Fic: her high heel against the wall [Casino Royale]
Title: her high heel against the wall
Fandom: James Bond/Casino Royale
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Rating for sex/language.
Wordcount: 668
Pairing: Bond/Vesper
Disclaimer: Not mine. So not mine.
A/N: AU-ish. Written for the porn battle.
If pressed, James might have admitted some surprise that the ploy worked, given it had been a spur of the moment, last ditch idea, but in the end Obanno and his bodyguard walked by them without a second thought, or at least, not one that didn't run along the lines of wondering if it was really that impossible to get a room in a hotel of all places.
What he would never have admitted to anyone, no matter the duress, was just how surprised he was when her reaction to his breaking the kiss wasn't unleashing a withering glare and scathing retort to restore the status quo between them he'd been expecting, but instead forcibly dragging his head back towards hers, short neat nails digging into his scalp.
The part of his mind that had been trained to be always alert, always aware, always analysing, could recognise the signs of a post-stress reaction. That same eternally rational part of his mind was also quite positive that as soon as the effects wore off the hand cupping and kneading his rapidly hardening prick through the fabric of his trousers would be delivering a stinging blow to his cheek in short order, but so long as her cut-glass accent kept murmuring a filthy litany of things she'd like to do to him in his ear, he found he really just couldn't bring himself to care.
Heat pooling down in his belly, cock growing stiffer with each word and rasp of cloth against skin, he mumbled something about going back to the room for privacy in a half-hearted token attempt to stall long enough for her to start to cool down. He'd be lying if he said he was at all unhappy she responded by way of slipping one hand inside his trousers and grabbing his lapels with the other, dragging him into the stairwell with a look in her eye that would have him fearing for his virtue if he'd actually been in possession of any.
It was never going to be pretty, gentle thing. A hotel stairwell, no matter how upscale, was simply not an environment you engaged in anything other than fucking. But even if they'd gone back to the room, the constant back-and-forth jabs, the thousand tiny ways of counting coup engaged in since she'd sat down across from him on the train, culminating in the challenge of "You have a perfectly formed cock James, do you have any idea how to actually use it?" dropping from lips that right then he'd much rather have leaving streaks of blood-red lipstick along his shaft, meant that he felt absolutely no compulsion to reign himself in.
Taking full advantage of the differences in their heights and weights that made a joke of her earlier manhandling, he slammed her back against the wall of the stairwell, mouth crushing hers, one knee pushing between her thighs as he hiked her dress up around her hips. Given the way the dress clung to her, the lack of underwear was no surprise, but still something he was profoundly grateful for as his fingers slipped into the slick folds of her cunt. While his fingers fucked her in a short, sharp, almost brutal rhythm, his thumb ghosted delicately over her clit, alternatively easing and increasing pressure infinitesimally to keep her hovering on a knife's edge.
It was only after her growled imprecations and panted begging died away to barely vocalised, needy mewls, that he replaced fingers with rubber-wrapped prick with one smooth, economical motion. Sensations of softness and warmth offset by nails raking long red lines down his neck, teeth sinking sharply into his lip, stiletto heels digging harder into the small of his back with each increasingly frantic thrust, enveloped him. Pulse pounding, his fingers gripping her waist with bruising force as muscles fluttered and clenched around his cock, Vesper breathed his name against his skin and an overwhelming sea of incoherency washed over even that spark of constant rationality as he came.
Fandom: James Bond/Casino Royale
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Rating for sex/language.
Wordcount: 668
Pairing: Bond/Vesper
Disclaimer: Not mine. So not mine.
A/N: AU-ish. Written for the porn battle.
If pressed, James might have admitted some surprise that the ploy worked, given it had been a spur of the moment, last ditch idea, but in the end Obanno and his bodyguard walked by them without a second thought, or at least, not one that didn't run along the lines of wondering if it was really that impossible to get a room in a hotel of all places.
What he would never have admitted to anyone, no matter the duress, was just how surprised he was when her reaction to his breaking the kiss wasn't unleashing a withering glare and scathing retort to restore the status quo between them he'd been expecting, but instead forcibly dragging his head back towards hers, short neat nails digging into his scalp.
The part of his mind that had been trained to be always alert, always aware, always analysing, could recognise the signs of a post-stress reaction. That same eternally rational part of his mind was also quite positive that as soon as the effects wore off the hand cupping and kneading his rapidly hardening prick through the fabric of his trousers would be delivering a stinging blow to his cheek in short order, but so long as her cut-glass accent kept murmuring a filthy litany of things she'd like to do to him in his ear, he found he really just couldn't bring himself to care.
Heat pooling down in his belly, cock growing stiffer with each word and rasp of cloth against skin, he mumbled something about going back to the room for privacy in a half-hearted token attempt to stall long enough for her to start to cool down. He'd be lying if he said he was at all unhappy she responded by way of slipping one hand inside his trousers and grabbing his lapels with the other, dragging him into the stairwell with a look in her eye that would have him fearing for his virtue if he'd actually been in possession of any.
It was never going to be pretty, gentle thing. A hotel stairwell, no matter how upscale, was simply not an environment you engaged in anything other than fucking. But even if they'd gone back to the room, the constant back-and-forth jabs, the thousand tiny ways of counting coup engaged in since she'd sat down across from him on the train, culminating in the challenge of "You have a perfectly formed cock James, do you have any idea how to actually use it?" dropping from lips that right then he'd much rather have leaving streaks of blood-red lipstick along his shaft, meant that he felt absolutely no compulsion to reign himself in.
Taking full advantage of the differences in their heights and weights that made a joke of her earlier manhandling, he slammed her back against the wall of the stairwell, mouth crushing hers, one knee pushing between her thighs as he hiked her dress up around her hips. Given the way the dress clung to her, the lack of underwear was no surprise, but still something he was profoundly grateful for as his fingers slipped into the slick folds of her cunt. While his fingers fucked her in a short, sharp, almost brutal rhythm, his thumb ghosted delicately over her clit, alternatively easing and increasing pressure infinitesimally to keep her hovering on a knife's edge.
It was only after her growled imprecations and panted begging died away to barely vocalised, needy mewls, that he replaced fingers with rubber-wrapped prick with one smooth, economical motion. Sensations of softness and warmth offset by nails raking long red lines down his neck, teeth sinking sharply into his lip, stiletto heels digging harder into the small of his back with each increasingly frantic thrust, enveloped him. Pulse pounding, his fingers gripping her waist with bruising force as muscles fluttered and clenched around his cock, Vesper breathed his name against his skin and an overwhelming sea of incoherency washed over even that spark of constant rationality as he came.