DEFAULT :: Part Forty-Three

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She stares, digesting the truth probably only thought and not spoken out loud until now.

‘What happens then?’

‘That depends a lot on you.’

‘It does?’

‘I need you in the same room before making those kind of choices seriously.’

Her heart is beating so fast, sudden adrenaline rush that is impossible to ignore. This isn’t passion, something more: inevitably at the revelation brain presents a counter, as it has every time before. You don’t need a happy ending to do this job. A man’s love is not required to make you complete. Veronica is worthwhile and relevant without either. Except this time, Ronni stares at the man half a world away and grasps that this is no longer the case.

Veronica can also be worthwhile, relevant and care.

Her hand goes to the screen, touching him as he returns her gesture, staring with the realisation that whatever happens now, this is no longer just business. Neither is there pleasure after the fact, but before, and that created something new and different, frightening in a moment alone than anything else felt in an entire lifetime.

Her desire to embrace the truth is suddenly inescapable, and so Veronica gives in.

‘When the uplink kicked in and you were mid… what were you thinking -‘

‘That night after your first successful mission. In my flat.’

‘The hallway?’

‘No, sofa.’

Their shared moment flares to consume: warmth of hands on naked back, him still wearing the crisp white work shirt, but naked from the waist downwards. He’d collected her from Heathrow and they’d fucked up against the front door, quick and dirty, and now he wanted to enjoy her at leisure. Ronni’s eyes close, arousal tasted fresh and sweet, watching mouth moving from one breast to the other, tip of tongue flicking spikes of pleasure straight into her sex. As she had ground down he’d thrusted up and body shudders uncontrollably with the memory, need overwhelming and finally unrestrained.

‘Ronni?’

‘Last night I had to lie to a stranger, and as I fucked him all I wanted was you. I can’t escape this, and don’t want to. Please just help me feel alive again. Please.

This wasn’t how she’d expected anything to play out: he’d be the one to chance his arm and now she was pleading, desperation driving, tiredness and emotional stress overflowing and the tears are bitter, painful horror. What is required is out of her reach, beyond ability, and she cannot stop shaking as arms surround her that aren’t his, yet again she imagines they are. Finally the tears stop and there are two men staring, concern from both all too obvious.

‘Q, what are you doing?’

‘I was working, waiting for an algorithm, I heard you crying and I needed to make it stop. Bond, I hope you don’t object to my intrusion?’

‘Not at all, Q.’

‘I… wasn’t expecting this to-‘

‘Ronni, 007 knows what you most desperately need, and I suspect you do too. I’m going to consider what happens from here on in as essential field work, and that you both require a particular form of relaxation off the clock. I’ll look the other way, both literally and metaphorically, knowing not only can I handle a Baretta with some confidence, but that I’m really not expecting any disturbances tonight. However, to make you feel better I’m going to go outside and stand guard until I know your uplink’s expired.’

The gesture is oddly comforting, knowing she’s not responsible at this point brings a relief that comes as a surprise in Ronni’s mind. Looking to Bond, there remains concern that she may not be the only person who’d require guarding.

‘Are you likely to be disturbed, James?’

‘If it helps I can ask Felix to stand outside my door. He’ll love that.’

‘He’d do that for you?’

‘You know, knowing him as I do, all he’ll need to know is that you require the reassurance.’

Both men are gone and Ronni’s suddenly alone, shedding clothing without a thought, knowing she’d come close to an emotional overload. Once what had happened with Marc was negated, it would be easier to move on, and were this London, that’s what she and 007 would do. There wouldn’t need to be sessions with Gregory, or a long drawn-up report on what had transpired. She knew how to be stronger, and that was with James inside her. There is a genuine laugh at the double-entendre despite the situation, and undoubted understanding she wanted to go home. Not for the dirt and noise in London, or the comfort of her own bed. She needs James wrapped around her for longer than the downtime between missions.

Like it or not, she‘d let him into a willing heart without a fight.

Bond returns to camera, this time dropping the towel at the side of the bed, and the room becomes undoubtedly warmer.

‘I told Felix the utter truth, and once he stopped laughing was surprisingly willing to oblige. You can check when we see you in Paris. That’s where Christian’s heading, and where we’ll finish this together. I know Q’s done with Beam’s data, you don’t need to be dead any more. They’re going to bring you back. I’ll make sure of it.’

She unclips her bra and lets breasts fall free, body finally naked and relaxed, and Bond doesn’t stare, instead his eyes close. There is a shift closer to the camera, whisper to her mind.

‘Nobody touches you here except me. No-one will ever hurt you while I’m this close. I promise.’

Leaning back she‘s imagining his hands tracing patterns across stomach, back in the Pimlico flat that night she’d confronted him over Maddy. Their kiss had been so strong and passionate it ignites as fuel, means to tie disparate moments together, convenient montage to increase arousal in her brain. The many moments Bond had treated with respect at the Barracks, augmented with visual highlights carried across the globe. The morning she’d watched him shower for five minutes without a thought and couldn’t stop smiling for the rest of the day. The Paul Smith tuxedo which made him look almost edible. Then there is a rapid replay of their couplings: at his flat, two days at hers after the first round of Skyfall clean-up, that weekend in early Octoberstanding in her bedroom, wearing just his dress shirt, watching James stare with desire that was inescapable and frankly addictive.

‘I didn’t realise how much I missed you until you’d gone. I should have made you stay, never let you go.’

The voice whispers from the laptop but he’s in her head, standing with hand on stomach, that first night they joined. Her preference is being fucked from behind, slow and measured, until the inside of her body screams, and that’s what‘s now imagined. It’s not her fingers manipulating, arms bending willing body across the back of his sofa, thrusting and rubbing, tender rhythm of need that takes an already tense body to new levels of sensitivity. The taste of diesel finally vanishes, replaced by whiskey, mouth pushed into hers, kiss blossoming into sensation now desperately craved.

It has been a very long time since an orgasm happened without electronic aid but she’s very close as body begins to shudder, internal spasm and external fire colliding, losing ability to remain silent as desperate gasps echo around the dense stone walls, hearing Bond cry out before a sudden burst of electronic noise. As her orgasm fades, Ronni grasps the uplink has gone, satellite inexorable in its movement across the Earth, and she’s laughing at the ridiculousness of the life she’d wanted so badly for so long.

As the adrenaline quietly dissipates, sleep embraces a body beyond exhausted.


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OBLIGATORY DISCLAIMER:

Everything related to James Bond (007) belongs to Eon Productions and Danjaq LLC, except the bits in here that are mine and I made up. I get how this works.

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