The city was a sprawl of diamonds and darkness far below, a glittering testament to greed and glamour. In your silent, sterile penthouse, you were the lonely queen of it all, swirling a measure of amber whiskey in a heavy crystal glass. The ice had long since melted. The silence was a physical presence, thick and suffocating, broken only by the low hum of the climate control.

You were so lost in the view, in the quiet ache of your own solitude, that you didn't hear her.

A soft thud, lighter than a falling leaf, sounded from the sprawling terrace behind you. The hairs on the back of your neck stood on end. You weren't alone.

Slowly, you turned.

She was a silhouette against the glittering Gotham skyline, framed by the floor-to-ceiling glass door she'd somehow slipped through. The figure was lean, powerful, and unmistakable. Black matte leather and tactical fabric hugged every curve of her body like a second skin. The tips of her claws glistened under the muted interior lights. And the goggles were pushed up on her forehead, revealing eyes that glowed with a familiar, predatory amusement.

Your heart hammered against your ribs, a frantic bird in a gilded cage. The last time you'd seen her, the aftermath of a stolen diamond necklace and a night of passionate, confusing reckoning had been left in her wake. You'd never reported the theft. You'd never forgotten the thief.

"Hello, Kitten," she purred, her voice a low, smoky thing that curled through the vast room and wrapped around you. She took a step forward, her movements liquid and silent. "Miss me?"

You tried to summon indignation, to be the wronged heiress. But the words died in your throat. All you could do was stare, your grip tightening on the glass.

She stopped just inches away, the scent of night air, leather, and her unique, faintly floral perfume cutting through the smell of expensive whiskey. Her eyes, sharp and knowing, scanned your face, then dropped to the nearly full glass in your hand.

"Drinking alone?" she tsked softly, a mockery of pity in her tone. She plucked the glass from your numb fingers and set it aside without a sound. "That's no way for someone as beautiful as you to spend her evening."

Her clawed hand came up, but instead of a threat, the back of her knuckles traced your jawline. The cool, smooth leather was a shocking contrast to your warm skin.

"I was in the neighborhood," she murmured, her face so close now you could see the specks of gold in her green eyes. "Thought I'd see if the view was still as stunning as I remembered."

She wasn't looking at the city.

Her other hand settled on your hip, pulling you gently against her. The hard lines of her body armor pressed into your softer form. This was madness. She was a criminal. You were...

You were arching into her touch.

"That's it," she breathed, a wicked smile playing on her lips. Her nose nuzzled your temple. "No screams for help? No calling security? You were always such a good girl for me."

Her praise sent a bolt of pure heat straight to your core. You were putty in her hands, just like last time.

In one fluid motion, she guided you backward, through the open terrace door and into the cool night air. The city's roar was a distant hum up here, a private soundtrack. She backed you against the cold metal railing of your balcony, the vast drop a dizzying presence behind you.

"Let's get a better look at you under the stars," she said, her voice dropping to a husky rasp.

Her claws were deft, unhurried. They found the clasp of your trousers, the zipper. A slight tug and they pooled at your ankles. The night air kissed your exposed skin. You shuddered, from the cold or from anticipation, you couldn't tell.

She knelt before you, a dark goddess at your feet. Her eyes never left yours as she hooked a claw into the side of your underwear and tore the delicate lace with a soft rip. The sound was obscenely loud in the quiet night.

"Much better," she purred.

Then her hand, bare now of its clawed glove, was on you. Her touch was shockingly warm, knowing, and impossibly sure. Two fingers slid through your slickness, circling your clit with a practiced, torturous precision.

"Oh, yes," she sighed, watching your face contort with pleasure. "You're just as sweet as I remember. All wet and ready for me. You've been thinking about this, haven't you? Thinking about me?"

She worked you with a master's skill, her fingers curling inside you, finding that perfect spot that made your knees buckle. Her other arm wrapped around your thighs, holding you upright, pinning you against the railing.

"Look at you," she commanded, her voice thick with her own arousal. "My beautiful, rich girl. Coming apart on my fingers on her own balcony. Where all of Gotham could see if they just looked up."