bored slouch. He got up and followed the sound, wondering why it had attacked his senses so.

His tracking led him away from the gala, through a grove of peach trees. Their pink blossoms hung onto their color in the fading sunlight, reminding him of a campsite he’d seen once from a mountainside, the whole expanse of land marked by campfires spread far and wide.

He emerged from that flurry of pink into a clearing. He could tell this was a remote part of the complex, luxurious and exclusive. A villa dominated the open ground and from the spat of concrete that was its foundation, a pool extended. An infinity pool, stretching out from the patio of the building to a nearby cliff, where it overlooked the ocean and the beach far below.

Monet swam in it. Her gorgeous body flowed fast than the water surrounding it, knifing back and forth in the lit water. There were no lights above the pool, making the waters seem like those of some holy spring—somewhere a goddess might be bathing. And that illumination almost seemed part of Monet’s naked body. Something generated by her because such beautiful nakedness deserved to be seen, even in the darkness, even under the rippling waters of the pool she was exercising in.

It was more than arousing. It was right. That gorgeous body could not be unhindered by even the finest of swimsuits.

Monet noticed him somehow. As aloof as ever, she swam to the side of the pool closest to him and stopped with her elbows up on the rim, eying him. She was not offended by him spying on her. Nor did she show any signs of being intrigued by his evident approval of her. She looked at him as though him desiring her was only to be expected—as natural as him admiring a great work of art.

Her perfection was still impressive, even with all the perfect women Bruce had taken to his bed. Monet wore her beauty haughtily, bordering on arrogance, which did not arouse contempt but further desire. Her denial, her unwillingness to condescend with her loveliness, made it seem rare as it was, right, natural. Of course such a goddess should act like a goddess. No ingratiating smile, no come-hither eyes. Her expression demanded a man be worthy to claim any of her time. It said “you don’t have a chance with me, but show me you have the balls to take a shot anyway. We both know I’m too good a prize for you to go without—see if I’ll take pity on you.”

He'd always seen great potential in her as a businesswoman, and as a lover, and desired to make her one of his wives. To trust her as only a member of the family could be trusted and benefit from her wonderful intellect, her incredible will, her strong sense of justice. Not to mention her beautiful breasts, her delicious little ass—toned but at the same time so pleasantly plump. Even her hair was the color of rich chocolate. She was a combination of French and Algerian bloodlines and she’d clearly received only the best of both. Not even mentioning her potent X-gene, she was upper-class, with an Ivory League education and tutored upbringing to ensure that however superior she acted, she could more than back it up. She was precisely as smart, elegant, capable, and accomplished as she thought she was. Most would’ve felt threatened by that. Bruce found it charming.

But in the end, Bruce hadn’t wanted to press the issue. Trying to hard to add another woman to his wives would no doubt make the others feel slighted, like they weren’t enough for him—far from the truth. And he worried about offending Monet. Such a supremely worthy woman as her might well want a man all to herself, not shared with any amount of others, no matter how wonderful they themselves were.

With Bruce saying nothing—matching Monet’s own waiting recalcitrance—Monet heedlessly heaved herself out of the pool. Naked, she was truly divine. Wearing her beauty with an arrogance that matched it as perfectly as a gold ring would hold a magnificent diamond. She walked past him, slowly, sultrily, completely at ease with how she was displayed to him, until she came to a lounge chair. On it, she’d left a robe.

Unhurried, yet with a crisp speed to her actions, she had it around herself and tied off. Denying herself to Bruce as quickly as she’d graced him with the sight of her.

Then, she went as demure as she ever did. Clasping her hands in front of her clinging robe, recalling the precisely controlled subservience of when she’d worked at Wayne Enterprises under Bruce. She was good at everything, so why shouldn’t she be good at being an underling? But Monet was sure to give only what was needed, not an ounce more. She gave the obedience required of her position, but made it clear it was a role she was playing, lines she was reciting, not the truth.

Which made her recalling that obeisance very unusual to Bruce. Yet somehow not surprising. Now that she was the head of M-corp, his equal, she was showing him that she still gave him the respect of a superior. Not because she had to. Because it was her choice.

Bruce decided to test her. “Yes? What do you want?” he asked brusquely.

She smiled tentatively. “I’m sorry to bother you, Mr. Wayne.” And she smoothed the front of her robe, seemingly without knowing of how the thin material was made to cling to her rounded thighs and dip into the hollow of her groin. “But I worry that the hotel is pulling something with my reservation. I was promised a Delta suite and they changed my room number at the last minute. They say it’s still a Delta, but I’m not sure it has all the accommodations it’s supposed to have. You’re staying in a Delta room, right? Can I see it, just to check that my room isn’t missing anything?”

Bruce would be glad for any excuse to leave. Lavishing attention on Monet was a positive siren song. “We can go right now. Only I’ve been calling you Monet all this time, so you’d better start calling me Bruce.”

“I’m used to thinking of you as my boss—Bruce,” Monet said coyly, a small smile dimpling her gorgeous face. “Even now, you’re very… managerial.”

“There must be a better word than that.”

“Yes, but it’s most likely French. English is such a crude language.”

“We certainly wouldn’t want to be crude,” Bruce said, switching to the Romance language.

“No. But I’d hate to hear your pronunciation even more.” And Monet left with a swirl of her robe and a brief flash of legs the color of chocolate with just the right amount of milk in them.