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It's not what you think, he told Camille, but now he's not so sure.
Now he follows behind M as she moves between her armoured car and the Headquarters of the Bolivian Secret Service, headed in to meet with their chief and ensure that the correct narrative about Britain's role in their most recent debacle is the one being told. The cuts and burns Bond sustained in said debacle are barely beginning to heal, and the desert heat rasps his shirt against raw skin as he moves. Ahead of M are two of her guards, but the heat haze makes them blurry and indistinct, so all Bond can see is her, the flash of her white heels as they cut across the concrete path. It's as if she's daring the world to be anything but crisp and clean and perfect for her, and Bond finds he wants it to be, wants to be that way for her.
It's not what you think.
This is also true. He hadn't known what he was doing two nights ago when he'd climbed onto the balcony of her heavily guarded hotel suite, still full of the angry adrenaline that had kept him going the last few weeks, running away from her even as his every action tied him more tightly to her, made him more reliant on her mercy.
She'd known he was there immediately, even though he'd barely cast a shadow or made a noise. He heard it in her clipped tones as she dismissed her guards, silencing their protests by suggesting they might want to guard the door while she took a bath, or did one of them want to wash her back for her? A moment later, he heard the lock on the balcony door click open, but by the time he entered she was back on the settee, completely composed.
"Well now, 007, you are in a state, aren't you?"
He was. He'd found time to change between the desert and here, so he was no longer covered in dust and blood, but there were scratches on his face, and his hasty shower hadn't quite managed to wash the caked blood from his hair.
Perhaps she wasn't just talking about his appearance, though.
"It's done," he said, moving further into the room but finding that he was creeping, keeping his footsteps silent like someone might still be listening from outside, keeping furniture between them like she might be about to explode. He wasn't sure why, stopped himself with his hands resting on the back of an empty settee and forced himself to face her. "The threat is neutralized," he said. "No one is going to try to kill you again any time soon."
She regarded him silently, blue eyes dark in the yellow lamplight of the room, and he felt his fingers curl, bruised knuckles protesting as his grip tightened on the settee cushions. He was sure she didn't miss it.
"People are always going to be trying to kill me, Bond, one way or another. If it's not an enemy with a gun, it's those arseholes at Whitehall trying to bring me down for every mistake, blame me every time an agent puts a toe out of line." She let that hang for a moment, silent and pointed, until Bond felt those very many toes curling against the soles of his shoes.
"Tell me why I shouldn't feed you to the CIA for all the trouble you've caused me. And don't stand there like a terrified schoolboy."
Bond started, feet jerking into action before his brain followed, moving out from behind the settee and then floundering for what to do with himself. Sitting would feel too familiar - she hadn't invited him to, either - but remaining on his feet wouldn't make him appear less of a frightened schoolboy, hiding spot or no. Thinking again on mercy, it occurred to him that he should be throwing himself at her feet, so before he had the chance to reflect on it (and certainly before he had the chance to consider precisely why it was that M, of all people, had this effect on him), he did precisely that, moving forward and dropping to his knees before her, head bowed and blood pounding.
He braced for a bollocking, for M to tell him to get up, you bloody idiot, but when none came he chanced to look up, and caught her expression before she composed herself, wide-eyed and lips slightly parted.
Knowing that he had wrong-footed her emboldened him. He bared his throat, cocked a smile. "Because you hate the Americans," he said. "And because I always make up for the trouble I've caused." That last curled out of his mouth like a promise, and he could feel heat rising into his chest and cheeks.
When she spoke, her words were stern, but her voice wavered. "Do you think this is a game, Bond?"
"Sometimes," he quipped, but then he thought of Fields with her lungs full of oil, of Camille and how much her kill had meant to her, of Vesper sucked away from him in the falling lift, and the smile fell away from his face. "Not always. Not now," he added, belatedly realizing that she might have interpreted this gesture as him taking the piss. He felt surprised himself to realise that he wasn't, that kneeling at her feet felt like exactly where he belonged.
"Good," she whispered, and again there was that breathy quiver in her voice. Her eyes were unreadable, gaze intense for a moment; but then she blinked and it was gone. "Would you like a drink, Bond?"
The question shocked a laugh out of him, it was so unexpected. "I'd love one," he said.
It was only when she stood that he became aware of their proximity. As she rose, he rocked back onto his heels, but even so, he got an eyeful of her generous bosom as she pushed herself forward, and the crepey fabric of her slacks brushed his cheek as she stood.
Bond made to move - surely if she was offering him a drink she was also offering him a seat, but he'd barely flexed a thigh when she said, "Stay there. I like the look of you on your knees."
Jesus. Talk about a list of things he'd never thought to hear M say. He felt his lips twitch into a smile again even as heat crept back up his throat. He wasn't blushing like a schoolboy, but close enough. "At your service," he murmured, just to test his voice.
"Damn right," M agreed, moving up behind him and reaching around his shoulder to press a glass into his hand. He took it, and as she moved away her fingers brushed his arm in a way that didn't seem accidental. He turned his head, but all he caught was a waft of her perfume as her arm vanished. It was her usual scent, that crisp green floral that he always associated with being ordered about, but either the lateness of the hour or the warm weather had conspired to soften it somewhat, and as she moved away he was left with an impression of deeper spring, iris flowers and rose and things that belonged in more mysterious woodland places.
When she spoke again, she was behind him. "All right, 007. Debrief. Tell me everything." Her voice came from somewhere above, like she was perched on the arm of the second settee, and it made him feel strangely exposed, even though she could not see his face.
With an unsteady hand, Bond took a sip of the drink she'd poured him - scotch, and good stuff too, and what, did she travel with supplies, or did she send Tanner out immediately upon arrival to purchase the most expensive liquor he could find? - then began.
It was a strange experience, speaking to the open air. Neatly rolled facts unfurled into lists and assumptions, connections he'd made but couldn't be sure of. He sipped as he spoke, shifted on his knees, feeling his shoulders loosen as he unburdened himself. He spoke of the casual disregard with which he'd seduced Fields, how little effort it had taken, how she'd confessed to him with a giggle in an opulent bed that her nickname at school had been Strawberry, how normal that had made him feel. He spoke of Mathis and how he'd seduced him too, really, pulled him back into a world he'd escaped from and knew he would probably die in. He told the air how he'd dumped Mathis' body in a bin and felt nothing, how he still felt nothing, and wasn't he supposed to, weren't people supposed to? As he spoke he felt that anger and tension, the rage M had mentioned draining out of him, now that he'd finally named it for what it was. It had the air of a confessional, and by the time he got to the end of it he felt drained and hollow, empty like the job had made him, so when he told her about Greene he left out the part about leaving him in the desert, needing to hold onto something, at least, of his own.
"I'm sure his creditors will take care of him for us. His empire is done."
"Undoubtedly," M said, finally moving back into his field of vision. She stepped close to him, forcing him to look up at her. "And what about you, 007? Are you done?"
"With what?" he asked, finding a smile quirking at his lips again. "The spy thing? Or flouting your instructions to get the job done?"
"Both," she replied.
"To the former, no," he said. "I'm a blunt instrument: you said that. It's all I know. The latter, well." He dropped his gaze, found it focused on the rippling hem of her slacks and noticed for the first time that she wasn't wearing shoes. Her toenails were painted red, and for a moment he had to resist the urge to reach out and curl his fingers around her ankle. Too late, he realised his hand was halfway there, pulled it back to rest on his knee. "That depends what bendings of your will you're willing to forgive," he said, looking up at her again. "You could fire me right now."
"I could," M agreed, but now there was the faintest hint of a smile turning her lips up too. "Or I could bend you to my will instead." Her eyes were warm, watching him, and he found himself preening under the attention, enjoying whatever this was, unburdened at her feet and rolling his shoulders back to strain the buttons of his shirt.
"What did you have in mind?" he asked, smiling, playing with the moment, anticipating its inevitable end. Any second now, she'd play her hand, and it would be an assignment, perhaps something slightly off the books that she needed taken care of. There’d always been electricity between them, and he always enjoyed twitching the wires, but in the end she was an infinitely stable powerhouse; teasing her had no more effect than would sticking his finger in a turbine.
“I was thinking of taking you to bed,” she said.
Bond froze. It was difficult to move when you’d been struck by lightning, and he was sizzled to his fingertips and still twitching from the jolt, feeling his insides quiver and wondering if he liked it. He stared up at M, searching, trying to work out if she was taking the piss. She stared back at him, gaze unwavering, but after a moment her eyebrow twitched, and in that miniscule expression he read a volume.
There was challenge in her eyes, and invitation, and as the moment crackled between them he understood what she was doing: testing him, calling the bluff of his bravado and offering him the chance to raise the stakes. It wasn’t a cruel challenge - nothing in her demeanour suggested that his job was on the line if he didn’t play; she had her uses for him, and they would remain even if he backed away from her now. But she was offering him the opportunity change his shape, become more to her than just a blunt instrument. He didn’t know what form he would take if he accepted her invitation, but he did know one thing - it wouldn't come again. He could take the opportunity now, or he could walk away from it forever.
Bond reached out and took hold of her ankle. “Only thinking about it?” he asked, settling his fingers against the warmth of her skin. “I’ve never known you to be indecisive.”
Her smile grew, curling up on one side in wry amusement as much as pleasure. “Careful thought is hardly the same as indecision, Bond.”
There was definitely a charge between them. Bond had never touched her before, not on purpose, and she’d never said his name like that either, with the sort of warm music he imagined she usually reserved for praising fine wines or skilfully executed assassinations. The sound of it sent his hand exploring further, sliding up beneath the hem of her trousers to stroke her calf, keen to see what other responses he could elicit.
“Have you thought about it a lot, then?” he asked, smiling.
She didn’t answer him immediately, simply watched him as he let his fingers draw circles on her skin, reached as high as the confines of her trouser leg would allow and dragged his thumb over the sensitive spot at the back of her knee. He felt her calf twitch, but her gaze didn’t waver, and he found that he was leaning up, straining towards her. Her eyes sparkled, bright and hungry; he could almost see her considering all the different ways she might devour him. Something in him began to stir before she even touched him, and when at last her fingers grazed his cheek and slid into his hair, he had to suppress a whimper.
“You do rather make yourself known,” she murmured. Her fingers came into contact with one of the tender spots on his scalp, and although he felt his breath catch for a moment, the pain only added to his awareness of his body. The tension that had fallen out of him with his confession was now regrowing in a new, considerably more enjoyable shape.
She didn’t miss his twitch, tilted his head to the side to inspect the graze. “Hm. You do come back to me delightfully battered, don't you?”
He grinned. "How else would I show you that I care?"
If that was bait, she took it, staring intensely for one more moment before instructing: "Stand up, Bond."
He did, releasing his hold on her before shifting his weight, managing to stand without spilling the remaining scotch in the glass he was still holding. Once on his feet, he downed it, deposited the glass on the closest surface, and then, with the taste of the liquor still lingering his mouth, turned back to M.
She was looking at him expectantly, still every inch the force of nature now that their usual height difference was restored - even more so, perhaps, because when he was kneeling at her feet in a position of worship he felt their dynamic represented truly, but now he was forced to demonstrate it through action, and he wasn't sure what to do.
Still, she had invited him in, and he was hardly an ingenue. He stepped close, forcing her to look up at him, found his hand rising to cup her jaw. It was a surreal wonder to feel her lean into his touch, to trail his thumb over her cheekbone and watch her blink. He'd enjoyed their tension for years but he'd never actually imagined that this could happen, found the reality of it strange and thrilling. Her skin was soft as paper, creased by time, and he found himself appreciating her beauty in a way he’d never considered before. Their electricity had always been connected to the force of their personalities, but now here was the prospect of discovering her body as well, and he found he liked it very much.
He dragged his thumb over her bottom lip. "I was once told," he murmured, leaning in, "that an agent should never initiate the first kiss with a mark. Well, I want you to know that I am not doing this for my country."
Kissing her was like drowning. He learned the shape of her lips in action, barely lingering for a moment before her chin canted up and she breathed him in. His hand curled around the back of her neck and hers fisted in his shirt, and he felt the deep-dive pressure of his blood pounding in his ears as his world narrowed to nothing but the heat of her mouth. She kissed the way she did everything else, with articulate command, and it was all he could do to keep up with her, falling deeper and deeper.
When they surfaced, he was gasping. He hung against her for a moment and searched her eyes, found them dark with need. She was more composed than him, but only just, breath gusting out in a barely controlled sigh.
Her lips were red and smiling. “By the time I’m finished with you,” she whispered, “you’re going to be unfit to serve your country for days.”
Her words sent a surge of heat crackling through him, made him growl with inarticulate desire. “Good,” he managed, and kissed her again.
"Come," she said after, pulling away from him as he licked his bitten lip and tried to steady his spinning mind. Her hand lingered for a moment against his chest, but then she turned, leaving him to follow her in an intoxicated stumble. He wasn't sure if it took five steps or fifty to reach the suite's bedroom, but as he stepped inside he forced himself to take stock of his surroundings.
Like the sitting area, the bedroom was lit by warm lamplight and was expensively furnished. The bed was enormous, a mountain of soft covers large enough for three of M. Of her occupation of the room there was little trace, only an unopened black case on the luggage stand and her discarded shoes nearby. M herself had moved ahead of him, and now stood in front of a full-length mirror in the corner of the room, which she was using - rather unnecessarily, Bond thought - to remove her earrings. Her reflection made eye contact with him as she unfastened the clasps, and when she dropped the heavy studs onto the dresser beside her they sounded like bullet casings, metallic punctuation that Bond couldn't help but hear as challenge.
When his reflection appeared in the mirror behind her, he saw himself smile. She was still wearing her necklace, so he reached for it, thumbing the catch open and reaching around her to lay his hand across the base of her throat. He felt the pendant drop into his palm but found he liked the look of his hand there, let the chain fall over his fingers as he held her there and lowered his head to press an open-mouthed kiss against the spot below her ear, watching her all the while.
"Narcissist," she murmured, even as she bent her neck to allow him access. "I should have known you'd love to watch yourself."
"Pot, kettle," he replied, giving her throat a gentle squeeze as he nipped her earlobe.
She let out a breathy chuckle that he felt against his palm. "Perhaps," was all she would admit, but her body told a different story. He dropped his gaze as he mouthed his way down her throat, feeling her heartbeat quicken as he took his time to enjoy the texture of her skin. He took pleasure from the act, too, from the knowledge that this was M letting him do this, that this woman who could peel him apart with a single glance was now watching him as he kissed her neck and slid his free hand around her hip. Her skin was warm under his mouth, pliant under his grasping fingers, and she was right, he did want to watch this, wanted the objectivity of the mirror to confirm this reality for him.
He could see the flush in her cheeks when he looked up again, noticed the pulse in her throat flickering just above his thumb. He loosened his hold - didn't want to leave a mark, not without her permission - and felt her necklace come away in his hand. Dropping it onto the dresser, he let that hand fall to her hip as well, holding her there and pressing himself against her back, reaching for the buttons of her blouse.
He worked his way up from the bottom. "All that careful thought you mentioned," he whispered, plucking her first few buttons undone; "I don't believe you ever do anything by accident. I think you like this as much as I do."
M shrugged, leaning back into him and undulating her hips, smiling at the feel of him half-hard already. "I like the effect it has on you," she said.
"Mm," he grunted, still not buying it, but also finding he was incapable of speech when her backside ground into him like that. He concentrated on undressing her, plucking one button after another and parting the fabric as he went, walking his fingers over her soft belly. She reached up as his hands moved higher, lifting her arms to assist him, curling one hand around the back of his head and stroking his arm with the other.
"Damn," he whispered, when he finally had her undone.
Underneath the sensible beige blouse, her bra was red. It was a sturdily constructed thing with silky cups, but held closed at the front with a gold clasp, and the sight of it made Bond press into M even more hungrily, because if these were the secrets she carried around beneath her clothes every day, he wanted to know all of them. She arched her back against him as he pushed himself into her, took a heavy breath that made her breasts strain against their confinement, and it seemed to him that they were just begging for release.
He obliged. It took a bit of effort, working the clasp undone with the reverse trickery of the mirror, but as soon as he released it he wished for more eyes, because he just didn't know where to look first.
At her breasts, was the obvious answer, tumbling glorious and heavy from their restraint. Or at his hands, which moved to catch them, at the contrast of his tanned skin against her pale, at his fingers spread wide and still only just managing to cover them. Or perhaps it was her face he wanted to watch, as he squeezed her soft flesh and dragged his thumbs over her nipples, as her eyes fluttered closed and her lips murmured "Bond".
“You’re amazing,” he muttered, pressing his mouth close to her ear again and whispering as he lavished attention on her breasts, teasing her nipples into peaks and pinching them until they blushed. “My God, I love looking at you.”
He meant it. He hadn’t known he would half an hour ago, but now he couldn’t imagine feeling anything but wild with desire for her ever again. She was soft and round and compact and sharp, and he loved her curves and her edges both.
When next he glanced at her face, she was watching him again. Her thumb stroked the back of his neck and he felt the tingle right down his spine, pinned between her gaze and her hand. “Enough looking,” she said. “I want to take you to bed now.”
It was a loss when she pulled away from him. She broke the spell of the mirror as she turned, dislodging his arms, but then she was facing him with her dishevelled clothes and her fierce need, and that was a different sort of power - hypnotising; he hung motionless under her gaze.
"I think I do like looking," she said, raking her eyes over his body from his toes to his face. "It's very nice. But I don't like it nearly as much as I like doing."
She reached for him and he let her, watched her fingers work his shirt undone and only realised as he was shrugging it off how far she’d backed him up, slowly edging into his space so they were now within reach of the bed. He didn’t move toward it, though, was transfixed by the intense look on her face as she surveyed his naked chest.
"Is that all for me?" she asked quietly.
He started to smile, half blush and half braggart, but then she lifted her hand and touched a spot on his chest that felt sore. He looked down at himself and realised that it was purple, that he was covered in similar marks, and her touch was so tender that it stripped all his bravado away. He stared at her hand for a moment, at the crisscrossing lines on her skin creasing as she held back the pressure of her touch, and he didn't have a single quip to respond with. Taking responsibility for all of his wounds was too much for one person.
"You can claim one," he whispered. "Take your pick."
She trailed her finger down, tracing the curve of his pectorals, until she touched upon a spot that he couldn't see, but which felt like another bruise developing. "Here," she murmured. "It's shaped like a knife." Her fingers traced the mark on him, then she leaned in, pressing a kiss against the spot. The air was suddenly warmer between them, and Bond smiled as M's hand descended toward his waist.
“Don’t worry,” he told her, “they don’t hurt too badly just yet. I’m sure I’ll pay for them tomorrow, but by then I want to be able to blame my aches on how thoroughly we fucked.”
Her fingers found his belt buckle. “I wasn’t planning on leaving you with bruises, Bond.”
“Shame,” he murmured, then added slyly: “Maybe next time.”
She glanced up at him, flicked him a wicked smile, then returned her attention to his buckle and worked it open. She tugged his fly undone, loosened the waistband of his jeans, and then her hand was burrowing in, reaching down into his shorts and taking hold of his cock.
"Bruises are for amateurs," she said, giving him a squeeze. "If I flogged you, you'd beg me for mercy, but you can be damn sure I wouldn't leave a mark."
"Fuck," Bond whimpered. It was the most articulate response he was capable of.
"Soon enough," she said, smirking as she freed him from his underwear.
M's hand was hot and her grip was firm, but it was his face that she watched as she stroked him. Even fogged with desire, her eyes were sharp as cut glass, and that smirk stayed on her lips as she worked him and watched him respond.
Bond's breath came in heavy, his cheeks flushed. He glanced down and looked at it, his cock protruding from his jeans and her hand wrapped around it: dextrous fingers that knew how to hold weapons far more dangerous than his. One stroke, two, he watched them work, but he couldn't maintain his focus, dropped his head back and groaned, then righted it only to be caught in her gaze again. He felt stripped by it, flayed right down to his nerve endings, vulnerable and needy.
She watched him as his jaw twitched and his lip quivered, and her smile lengthened as his hips jerked, thrusting himself into her fist. He wanted to touch her, but his own hands curled helplessly at his sides, too overwhelmed to move even when she leaned into him and her breasts pressed against his chest. She twisted her wrist in a corkscrew motion as she tugged on him and he whined like a puppy, a high-pitched undignified sound that came out of him unbidden. Burning, he held her gaze as long as he could, but eventually it was too much; he had to close his eyes.
She stopped. Her hand stilled and then slid away completely, although he did feel her other one slip around his back to hold him as he swayed, aching and unsteady.
When he opened his eyes again, she was still looking at him, but her expression had changed from gleaming and predatory to warm with approval. "Good boy," she whispered, reaching up to cup his cheek. “You bear up well.”
Bond was surprised to find that her words, which he would definitely baulk at if they came from anyone else, warmed him right down to his toes. He supposed there was a little eager puppy in everyone, turned his face into her hand and licked her palm. “Woof," he murmured, smiling. "Do I get my biscuit now?”
M laughed. “Yes," she said.
Bond was relieved to find that he could move again. He turned M toward the bed, stripping her of blouse and bra and working on her slacks, getting them undone and sliding his fingers beneath their waistband. She helped him remove them, dropping onto the bed and letting him pull them off her, and then he struggled quickly out of the rest of his clothes and joined her there. His knees sank into the plush covers as he came down on top of her, caging her shoulders with his arms and taking a moment to appreciate the sight of her all spread out beneath him. She looked soft and voluptuous with the lamplight casting highlights and shadows across her skin, a decadent treat laid out on a pillow.
“You were made for a bed like this,” he told her.
She snorted. “Why? Because I’m a bit too full of stuffing as well?” Her tone was light, eyebrow arching sardonically, but Bond wondered about the timing of the question, suspected it wasn't entirely show. She had stayed clothed for as long as possible, after all. Perhaps even forces of nature needed a little reassurance sometimes.
Or maybe she was just baiting him. Either way, the response was the same.
He shook his head. "No. Because I want to crawl inside you and stay for days."
He dove in. He'd been longing to get his mouth on her breasts ever since he'd touched them, so he wasted no time there, burying his face between them and covering them in kisses. Her skin was velvet-soft until he kissed it firm, sucking on her nipples and teasing them until they pebbled, catching one between his teeth and glancing up at her to see if she liked it. She responded beautifully, hands fisting in the duvet and back arching, pushing her glorious tits into his face, lips parted and breath heavy.
It didn't take him long to want more. Her face was in raptures but her voice was silent; he wanted to hear her moan. With that in mind, he set out on a campaign of casual torture, mouthing his way down to her soft belly and laying kisses there as well, glancing up at intervals to watch her cheeks growing hotter, shifting his weight to pin her down when she writhed.
"Are you in a hurry now?" he asked, settling between her legs and curling his hands around the tops of her thighs. "I'm not." He pressed another kiss against her belly, just above the line of her knickers. It wasn't entirely true - his cock was rock hard and his balls were aching - but he wanted to drive her to distraction as well, and he would hold out as long as it took.
He held her down and kissed her hip, trailed his lips along the waistband of her knickers and caught them in his teeth, tugging them away from her then letting them flick back against her skin. That drew a sound from her, a hot little breath with a musical note in it, and he smiled, letting his nose brush against her mound as he turned his head to kiss her thigh, fastening his lips there and sucking on her skin until he could feel her trembling against him, until her breath became a hum.
"That's what I want to hear," he murmured, switching sides. His nose brushed against fabric again and he could smell her right through it, all musky and animal and warm. His cock gave a throb, but he ignored it.
This time, when he kissed her thigh, he was barely able to hold her still. Small and soft she might be, but she had surprising steel. As he sucked hard enough to leave a mark behind she growled in frustration; he felt his hands shake with the effort it took to hold her still.
"Fuck, James," she hissed. "Let me move."
It was a minor lightning strike, hearing his name on her lips like that, but it added to his fire. It made him want to do anything she asked, but he held out for a moment longer, grazing his lips over the damp spot on her knickers and flicking a smirk at her. “What’s the magic word?” he asked.
Even breathless and half wild, her voice was like a whip crack: “Now.”
Grinning, he obeyed. He released his grip on her, shifting to slide his arms under her thighs, letting her settle against his shoulders and find purchase with her feet before he curled his arm around her from below.
"Acceptable?" he asked, dragging his fingers over her skin.
M flexed her thighs, tightening them against his ears for a moment before releasing him. "Mm, yes," she said, smiling at him, "you look good there. But you haven't taken my knickers off."
"No," Bond agreed. "I haven't." He leaned forward and kissed her through them, working his jaw to learn the shape of her cunt and feeling her push back against his mouth. "Do I need to?" he asked, glancing up at her again, affecting innocence.
Her cheeks were red as plums. "For Christ's sake, James," she hissed, voice heavy with frustration. Her hips jerked, and he waited, and after a heavy, hanging moment she closed her eyes, dropped her head back against the covers and whispered: "Please."
He caught the edge of the fabric with his finger and dragged it aside.
What followed was most definitely an act of worship. He breathed her in, taking a moment to appreciate the warm and ready smell of her, to enjoy the sight of her pink and flushed with need. Then he bent his head and kissed her, spread her open with his tongue and spoke his prayer into her skin.
Rarely had a devotional ritual had such an immediate response. M’s back arched and her fingers tangled in his hair; her voice turned into a series of indulgent hums. Bond revelled in discovering her, learning the sounds she made when his mouth was on her and the way she twitched her left leg more than her right. She slicked up as he licked her, too, which was a pleasure he hadn't quite expected - for all her frustrated need, she wasn't slippery when he started, but as his tongue worked he felt her arousal grow, his wet mingling with hers until his mouth was covered in it.
“Beautiful,” he breathed, lifting his head for a moment to admire her. She wasn’t having it, tightened her fingers against the back of his head and pulled him back down.
“Tell me that way,” she whispered, so he did.
He lost all sense of time. If kissing M was like drowning, then to be between her thighs was to be lost at sea, man overboard and sinking. He welcomed it, surrendering, giving her everything he had and letting the pressure of her hand against his tender scalp anchor him to the moment. He sucked on her skin, buried his tongue inside her and fucked her with it, felt her fingers grasp at him with the same rhythm as her undulating hips. He tightened his grip on her thigh and flexed the finger holding the edge of her knickers, dragging the fabric across her and delighting in the hungry urgency of having it there at all. He teased her clitoris with his tongue and wrapped his lips around it, listened to cadence of her voice change from warm and throaty to needy and whimpering. She sounded overwhelmed, vulnerable in a way he'd never heard before, and he reached up with his free hand, groping blindly to hold her fast as he pushed her further. Flattening his palm against her sternum, he increased his mouth's pressure, and as her thighs began to tremble he felt her hand covering his, fingers clutching his wrist as her chest heaved.
When she came, it was a tidal wave. Her back arched up off the bed and her thighs clamped around his ears; she shook like she might come apart. It was all Bond could do to hold onto her and ride her through it, awestruck at the force he'd unleashed.
She quieted similarly, all at once, falling limp in a tangle with him, leaving him breathless with a mouthful of salt. He laid his head against her thigh for a moment, allowing himself a smug smile, but then every muscle in his stomach clenched as his cock throbbed, and he groaned, wondering at his own self-sabotage. How long would she take to recover, he wondered, and how much agony would he be in by then?
But M seemed to understand. Far sooner than he expected, he felt her fingers stir in his hair, and with a murmur she urged him up to join her. When he did, she kissed him, cupping the back of his head again and tugging him down.
“I’ve been rather greedy,” she said after, with a long, satisfied smile. “I couldn’t bring myself to tell you to stop.”
“S’okay,” he murmured, hand sliding onto her still-twitching belly, “I didn’t want to stop.”
She traced the shape of his shoulder. “Hm, but look at the state of you. I could bounce a penny off these shoulders - or that cock." She didn't reach for it, but he felt her eyes travel down his body like she had, and he trembled.
"I won't die," he said, but the tremble came out in his voice as well, so it sounded like he might.
"You do bear up well," she said, trailing her fingers over his collarbone, "but I'm not going to make you wait for me. What can I do for you? What do you want?" Her eyes met his again, and they were warm and clear now that she'd come. She seemed to see right into his soul.
Bond didn't imagine there were many people M had asked that question of - carte blanche offers were something of a liability in their business. By asking it, she handed him not inconsiderable power, and his darker fantasies did occur to him - he was a killer, after all, and up until this evening had been operating on animal instinct and rage. There were parts of his mind that were invariably twisted, but by inviting him into her bed she had offered him trust, even the opportunity for transformation. That sense grew even stronger now as she handed him the reins - what did he want to be?
Nothing more than what she needed. "I want you," he said, "all of you. Want to be inside you. Is that going to work?" It occurred to him that it might not, that she could be too twitching and tender - but she smiled.
"Of course. I'm not as sensitive as I used to be. I'm not sure I'll be able to keep up with you, but it would be a shame to waste how wet you've got me." She curled a leg around him. "That doesn't always happen, you know, not on its own."
He did know, he supposed - vaguely, anyway. It wasn't something that had ever come into play for him before, but he did know that bodies changed with age. "Can you get there again?" he asked. "Come for me a second time?"
"Probably," she answered. "But maybe not as quickly as you."
"Then you set the pace, and I'll try to hold on."
She smiled again, and this time it was feline. "All right." She flattened her hand against his chest and pushed him onto his back.
When she rose, she was still wobbly. He saw it in the way her wrists faltered as she pushed at the waistband of her knickers, in the tremble of her thighs as she kicked the offending garment off. But she persisted anyway, rose up onto her shaking knees in a fierce display of determination, and he was struck once again by her steel, unable to do anything but watch as she swung a leg over him and looked him up and down.
“If nothing else,” she said, “I’ll definitely enjoy the ride.”
She leaned forward, balancing herself with a hand on his abdomen, then reached down with the other and took hold of him again, sinking down onto his cock with a little sigh.
"Oh God." Bond's eyes rolled back in his head as her heat enveloped him; his hands fisted in the duvet. It felt so agonisingly good to finally be in her that he had to keep his eyes closed for several moments, praying for strength.
But he didn't want to miss this. As soon as he could, he opened his eyes again, and that was when she started to move.
It was amazing to watch. She overcame her wobbles with aplomb, hands falling onto her knees as she settled into a rhythm atop him, thighs clenching and hips rolling. He watched her with awe, barely moving, appreciating her mussed-up hair and arching throat. Her breasts hypnotised him, swaying as she rocked, flushed and heavy. It was a lot to take in, the sight of her like this coupled with the glorious warmth of her cunt, but when she ground herself down and squeezed he felt his hips jerk, and that spurred him into motion.
It was his hands first, untangling from the covers and reaching for her, finding hip and thigh and sliding over them, feeling them rock and flex as she moved. Next, his feet found purchase on the bed and he pulled his knees up, using that leverage to thrust up into her. It altered her rhythm, but they found a new one together, and Bond found himself lost in a symphony of spectacle and sensation.
His hips arched, hers ground, and as they gained momentum he could see her growing warmer from the exertion, skin beginning to sheen with sweat. He could hear them too, the wet slap of her skin against his and their breath growing ragged, his rumbling groans and hers a sharper hiss. With his hands on her keeping her balanced she became freer with her own, reaching out to scrape her fingers over his abdomen then lifting her arms up, undulating against him as she ran her fingers through her hair and arched her back, just gave herself away to pleasure.
And there was plenty of that. Bond could feel his pressure building, the heat rising up and swirling between them. He wanted her to feel it too, reached for her breasts and squeezed them, drew a long throaty moan from her as she held her arms aloft and pushed herself into his groping hands.
He wanted more. With a growl, he let one hand fall to the bed and pushed himself up, dropped the other to her waist to steady her. She curled her arms around him as he came up to meet her, one sliding around his shoulders and the other finding the back of his head. He pulled her hips down as his mouth found her breasts, grasping and sucking. She keened her approval and held him there, rocking into him and driving him further. He squeezed her arse and ground himself into her and hoped it was enough, hoped she was climbing as high as him.
"My God, M," he whimpered, dropping her nipple with a plop to gasp against her skin, "you feel so good. Don't know...how much longer…"
Everything became a blur. They were a tangle of heat and friction; he felt every twitch of M's body. His arms and his thighs and his abdomen tightened but he held on, rocked with her, sucked at her skin in an effort to distract himself, to bring her with him. His balls tightened, his stomach clenched, his fingers bit into her skin. He felt his cheeks burning, was hanging on by a thread, panting against her and moving moving moving, almost senseless but still in motion.
"Bond," she hissed, urgent, and he raised his head, almost scared to look at her, afraid of how much of his soul she'd see.
But her eyes were gentle, nothing but warmth. They held him safe and steady. "It's all right," she whispered, hand cupping his cheek, "you've done well. Let go."
And so he did. One, two, three more thrusts and he was there, shaking, clinging tight to her as he erupted. He tried to bury himself against her chest but she held him there, held his face, and as he shuddered and spent himself he saw her eyes in zoetrope through his flickering lashes, felt the dopey grimace on his face and saw her smile in increments, felt peeled apart and held together at the same time.
"God," he groaned, and lost his bones, his arm melting away beneath him so he fell back onto the bed. He took her with him, they landed in a messy sprawl, and for several seconds Bond knew nothing but the warmth of M against his chest and the blood pounding in his ears.
He dragged himself back with difficulty, flexing his fingers to shake off his stupor. Lifting his head, he surveyed the scene. M was lying with her head on his chest, her body haphazardly stretched across his, one leg now between his and the other draped over his hip. She looked beautifully exhausted, but she stirred when he did, swivelling her eyes up and turning her face toward him.
"That was quite a show," she said, cheeks still pink.
Bond smiled. "Mm. Finished a little early, though. Didn't get to see the encore." He trailed his fingers down M's back, felt her skin quiver under his touch. His hand cupped her arse, squeezed it, crept around her cheek. "What do you think? Have you got another song for me?"
M's hips twitched and she hummed her approval, pushed back against his hand. "Probably not a belter," she murmured, "but maybe a ballad."
His fingers found her cunt. "A power ballad, I hope," he said, "not sending in the clowns."
She smiled, but didn’t respond, because by the time she might have Bond’s fingers were curling against her, and she didn’t seem to have the words.
She was wet this time, messy with it, slick with his come and dripping onto his thigh. He used it, spread her apart, cupping his hand around her and tugging her toward him. Hitching his thigh up, he pulled her against it, felt her leave a smear behind.
His fingers entered her and she gasped, grabbing hold of his shoulders and squeezing, mouth open and smiling. "Yes," she breathed, lifting her head into an arch.
"You feel filthy," he told her, reaching into her, stroking her insides as she pushed back against him. "Look beautiful." Her breasts were pillowed against his chest and her throat was taut. He could see every sinew of it flexing as his fingers found a rhythm, palm flat and fingers thrusting.
It was quite something to watch her climb this time, watch as her jaw worked and inarticulate syllables came curling out of her throat. It was quite something to feel her whole body pressed up against his and rocking, rubbing herself against his thigh, which he tightened to help her along. He twisted his fingers, scissored them, pushed in as deep as he could go. He could feel her twitching, digging her fingernails into his shoulders; he grinned and increased the pace.
"Come on," he urged, pulling her against him, holding her tight and grinding. "You're almost there. Come for me. Come for me, Olivia." He'd never called her that before - she'd never even confirmed for him that it was her name, let alone given him permission to use it. But it seemed to do it, seemed to light up something secret inside her, because she trembled and cried out, then shuddered against him and shook them both as she came.
Worn out, she collapsed against him. He held her - held her heat for a little while, just stroking her gently as the last of her twitches faded away, then held her properly, sticky fingers coming to rest against the ridge of her backside as his other hand settled against her back. Taking a breath, he let himself be still - properly still for the first time in weeks, here with this force of nature who was finally too exhausted to seem anything but human. He rather liked that her human form was small enough to use him as a pillow and seemed content to do so, wondered if her name was some sort of incantation that bound her to it for a time. The thought made him smile.
Even with her eyes closed, she didn't miss it. "Cheeky sod," she whispered against his chest.
"Always," Bond replied. It was the last thing either of them said for a while.
.
It’s not what you think.
As they approach the entrance to the Bolivian Headquarters, Bond quickens his pace. The frontrunners of M's security detail have entered the building to negotiate her entry, and though the rear are not far behind, Bond still notices an infinitesimal blip in her protection and steps up to fill it.
Or perhaps he just wants to be close to her.
It's still true, he thinks, what he said to Camille. Whatever he and M have, whatever it was they made in that hotel room, it resists definition - a thing both sharper and more tender than one might expect, tangled up with power and secrets and vulnerability. Bond feels changed, somehow, and yet the same - his rage is gone, healing with the scrapes on his body, but he still wants to twitch M's wires to see if she'll electrocute him again. Maybe that's just them, charged, or maybe he trusts her not to burn him harder than he can handle. That feels like a new thing for him, trust - a language he's only just beginning to learn.
He reaches the door just as M's security guard moves to open it for her, having apparently established her credentials. Reaching out, Bond beats the man to it, leaning past M's shoulder to push the door open for her.
He gestures her through. "You go on ahead," he says, offering a smile. "I'll come after."
She glances at him and her lips barely twitch, but he can see the amusement dancing in her eyes.
"Be sure you stay behind me," she replies as she steps past him. "I don't want to find myself having to catch up."
Hiding a grin, Bond follows her. He can't think of anywhere else he'd rather be.