[ not for you, but isn't that obvious. it should be, not that silva could particularly see the line between him and m clearly. james should be more wary of that, but here he is anyway. act first, ask questions later, if ever at all. that attentive, suspicious watching of his own turns into something a little more rapt as silva seems to obey, enough that the press of his shoe unfavorably brings him back from there, sharply and sudden, showing his immediate (painful) discomfort in the noticeably tightening of his jaw, the low, muted, restrained noise that suggests there was something worse there beneath.
and it gives him a little bit of anxiety too, but could you blame him after le chiffre and his particular fixation with his undercarriage so to speak-- definitely not an experience he was willing to roll over to again. carefully, he drops a hand and squeezes silva's ankle-- gently, coaxing (he may have acted differently any other body part, but he was willing to play nice for his cock) and safe enough, he draws back (fingers lingering) to do, finally, as silva asks. it's curiosity, he tells himself, or the dark promise of what could come and how it's unbearably erotic to fuck with guns within arms reach and how he didn't get to do that often enough.
and bond obliges too, careful at first about unbuttoning his own shirt before losing patience and popping off the last few buttons, letting them and the shirt find their way to the floor carelessly. expensive thing, that shirt. these pants, too, this entire suit, but he doesn't care. they're meaningless in the face of silva and what he brings, the things he draws out of bond in turn.
legs canting open casually, the fabric of his slacks pulling taut against his thighs, cock still hard there against his hip, james doesn't think he could possibly look more inviting, ]
no subject
and it gives him a little bit of anxiety too, but could you blame him after le chiffre and his particular fixation with his undercarriage so to speak-- definitely not an experience he was willing to roll over to again. carefully, he drops a hand and squeezes silva's ankle-- gently, coaxing (he may have acted differently any other body part, but he was willing to play nice for his cock) and safe enough, he draws back (fingers lingering) to do, finally, as silva asks. it's curiosity, he tells himself, or the dark promise of what could come and how it's unbearably erotic to fuck with guns within arms reach and how he didn't get to do that often enough.
and bond obliges too, careful at first about unbuttoning his own shirt before losing patience and popping off the last few buttons, letting them and the shirt find their way to the floor carelessly. expensive thing, that shirt. these pants, too, this entire suit, but he doesn't care. they're meaningless in the face of silva and what he brings, the things he draws out of bond in turn.
legs canting open casually, the fabric of his slacks pulling taut against his thighs, cock still hard there against his hip, james doesn't think he could possibly look more inviting, ]
I think we've had enough foreplay for today.