It’s not the first time he’s had a hard-on in M’s presence. It’s probably not the first time she’s noticed - she has the job she has for a reason, after all. But it is the first time he’s been pressed up against her so closely that neither of them can pretend he doesn’t want her.
He struggles for words. He’s never more eloquent than when he’s seducing a woman, but this isn’t, can’t be, a seduction. She’s his boss. His oldest friend, the closest thing he has to a father figure, could come in at any moment. It’s all a bit too fucking Oedipal for his liking. He has a classical education, and for all its flaws, he knows what happens to Jocasta.
“Cat got your tongue, 007?” she smirks. “I was led to believe this was all part of the game. Set a trap for the villain, have a quick fuck whilst you’re waiting for him. It’s not a real mission for you unless there’s a woman involved, is it?”
A woman, yes, but never her. He’s seduced countless women in her name - sometimes whilst she’s been listening in, and they were always the ones he put more effort into - but he’s never seduced her. Not outside tangled, sweat-soaked sheets with his cock in his hand, lurid fantasies tumbling through his brain.
“It’s not that I enjoy running for my life, exactly,” she murmurs, “but if I’m going on a mission with James Bond, I’ll be damned if I don’t get the full experience.”
He looks down at her, sees her hooded eyes dark with desire, a flush on her cheek and a slight question in her gaze that she should never have to ask.
“Sure you can handle me, M?”
She snorts. “Sure you can handle me, 007?”
The height problem’s a bitch, he’s got the best part of a foot on her. It hadn’t seemed so important when he was just wanking over her. But necessity is the mother of invention, and he scoops her up, groaning when she wraps her legs eagerly around his waist, and turns, slamming her into the wall. He wants her bruised, wants her to remember this for a week.
When he asks “Too much?” he isn’t concerned, he’s taunting her.
And although it must have hurt, although she’s more fragile than his usual conquests, she shakes her head ever so slightly and when she kisses him, it’s more like a bite.
He unbuttons her trousers and shoves his hand in, feeling her warmth and her coarse curls against his palm.
She goes rigid. “Jesus Christ your hands are cold!”
“Then warm them up for me,” he teases, leering through his laughter.
She moans and wriggles and presses herself eagerly against his questing fingers.
“I want this,” she pants. “God, Bond, you have no idea how much. It’s just going to take a little while to...” she trails off awkwardly.
He grins, wolfishly because he can’t afford for her to see how much this means to him.
“Then I’ll have to help you out.”
He lowers her down gently and drops to his knees, yanking down her trousers and underwear and exposing her to his gaze.
“If I’d been expecting this, I’d have worn something a little more exciting than Marks and Spencers,” she comments drily.
He bites his lip to stop himself telling her that it’s the sexiest fucking thing he’s ever seen, that he’s more turned on by the sight of her white cotton knickers than he ever was by scraps of lace and silk. Although the second they get back to London he’s buying her something truly obscene and making her wear it to their next briefing.
He runs his tongue across her dry folds, taking in the taste of her as she shudders against his mouth. He does his job thoroughly, lavishing attention on her clit and exploring every inch of her. It’s not long before she’s wet, and he slides one finger inside just to check. She makes an inarticulate little noise and when he crooks his finger just so, flesh pressing against flesh, he’s in no doubt that she’s ready.
Which is just as well, frankly, since he’s ready to explode and he’s damned if he’s not taking her with him.
A second finger joins, then a third and his thumb is rubbing insistently against her clit and he’s vaguely aware that he’s talking - fuck yes, so tight, wanted you for so long - but all he can hear is her moaning his name over and over again. James, not Bond. He’s never going to make it through this alive.
When neither of them can take it any more, he straightens up and her hands fumble at his belt. She palms him through his trousers and he curses softly.
“I do hope your personnel file doesn’t exaggerate, 007,” she purrs.
She makes quick work of buttons and zips and fabric and then he’s exposed to the elements, the cold air doing nothing to shrink him.
“It seems that your records aren’t entirely accurate,” she says in a shaky voice.
“Well,” he replies smugly, “I didn’t want to brag.”
She revels in him, runs her hands up and down his length, cups his balls in a way that make him wonder what the penalty is for coming over the head of the security service’s finely-sculpted face. She takes him into her mouth, deeper than he’d thought possible, and sucks hard, once. Then pulls back with a long, loving lick and looks at him expectantly.
“I don’t know how much time we have. But if Silva comes before I do, I’ll send the best man I have to cut. This. Off.”
“I am the best man you have.”
“Oh, believe me, I know.”
It’s too cold to undress properly, and they can’t risk getting caught - not by Kincaid, and certainly not by Silva. If anything would push the mad bastard over the edge he’s hurtling towards, it’s that. Still, there’s a part of James that wants to be caught, wants to show Silva that M belongs to him, even if she’d kill him for saying so. He unbuttons her blouse enough to touch her as she teases the tip of his cock with her wetness. He grabs her arse with his other hand, pulling her onto him in one swift, rough motion. She gasps and tenses, caught between pleasure and pain, and he feels a flicker of guilt. But this is what she signed up for and this is what she’ll get.
“It’s been a while,” she whispers, breath fogging in the air. He reads between the lines, and he knows that whilst she wasn’t always faithful to her husband in life, she has been in death. That he’s breaking M’s self-imposed dry spell gives him a flush of pride, and he moves his hand between them to circle her clit in gentle strokes.
He needn’t have worried about hurting her, she’s riding him like a woman possessed.
“Do you,” she pants out, “have any bloody idea how long I’ve wanted to do this?” He pinches her nipple through her bra and she whimpers. “Ever since I first briefed you. You were standing there, all sex and arrogance. I wanted to put your in your place.”
“I wanted to let you.” Easy to confess in the half-light shadows falling across her face. He’ll pay for it in the harsh light of day, but he’ll worry about the future when and if it happens.
“Come on, James,” she hisses, “don’t you dare hold back.”
He kisses her bruisingly, picking up the pace. “I won’t if you won’t.”
It doesn’t last long. Or maybe it does, maybe this is just the culmination of years of verbal fucking. It’s not tender, it’s not loving, they know each other too well for that. It’s “harder, 007,” and “such a little slut, M, do you fuck all your agents like this?” She rakes his cheek with her nails and he bites her throat so hard it leaves a mark.
He sends up a silent prayer of thanks for all the experience the job - and, if he’s honest, his own emotional baggage - has given him. He’s randy as a teenager and he doesn’t know how much longer he can last.
“When we get back to London,” he grunts, “I’m going to bend you over your bloody desk.”
She laughs against his clavicle. “Not if I bend you over it first.”
He barely holds off before she’s clenching around his cock, silent and shaking with the intensity. He slumps against the wall, holding her tightly against him, while they ride out the aftershocks.
It’s too soon when she pulls away with a regretful sigh, and he misses the warmth of her immediately. Normally he’s dying to get away, the pressure of skin on skin almost painful. Now he just wants to stay in this moment, freezing ancestral pile and escaped psychotic ex-agents and all.
He adjusts his clothing - whilst he might want to flaunt their activities in front of Silva, their colleagues are another matter - and when he looks up, he sees her shoulders shaking.
It’s hard not to feel offended.
“As reactions go, that’s not what I was expecting.” He was trying to sound wry, but it comes out sulky.
“I’m not laughing at you,” she reassures him, wiping tears from her eyes. “But you must admit, today isn’t exactly turning out the way I expected.”
He straightens his tie. “It has been a while since you were out in the field.”
“Don’t worry,” she breezes, doing up the last button of her blouse. “It’s just like riding an agent.”
He chuckles, and pulls her in for a quick kiss. They both break away more breathless than they’d like.
“So,” she says, “was that a typical 007 seduction?”
He feels a knot form in his chest. It’s always so easy to get carried away on a mission. Easy to forget that these things follow a pattern. He flirts, they fall into bed (or up against a wall, or over a desk, into a hay bale or onto a sofa) and then they die. “The full experience”, she’d said. “All part of the game.”
“There’s a first time for everything,” he says. He hopes he’s right.