The woman was utterly repellent — loud and brash, her barking laugh setting Bond's teeth on edge like fingernails on a chalkboard. Bond smiled at her as if she were fascinating.
He leaned in closer, toying with the coaster at her elbow in order to deliberately draw her attention to his hands. Underneath her expensive perfume she smelled sharp and acrid — who used hairspray anymore these days? — as if the bitterness inside her were leaking out through her very pores. Her eyes, as they looked at Bond, were calculating and vindictive.
"So, Mr. Reynolds. You would, no doubt, like an introduction to my husband?"
Bond carefully kept all surprise from his face, maintaining a warm and genuine smile.
"I can't imagine what you mean. Usually I do everything possible to avoid meeting the husbands of the women I find fascinating." He let his smile turn wicked, his fingertips gently brushing the back of her hand. "Unless he is very understanding, and might want to be included?"
"Bullshit." She blew a caustic mouthful of smoke in Bond's face, deliberately stubbing out her cigarette on the mahogany bar despite the ashtray several inches to her left. "You don't want to fuck me," she said baldly, her eyes flat and dead as a shark's. "Maybe ten years ago, but now the only reason men like you..." she wrinkled her nose disparagingly "...make nice to me is so they can get to my husband. So I'll ask you one question. What are you offering me?"
Bond leaned back casually against the bar, meeting her eyes directly. "Whatever you want."
She looked him over predatorily. "Your body?" Her voice dripped with condescension. "A bit the worse for wear, isn't it?"
And fuck, something must have shown on his face there, because her expression suddenly turned rapacious. "There it is," she said gloatingly. "Prideful, are you? That's what I'll have then. Your pride."
Bond could feel his jaw wanting to clench. He kept his face carefully neutral as he nodded once. "I have a room upstairs."
"That bitch," Q murmured into his earpiece, brief but heartfelt, before he once again lapsed into silence. Bond took care to smother his smile, conscious of all the reflective surfaces in the lift, but his heart lightened momentarily.
This was going to be bad, and Bond gave himself a moment to think of Q as he had last seen him — sprawled across their bed in the thin dawn light. The spill of his hair across the pillow, the lush pinkness of his mouth, the vulnerable strip of belly exposed where his t-shirt had rucked up in his sleep. Bond luxuriated in the memory for just a moment, and then as the lift dinged for their floor he began the careful and familiar process of detachment that he would need to carry him through the next few hours.
He placed a courteous hand on the woman's lower back, guiding her toward the room. As the door clicked softly behind them he drew her closer, leaning in seductively.
"Don't be ridiculous," she snapped, pushing him away with a heavily-beringed hand. She stepped further into the room, assessing it imperiously, before turning to cast another scathing glance at Bond.
"You men. Always thinking the world begins and ends with your cocks. It's pathetic."
Bond watched her carefully for cues as to how she wanted him to play this. Pleading? Penitent? She quite clearly wanted to humiliate him, but somehow he didn't think that just calling him a dirty boy while they fucked was what she was after.
"Drink?" he suggested, playing for time.
She set her clutch down on the dresser. "I'll serve myself. You get your kit off."
She didn't cast him so much as a glance while she poured herself a gin and tonic, so Bond forewent any attempts at seduction and simply stripped himself, quickly and efficiently. He stood straight, hands relaxed at his side, as she pulled the chair out from the desk and sat down, legs primly crossed, sipping her drink as she considered him. Her glance was anything but sexual, her eyes spending no more time assessing his cock than any other part of him.
"Everyone underestimates a beautiful woman, Mr. Reynolds — or whatever your real name is — and I used to be a beautiful woman." Her eyes watched him closely as if to see if he would protest her use of the past tense, and when he remained silent she nodded her approval. "Now you're getting it." She took another careful sip of her gin and tonic.
"Bernard was married when I met him, of course. I got rid of her in less than a week's time. Now I'm past my prime — just as you are, sorry to say." Her voice didn't sound sorry at all, laced instead with bitter satisfaction. "Do you know why I'm still the wife of the largest arms dealer in the Western Hemisphere and not buried in an unmarked grave somewhere so that Bernard can move on to Arm Candy #3?"
Bond waited a moment to ensure the question wasn't hypothetical before answering. "Because you're clever," he said matter-of-factly.
She set her drink down on the table with a clink. "Because I'm clever," she concurred. "Do you think you're the first man who has tried to play me this week, even? Everyone wants something from Bernard. His money. His connections. His political clout. And all they ever want from me is the way in."
She stood up, walking within a pace of Bond, looking him up and down. "Short-sighted. Bernard plays his power games because I allow it, and he keeps me alive because I give him no other choice. If I were a man, I would be the biggest arms dealer in both hemispheres, and instead here I am, killing time at a bar, entertaining myself with pathetic sycophants like you."
"Are you?" Her head snapped up at Bond's words, her sharp blue eyes narrowing. "Entertained?" Bond finished mildly.
She barked a sharp laugh. "Getting there."
"I could kneel," Bond suggested.
"If I want you kneeling, I'll make you," her voice was like the crack of a whip. "Do you think this will be that easy? That I'll have you kneel, and crawl, and you'll oblige me with some show of submission, and underneath it all you'll be as smug as ever?" Bond tilted his head deferentially. "Underestimating me again," she spat at him. "Stand up straight."
Bond straightened his body into parade rest as she circled behind him, poking an occasional sharp-nailed finger at this or the other spot. "Look at what you've done to this body. Scarred and damaged. And you thought to offer me this?"
Bond felt his blood start to speed, humiliation thick in his throat. She ended her slow inspection standing in front of him once more. He could see her eyes taking in with satisfaction the slight flush of anger he could not control.
"How many women have you fucked with this body? A hundred? A thousand?" She watched his expression carefully. "I'll wager you don't remember even a dozen of them clearly. But you'll remember me," she finished gloatingly.
She turned her back, exposing a neck that Bond would dearly love to throttle, and poured herself another gin and tonic before settling back in the chair. "Get on the bed," she instructed. "Sit back and spread your legs."
Bond obeyed with an inward sigh. She sipped her drink, eyeing him. "Touch yourself," she ordered harshly. "If you can make yourself come, I'll introduce you tomorrow."
Bond leaned back against the headboard, starting to stroke his cock lazily, flicking through his mental catalogue of arousing images. Too many of those images seemed to feature Q lately, and Bond reached further back, focusing on nameless women from his past. The curve of a buttock here, the sweep of golden hair there...
"What do you fancy yourself?" The women's odious voice cut through his concentration. "A playboy? A businessman? Look at you now. Broken-down. Pathetic. You're nothing but a sad old whore."
Goddammit. Bond closed his eyes, trying to maintain his flagging erection. There had been that woman in Nagoya, tattooed from collarbone to calves...
"Open your damn eyes. Look at me, you filthy whore. I'm the one you have to make happy."
Bond forced his eyes open. He felt the flush of humiliation creeping up his neck, heating his face. The woman's cold flat eyes looked back at him, and a low growl of frustration escaped him as his cock softened in his hand.
"I've been thinking that I want to try sucking you off," Q's crisp, posh voice suddenly remarked over the earpiece.
Bond sucked in a startled breath, his cock twitching back to life as he started stroking himself again.
"We're on a private comm line now, by the way, and I'm in my office. That woman is absolutely tedious, and so you're going to listen to me instead."
Bond let out a shaky breath of relief, letting himself imagine it. Q in his office, perhaps even lying back on his leather couch, his cardigan slightly mussed. The sick aftertaste of humiliation faded at the image, a low hum of arousal heating his bloodstream instead.
"As I was saying," Q mused. "The idea of having you in my mouth has been remarkably appealing lately. You've been so very patient, and I know that you could be patient for a little while longer, letting me explore."
Oh, bloody hell. The thought of it, Q's inquiring approach to all things sexual, applied to that. Bond was fully hard now, his hand skimming over his rigid length, root to tip.
"You're so very thick when you're hard, but I wouldn't try to take it all at once. That would be overly ambitious. I would start, perhaps, just licking a little, around the tip. I already know that I like the taste of you, and I've noticed how you like it, when I flick my thumb over the head. Do that now." Bond flicked his thumb over the head of his cock, spreading the moisture there, groaning aloud. The woman's sharp eyes were still on him, her lips still spewing vitriol from time to time, but all Bond could hear was Q's posh voice in his ear.
"That's it," Q said calmly. "Imagine how much better that will feel when it's my tongue, so warm and wet. I know you adore my tongue, James, I see you watching me sometimes, hoping it will appear. Do you really think I make a such a show of licking ice cream for anyone else?"
Christ, the cheeky little minx. Bond could see it clearly, the last time he had bought Q an ice cream in Victoria Park — Q's pink little tongue curling around the scoop of ice cream, his eyes bright and green above it, watching Bond mischievously. He had barely managed to finish before Bond had dragged him behind a tree where they spent the next ten minutes pressed against each other, Bond's back to the rough tree bark, trading luxurious mint-chocolate-chip flavored kisses.
"I'll want to keep my eyes on you, of course. But I don't think you'd mind that, would you? Me watching you as I lapped at your cock, suckling a little here and there as I grew bolder."
"Christ," Bond breathed. His hand was moving more swiftly now, rough and hard over his rigid flesh, pleasure sparking with every stroke.
Q made a pleased little sound that jolted straight down Bond's spine. "Your cock feels so lovely under my fingertips. That silky skin, the delicious ridges, the pulse of your blood as you thicken. I can only imagine that it would feel even better on my tongue. Just letting it flutter around you a bit, maybe licking a long stripe or two to feel you jump against my lips."
"Bloody hell," Bond growled. He was rock-hard and leaking now, fisting his cock in earnest, feeling the slick slide of it down to his toes. The idea of Q's mouth around him — those mobile lips and that clever pink tongue...
"Enough!" The woman's voice broke through his sensual haze. He blinked, refocusing his eyes on her. "Stop touching yourself."
Bond pulled his hand away with a groan, his breath coming in sharp pants.
Her eyes were watching him sharply, two spots of color high on her cheeks. "You're an even filthier little slut than I imagined. Can't make it too easy on you, can I? Stay hard while I finish my drink and maybe — maybe — I'll let you come. When I say."
"Christ, but she's irritating," Q's voice interjected smoothly. "Good thing I enjoy a challenge. And it would be a challenge, James, restraining myself. Because once I have my mouth on you, I don't know if I could stop with just a little. I might just have to try taking you in deeper. A little bit at a time, of course just seeing how much I could manage. You would feel the urge to rock into me, to fuck my willing mouth even just a little, but I know you can hold back, difficult as it might be. And so I can feel free to go deeper, to stretch my lips around you and try to take as much as I can."
And god, that voice, that beautiful posh voice and the filthy things it was saying. Bond's cock continued to twitch and leak as if Q's mouth was on him right now. He could hear Q's equanimity unraveling a bit, his voice becoming rougher as he continued to speak softly, confidentially, into Bond's ear.
"You know me, James. How eager I can be, when you make me forget myself, and I think having your cock in my mouth — so thick and full — might just make me greedy for more. As I said, I've been thinking about it."
Bond fought against the instinct to buck his hips, seeking friction that wasn't there. He kept his eyes on the woman as she sipped her drink excruciatingly slowly, but saw nothing but the images Q was describing in such vivid, sensual detail.
"I tried something the other day," Q murmured with an air of confession. "You've been gone so long, and I got lonely. I lay in our bed, smelling you on the sheets, and I thought about sucking your cock. Worked my way up to three fingers in my mouth, sucking hard as I brought myself off, imagining my mouth was stuffed full of your cock instead. I quite liked it. Do you think you would like it, James?"
The woman knocked back the last sip of her drink and Bond felt his restraint crack. "Please," he breathed to Q. "Please."
The woman's eyes lit with triumph. "I knew I could make you beg. Fine then. Make yourself come."
Bond put his hand back on himself, stroking almost frantically, as Q's husky voice licked at his ear and curled down his spine. "Not for her, James. For me. Only for me. Make yourself come for me."
"Fuck." Bond let the release roll through him, fucking hard into his fist as he started to shudder, careless of the mess he was making of himself as thoughts of Q warm, wet, clever mouth filled his head. Finally the last jolt passed through him and he lay back, panting, his skin buzzing pleasantly.
"You filthy little slut," the woman said. "Look at the mess you've made of yourself. Get dressed again. You're not allowed to clean up. I want you to know that you've fouled yourself under your shirt. We'll have one more drink at the bar and I'll introduce you to Bernard in the morning."
Bond let her castigating words roll right off of him. He could hardly believe that he had let her get under his skin before. She could say what she liked about him, but he had a gorgeous, brilliant man waiting for him at home, and right now he could think of nothing else.
Bond dressed perfunctorily, escorting the woman courteously back down to the bar. He had a final drink with her, watching as her movements became drunk and sloppy, her cold eyes turning glassy and morose. He remained as solicitous as before, ignoring her every jibe and the itch of the semen drying on his own chest and belly under his shirt and jacket, thinking of nothing but Q.
By the time he was back in the lift he was exhausted, resting back against the mirrored wall.
"Q?" he said quietly.
"007?" Q answered immediately, his voice crisp and professional. They were off the private line, then.
"Everything all right at Q-Branch tonight?" Bond asked.
"Everything here at HQ is perfect, 007. And with you?"
Bond felt the last bit of tension leave his body. "Mission proceeding as planned. Further details in the morning. 007 signing off."
"Good night, 007. Q signing off."
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