"Are we talking sex?"
He looked up in some alarm. In fact, they had not been talking at all but sitting quite silently, each with a drink in hand.
"I'm supposed to be thinking about you and me. You and me how? Living together platonically? The occasional kiss or fuck when we need an itch scratching? Or are we talking regular sex?"
She couldn't believe it, she had made him blush. Either that or the warmth from the fire was affecting him more strongly.
"I had thought more of...-" he seemed unable to finish his sentence, and she was confused. She thought she had covered most possibilities.
"Of what?"
"Lovemaking," he told her, not looking at her face.
She had to admit that that statement made her pause for a moment with surprise. Very quickly, she found that they were looking at each other very intently.
"Oh, James," the words slipped from her mouth in a whisper.
Tonight was the first night they had discussed the issue so openly. Since the end of his last mission he had been presenting himself at her flat- never announcing his attention beforehand but somehow she always knew when she'd open the door and find him there- and they'd spend the evening together; companionably, on separate chair, each with a drink in their hand, never seeming to feel like they were more than inches away from each other.
Still, they were watching each other. Apart from the light of the fire, it was very dark and his profile was outlined with gold.
"Have you ever done it before?" she asked.
He looked at her pointedly, as if unable to believe if she'd really asked that.
"Well, I know you've... had girls," she told him, "But have you ever made love before? I'm sure I hadn't when I was your age."
He was quiet for a moment.
"I'm not sure," he admitted, "Why are you smiling like that?"
"Because if you're not sure if you have, then you can't have done," she told him simply, "You know, with me, it wouldn't be like with any of the young ones you've been with."
"I know," he assured her, "Because I'd be making love to you."
"No, I don't mean that," she told him, trying to keep a level head in the midst of all of the thoughts that statement had the potential to conjure up in her mind, "I mean because I'm an old woman. And I am, James," she spoke his name softly, willing him to understand her and take her seriously, "There's no getting around that fact."
"I know," he told her patiently, "And I've thought about it, and I can live with it. Please don't look at me like that, because it's true."
"I'm sorry, I just had you down as the last man alive to be turned on by white hair and wrinkles."
"I adore your hair," he told her seriously, "It makes you look literally like you've descended from heaven."
"I'm a post-menopausal dwarf," she told him bluntly.
"I've always like small women."
She snorted.
"You're not taking me seriously, James."
"And you're rather patronising me," he retorted, "Really, do you think I completely lack the ability to see past what you look like on the outside?"
"No, I'm just saying that perhaps you're not used to having to see past it."
"Point taken. But I want to. I want you, to be precise. I happen to find you very sexy. And you're just going to have to believe that."
She was quiet for a moment, looking into her empty glass.
"So, my next question is would we live together?"
He paused for a moment, wondering if the question was rhetorical.
"Do you want to live together?" he asked her.
"I don't want anyone to know about us," she confessed uneasily, "At least not at first, that is. You mustn't think that I'd be ashamed of you, James," she told him, "But I've barely got used to the idea myself, never mind everybody else knowing about us."
"I understand," he told her, "But that doesn't answer the question. We can live together or I can spend nights here and then go home, and either way no one would know. We're both good enough to stop anyone finding out. It really is a question of what you want? Do you want me here?" he asked her.
She bit her lip.
"Honestly, James, I don't know," she told him, "Not yet. I still need time to work that one out."
"It's a big step," he reminded her.
"It is," she agreed, "It would be foolish to decide anything now."
"Probably."
"Except...-"
"Except what?" he asked.
She was silent for a good few moments, watching the empty end of the settee where she sat.
"James, I want you to kiss me," she told him, quite suddenly but without sharpness, "I'm certain of that. You being here so many evenings... I know I feel safe with you, the thought of your arms around me, kissing me. Please kiss me."
He could barely disguise his grin. Standing up, he swiftly occupied the empty seat on the sofa beside her.
She was small in his arms, but for extra height he drew her onto his knee and she sat comfortably, barely any weight on his legs. Pressing her gently but firmly against the arm of the sofa, his arms around her, he pressed his lips snugly into hers, kissing her thoroughly.
"I like this," she whispered, as his lips moved away from her mouth to the side of her face, to her jaw, down her neck, "I really like this, Bond."
Her use of his second name sent a shiver down the back of his neck.
"Do you want more?" he asked her skin.
"Yes," she replied, "I want more."
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