Any one reflecting upon the thought he has of the delight, which any present or absent thing is apt to produce in him, has the idea we call love.
John Locke
"We need to talk."
He stood aside and allowed her to enter. Once she was inside, he closed the door and turned to face her.
"How many in the last twenty-four hours?" he asked.
She cocked her head, a confused smile forming on her lips. "Sightings?"
"September. What is the confirmed number of sightings?"
Her confused smile transformed into a full one, alternating between diminutive and domineering. "Phillip. I'm not really here about him."
It was his turn to cock his head confusedly, though it was only slight. Had this encounter been with anyone else he would have remained stoic. But with her… With Nina, he allowed himself to be seen. Truly seen.
She approached him. "Phillip, I believe we should continue this in the sitting room."
He nodded and followed when she turned and walked into his bright sitting room.
He stood, arms crossed. She sat, legs crossed. Another diminutive smile danced on her lips.
"Phillip, sit down. You're making me nervous."
"Am I to assume this visit is anything but business?"
"You assume correctly."
So he sat next to her, and did not move a muscle when she touched his thigh.
"Phillip," she said in that voice she sometimes used around Dunham and the others, the one to persuade and conquer.
"Nina."
"I want you to have me."
"I'd like to have you."
She made the first move, as she had always been wont to do, and squeezed his shoulder with her mechanical hand. He shoved himself toward her, pressing his lips against hers, hands clawing at her fiery hair.
"Touch me," she breathed. He almost didn't hear her. He put his hands up her shirt and clutched her bosom, briefly cursing her womanhood and need for a bra that was only getting in the way.
Meanwhile, she pulled at his lip with her teeth and put her natural hand down his sweat pants. He groaned. She moaned.
Ten minutes later they were through, and lay on the floor in front of his sofa, her head resting neatly on his bare chest, his fingers gently running through her hair. He wondered briefly if this was to become a regular thing between them, then pushed the thought aside. They were professional partners. They'd been in need of a release. That was it.
That was it.
She pulled herself up and reached for her clothes. She didn't speak until only her jacket remained unworn.
"Don't forget our appointment tomorrow, Phillip." Commandeering. Resolute.
She left him there, naked on the floor of his sitting room, and he realized that had he just been intimate with any other woman, he would feel something akin to embarrassment. But not with her. She had his eternal respect, even if they sometimes indulged in the carnal delights of lesser men.
Phillip Broyles didn't love Nina Sharp, and he knew for a fact that Nina Sharp did not love Phillip Broyles.
But that didn't mean they couldn't have intimacy in this calm before the storm, this precursor of war.
Sometimes that's all anyone could ask.