Fandom: Spooks/MI5_Takes place after Series 2, Episode 8, spoilers for Series 1 & 2.
Rating: NC17-Bondage kink.
Word Count: 5494
Continuing worship to Beta Goddess Carol, my partner in Jools lust for doing this on short notice and helping me get it nice and shiny for the big event.
Written for vanillafluffy Happy, happy birthday, baby.
Sequel to my previous Jools/Danny story Smooth Operator
Summary: It’s all in the title.
Danny wanted to enjoy the party. He would have been hard-pressed to say which had been more traumatic: being on his knees with Major Curtis pointing a gun at his head or the MOD briefing that followed the resolution by sniper shot. In a perfect world, he’d drink a glass of champagne, have a few laughs with Malcolm and Colin, and maybe even work up the nerve to ask Sam out for a private celebration.
The perfect world scenario had been ruled out the minute Harry came out of his office and saw Tom looking at Christine Dale. Danny could feel the temperature in the room drop 10 degrees even as Harry’s blood pressure shot up. He looked around to see if anyone else had noticed. Apparently none of them had, not even Ruth who usually had her finger on the pulse of the entire grid. Of course, Ruth wasn’t under orders to keep an eye out for just this kind of turmoil.
He watched Tom and Harry going into Harry’s office for a “chat”. The body language through the window told the story. Harry was royally pissed and attempting to lay down the law and Tom was having none of it. Danny didn’t think that Tom would jeopardize his career for a woman, but the tension between Tom and Harry had been building for months. If Tom was looking for an excuse to walk away, the CIA agent might just do the trick.
Danny couldn’t actually blame him for getting involved with Christine. She was certainly pretty enough, if you liked bottle blondes with imperious attitudes. Ellie had fled from the reality of Tom’s life and Vickie turned out to be an absolute nutter, so someone in the business made sense. He and Zoe had even joked about how well the two of them matched up physically.
Harry wasn’t going to be impressed by any of that. Danny suspected that it was Harry’s fondest wish that they all live like monks and nuns except when duty demanded them to do otherwise. He took a sip from the glass in his hand and smiled at something Zoe was saying that he couldn’t hear. He knew Zoe had been terrified watching the drama with Curtis unfold on the screen before her eyes. Back in his perfect world they might go home and he could hold her and tell her he’d never had any doubt that he and Tom would get out alive.
He couldn’t even taste the champagne in his mouth. When he swallowed he found his stomach tied up in knots, the same way it always felt just before he made the call. He put his drink down and headed to the pod doors.
“You okay?” Zoe asked with her most adorable look of concern.
“Yeah, fine. Back in a minute. Save me some more of the bubbly. You know what sots those two are.” He pointed at Colin and Malcolm, poring over something on one of the computers. Zoe grinned and Danny made his escape.
Once out on the street, he realised that it was a chilly night. He’d left his coat behind, because he wouldn’t have a reason to take it on a simple trip to the gents. A block away from Thames House, he took out his phone and dialled the number he knew by heart.
“Danny. How nice to hear from you.” Danny cringed at the sound of the voice, which reminded him of exactly what he was doing to his unsuspecting colleagues. “That was a bit of excitement this morning. Glad to see you came out in one piece.”
“Mr. Siviter…” Danny still couldn’t bring himself to say “Jools”, not even when…”I’ve got something you’d like to know.”
“About that ludicrous drama with Curtis?”
“No. About Harry. He’s feverish.”
“Well, I won’t ask which orifice you stuck a thermometer in to determine that. Shall I have the car come for you?”
“I’m supposed to be in the loo. There’s a party going on. It’s Harry’s birthday.”
“Perhaps I should drop by to join the festivities.”
“Yeah, I’m sure that would make Harry’s night,” Danny muttered. There was a cold silence on the other end of the phone and Danny realized he’d just been awfully cheeky to a man who could end his career with a single call. “Sorry. It’s just been a long day… and I’m worried.”
“It’s Christine Dale, she and Tom…they’re involved. Harry just found out.”
“And he’s turning a particularly bright shade of fuchsia, I take it. Yes, that would be quite an unwelcome birthday surprise...” Danny suspected that Jools was savouring the information, enjoying the news of a possible rift between Harry and Tom the way he enjoyed his whiskey. “This could be most dramatic indeed. You get back to the party. Continue to monitor the situation.”
“Mr. Siviter…” he said quickly, before the connection could be broken.
“Can you do something?”
“About Tom and Christine Dale.”
“Shall I tell Harry to let the young lovers carry on their doomed affair? Not really my jurisdiction.”
Danny rubbed a hand against his scalp. “Harry wants him to break it off and I’m afraid Tom won’t do it. He’ll…he could ruin his whole career. Can you do something to stop it? Get something on her? Talk to someone.” Danny hated the desperation in his voice. He shivered in the night air. “Please. As a favour to me.”
Danny knew he was mad to expect special consideration. He was nothing to Siviter but an informant. His own personal mole inside MI5. Again there was silence, this time thoughtful.
“You do realise that favours carry a price.”
Danny didn’t know if the tremor in his hand was cold or something else. He gritted his teeth and forced himself to remember that Jools had already had him three ways from sundown.
“Yes.” He said sharply. “Whatever you want.”
“Delightful. I’ll see what I can do about Romeo and Juliet.”
When he got back to the grid, Tom and Christine were conspicuous by their mutual absence. Harry was making the rounds accepting congratulations and toasts on his birthday. His face had returned to its normal colour, now that the provocation was out of his line of sight. “Chat in my office, Danny?”
“Sure.” he gulped, trying to keep the fear out of his voice.
Danny carried his glass into the office, seeing his life collapse around him. Jools had called Harry, exposed Danny as his source in the service. He should never have made that crack about Jools coming to the party.
“Everything okay, Danny?” Harry asked, sounding friendly while being deadly serious.
“You were in a rough situation today. You stood up to the pressure admirably.”
“Do you need to talk to anyone about anything?”
“You’re not suggesting a session with Miranda.”
“Heavens, no. Just one with me right now. Do you have any qualms about how the situation was resolved?”
“You mean Major Curtis being killed?”
“That is what I mean.” Each syllable stuck out like the veins on Harry’s neck.
“Tom and I got out alive. That’s what matters.” He could feel the boss’s gaze boring into him, looking for signs of doubt
“Good. Go out and enjoy the party.”
Jools joined the queue for Tussauds on Marylebone Road. He lit up a cigarette and kept waving grateful tourists in front of him, while keeping an eye out for Tom Quinn’s CIA tart. Watching the world stand in line for a bit of British kitsch was always an inspiring sight. He stopped being quite so generous when he’d ascertained that the three groups in front of him were speaking Slovakian, Korean and Walloon.
He spotted Christine coming from the direction of Baker Street station. She was attired in a smart grey suit with a long black coat. Upon closer inspection, the suit was adorned with seed pearl buttons and quite a bit better tailored than the clothes sported by most of the CIA thugs working out of Grosvenor Square. They also tended to show less cleavage.
“Miss Dale. How kind of you to meet on such short notice.”
Heels and all, Christine Dale still had to look up to greet him. “Ms.”
“Fine,” she snapped, already on the defensive. Her nose seemed to grow more pointed as her irritation level increased.
Christine Dale was all sharp edges and points, from her nose and chin to the arches of her eyebrows. Her face was a smooth expanse of creamy skin punctuated by sharp cheekbones.
“Why are we out here? If we’re going to meet, shouldn’t it be in your office?”
“Had to have the exterminators in again. Bugs, buggers, that sort of thing.” She nodded, understanding, but rolling her eyes. It made an otherwise attractive woman appear more like an uneducated teenager. “Besides, I thought you Americans still appreciated a bit of the old cloak and dagger. Cold war nostalgia. So boring being the only superpower. Hardly any challenge at all, is there?”
“I joined the service in 1995,” she pointed out. Did she think she could insult him by calling him a dinosaur?
“After a short but spectacularly violent career with the Chicago police department.”
The green eyes were blazing now. No doubt she wanted to raise a ruckus about privacy and that sort of thing. Instead she seemed to be making fists in the pockets of her coat.
If she was upset that he knew the details of her personnel file, she was going to go positively round the twist over the next bit. He took a final puff before dropping his cigarette to the ground and grinding it to ashes under his shoe.
“Tom Quinn? I think you could do a bit better for yourself.”
He watched her restrain herself from shouting out that it was none of his business, but the moment the restraint took gave her away and she knew it.
“You’re not my contact at MI6. Why am I even talking to you?”
“Because I asked. You panicked and called Tom and he told you to come and find out what I knew and who I was going to tell. Something like that?”
“Something.” She was angry and scared but not defeated. “This isn’t official, is it?” The wind was whipping her hair around, almost into her mouth. She brought a hair tie out of one coat pocket and pulled the mass back. “This is personal. Because you hate Tom. Because you hate Americans.”
“Smaller than Oregon?” he quoted from the entry she’d written for the CIA fact book.
“Everybody needs to just get over that.” Jools smiled patiently at how easily she lost her composure.
“It will surprise you to know that I’m looking out for Tom’s interests.”
“Because Tom Quinn, for all his idealistic naïveté, is a loyal officer of the British Security Services. It would be a shame to have him throw his career away for the likes of you.”
“I’m not standing here and listening to this.”
Before she could make a dramatic exit, he grabbed both her wrists in his hands and held firmly, making sure she could feel his superior strength and the simple fact that he wouldn’t hesitate to break one of the delicate bones.
“Yes, I believe you are.”
She glared, but stopped struggling. He held her wrists an extra second, enjoying her helplessness and the contact of skin against skin growing warm in the cold air. She glared at him furiously, but he felt her attraction. She was ambitious. He was powerful. She was a woman and he’d been charming ambitious women for too long not to know the possibility when he felt it.
Jools caught the couple behind them staring. He hadn’t ascertained their nationality beyond one of the African nations. He wasn’t up on his Yoruba, but he smiled and shrugged, catching the husband’s eye with a wink. It was good to speak the universal language for “Crazy women. What can you do?”
“The question is, are you having it off with Tom for your own entertainment or at the bidding of your masters?” he inquired thoughtfully as he released her hands. The first thing she did when they were free was to reach up and remove the hair tie. She started putting her hair back again, then caught herself, and realised the tic was exposing her nerves.
“If there were something between Tom and me, it would be because we….because I care about him.” She sounded almost convincing. “The CIA doesn’t ask agents to prostitute themselves.”
Jools took out his cigarette case. He offered one to Christine, who shook her head in disapproval. He lit up, smiling in the face of her obvious annoyance. Why couldn’t Americans be honest about their vices? The previous President had been a victim of his own crude lusts, but at least he understood how the world worked and had foreign policy advisors who did likewise. The current lot could only cloak themselves in self-righteous hypocrisy about sex and everything else. Did Christine Dale really believe the CIA wouldn’t use sex as a weapon in the so-called War on Terror if they thought it would work?
Perhaps he should tell Christine what he might want in return for keeping her little escapade with Tom a secret. The huffing and puffing would certainly be amusing. She might even do it to protect herself and Tom if she really cared about him so much.
He closed his eyes for a moment to enjoy the image of Christine on her knees, all that blonde hair obscuring her features as another kind of huffing and puffing went on.
But there was no reason to put himself in that position. Tom wouldn’t go up against Harry for this girl. He’d agonize and flail, but broken it would be. Christine probably knew it already. She was just here on Tom’s behalf trying to figure out how much he knew. They were trying to run an operation on him. Touching, really.
They’d arrived at the head of the queue.
“Why don’t you come inside? Get out of the cold. See the famous faces.”
“No thanks,” she said with a cocky grin. Miss Dale had no doubt decided that the “meeting” was a stalemate, which she perceived as victory. “I’ve seen enough wax dummies for one day. So long, Mr. Siviter.”
He watched her stride away and flag down a cab. Impudent wench. She could certainly stand to be bent over and given a solid whack on the bum. The thought put a smile on his face. The ticket taker beamed at him from inside her window. He waved and walked away, letting the African family go past him.
It was nice to have a conversation with an attractive woman who wasn’t completely cowed, even if it was her intention to put one over on him. Christine was no Tessa, but she had the makings of a worthy opponent. A pity she’d picked the wrong officer and the wrong service to waste her affections on. Perhaps they’d been attracted by their matching fair complexions and sharp angles. Not a bit of softness between them. He suspected that the actual coupling resembled a knife-throwing act with the constant threat of bloodshed adding to the excitement.
His car was pulling up as he came to the corner. He was happy to step into the heated limousine.
While warming up, he casually wondered how Tom would react to the end of his inter-agency liaison, if there were possibilities for a more intimate expression of their mutual antipathy. Jools toasted away the prospect with a warming drink. No ambiguity there.
In the meantime, there was Danny. Well-intentioned but misguided Danny, who now owed him for a favour for having done something that was a fait accompli before Danny had ever picked up the phone.
How exactly should he let Mr. Hunter pay his debt? Danny was starting to seem slightly complacent about Jools’s demands on his person. Perhaps it was time for his source to be introduced to certain accoutrements and to learn that the ties that bind were more than metaphorical.
As the drink warmed him, Jools remembered the velvety sheen that Danny’s skin took on when he started to perspire. He straightened his tie as the car approached Vauxhall Cross, paying special attention to the knot. Knots and heat. The perfect combination.
“You want to tie me up? You must be joking.”
Jools Siviter could be bitingly funny about MPs, foreign dignitaries, and anyone else who ran up against his caustic wit. The honourable member for Devonshire has taken nepotism in staffing to heights not seen since the medieval Church.
He did not joke about what he expected from Danny. On those occasions, he was blunt about what was going to happen, whether it was Danny face down on a bed, on his knees in the limo or even that incident in the cloakroom of the Tate.
Jools had called before Danny’s alarm went off, making it clear that Christine Dale would no longer be an issue for Tom. He sounded extremely smug and jolly. Danny squinted at the alarm clock. Five thirty in the morning. Did the man never sleep?
He hoped he’d done the right thing. Tom had really liked Christine.
“Not having second thoughts, are you?”
Danny hadn’t realised that the phone was still connected or that Jools was reading his mind through it.
“No. And thanks again.”
He thought he might ring off quickly and avoid facing his side of the bargain for the time being.
No such luck. “Yeah.”
Drinks meant the club. Jools’s rooms. Whatever he’d gotten himself into by asking the head of MI6 for a personal favour.
Danny tried not to think about it. He had to get dressed and go to work, where Tom would probably be in one of his moods. He hoped for a crisis, a mission, something, to take all his attention. Maybe he’d have to go so far undercover he couldn’t possibly appear at the Regents Club.
The day was spent watching surveillance tapes from an operation on some gunrunners operating out of Tottenham. Harry probably thought he was doing a favour by keeping him out of the field for a while, but hearing a bunch of Hotspurs fans running a sale on glocks was hardly enough to distract him from recurring thoughts of Jools Siviter.
Drinks at the club. Danny made sure he was showered, suited and booted. He had to be up to Regents Club standards, even if all or part of the ensemble would soon be removed.
Jools greeted him in the downstairs bar wearing full evening dress. Ready for the opera or the symphony or the Royals or maybe a night of driving around in the darkened town car with one of his endless supply of attractive escorts. Svetlana had disappeared to be replaced by Genevieve, Olga and Vanessa. When Danny asked about the Russian girl, Jools had shrugged and tossed off something about re-assignment.
Seeing Jools in a tux, Danny tried not to remember the first time in his flat, the night he’d first sold his soul to the Devil. That left him once again admiring the Devil’s immaculate appearance. The face that showed no hint of sweat or stubble, the manicured nails at the end of the long fingers – don’t think about the hands – the tux tailored to perfection. Everything a gentleman could hope to be, everything Danny wanted to be, even though he always nodded sympathetically through Tom’s tirades about Siviter’s arrogance, which Danny had sussed out had as much to do with class as inter-service rivalry.
Drinks. Then the elevator, which put Danny close enough to smell lavender soap and remember that he was just a snack, something to be consumed before the night really began. Stop it, he thought, following Jools down the hall to his rooms.
“Pretty hot in here,” he commented as soon as he walked in.
“It’s a cold night. Wouldn’t want you to get a chill. Especially when you’re about to be wearing considerably less clothing.”
Danny dropped his coat on the sofa, followed by his suit jacket. He unbuttoned the cuffs of his shirt and loosened his tie before starting on his shirt buttons.
“That’s enough for now. Sit down, won’t you.”
He’d noticed the chair when he came in. Wooden, with a slatted back and cushioned seat. Only when he actually sat down did he notice that instead of his usual cigarette, the older man had something else in his hands. Two lengths of some kind of rope. Silky with metallic flecks, like something holding the curtains in a Pasha’s opium den. Jools barely seemed aware of the fact that his hands were continually doubling and unfolding the lengths, making it clear what he intended to do.
And thus the end of Danny’s forlorn hope that this was a joke. After that he could only attempt reason and try not to let any panic come through in his voice. The last time his hands had been tied had been by one of Curtis’s men.
“There’s no need for this. I’ve already said I’d do anything. As if there’s anything I haven’t done.”
“But there are so many things. And this is for your pleasure, not mine.”
Like I’m some kinky bastard, Danny thought defensively. Except maybe he was. He had his arms behind him, each wrist and ankle tied separately to the chair with the smooth ropes. He wanted to detach himself from the situation, mind and body, yet he knew what Jools would find when he unzipped Danny’s trousers, arranging his appearance to his own aesthetic satisfaction.
And if it wasn’t the ropes and the danger, then he’d have to admit his attraction to the man who’d put the ropes there.
“And the final touch,” his tormenter announced. A blindfold. More like a dowager’s sleep mask placed over his eyes and tightened in back. He was alone in the darkness with his anxiety and humiliation.
“Brilliant,” Danny muttered, still trying to affect some level of detachment in spite of the throbbing between his legs. He couldn’t hear Jools moving about and was surprised to realise that he was being observed from a few paces away.
“Yes. Yes. You’ve had hours of training in exactly how to get yourself out of those knots, but I wrote half those manuals myself. I assure you that any attempt to free yourself will cause the ropes to become tighter. Right now you only think you’re uncomfortable. Wait until the ropes start biting into your wrists. You don’t really want to have your circulation cut off, do you?”
Siviter’s tone managed to be threatening, mocking and reassuring at the same time. Like Harry, Jools had lived a life and done things that Danny could barely imagine. He slumped forward as much as the ropes would permit, resigning himself to whatever lay ahead.
“Try not to look so hard done by, Danny. If I wanted to watch someone mope, I’d have invited Tom to my little party.”
“He wouldn’t have come.” Danny meant to sound defiant, but it came out rather more sullen.
“But you will. Not just yet, however.” Again Jools moved silently, taking Danny by surprise with a firm hand taking his measure through the white cotton of his shorts. Danny could feel his legs shaking with tension that had nowhere to go as he tried not to respond.
This time Jools stayed close. He moved to the side of the chair and ran one finger along Danny’s forehead, where a vein had a tendency to pop up under pressure – like being tied to a chair in a room so hot that sweat was starting to form on his face and torso. Fingers traced paths in the moisture somehow cooling and heating his skin at the same time. A thumb traced the sides of his nose one at a time and then his lips.
It was always like this. He spent days and weeks between these encounters telling himself that it didn’t matter, but there was no denying the power of Jools Siviter’s hands. He felt himself pushing his face against the fingers, seeking more contact. The touching stopped abruptly.
“So tell me, Danny,” came the voice, caressing and jibing, hot in his ear, “Which of your fellow spooks do you fancy?”
“What?” Danny gasped. Jools had him tied up, rock hard, and he wanted to gossip like a bloody schoolgirl?
“I know how Harry looks down on mixed affairs. Isn’t that why he makes sure there’s always an attractive lot around the grid? That new girl with the boy’s name. Sam, is it? I hear she makes tea quite well.”
He did like Sam. The dark side of the job hadn’t gotten to her yet. Hands reached down his chest, kneading his pectorals. Manicured nails flicked at his nipples. He knew it wasn’t Sam, he shouldn’t even be thinking of her while he was here doing this.
“Can’t let her get too close, can you? She might end up like poor Helen.”
A shiver went through his body at the name and the memory it evoked.
“Zoe, then? It must drive you to madness sharing your flat with that luscious bosom and never getting closer than a friendly hug.”
He still had dreams about the time they’d almost kissed. He loved her. Honestly. The thought of her coming into his room some night almost drowned out his guilt over the money he’d taken to pay off debts, but not the fact that he’d told Jools about the pictures of Zoe and that slimy piece of Eurotrash. He couldn’t have a relationship without coming clean and he couldn’t bear the look of betrayal on Zoe’s face if he did that.
“That’s not it, either, is it? Must be Tragic Tom, then.”
“No. I’m not…”
The hands reached down, lightly passing over his bare stomach, causing Danny to inhale sharply, before pushing down the waistband of his briefs, exposing him for a liar. A thumb teased the edges of the head, forcing out a groan.
“I told you,” Danny ground out through his clenched teeth.
“You may lie to yourself if you need to, but you will not lie to me.” Jools’s voice had hardened into a sharp command. One hand wrapped around Danny’s prick, squeezing, while the other caressed his scalp, creating chills. “Jealousy. You want Tom for yourself. Of course, you can’t tell him. You can’t even admit it to yourself.” Jools was concentrating on stroking him, driving him closer to the brink. Danny was trembling with lust and denial. Sweat and tears mixed on his skin. “You’ll need to take him by surprise. Somewhere without a security camera. You might need a weapon.”
Danny saw himself following a step behind Tom. They walked down an empty corridor, Tom rattling off orders with his usual robotic coldness. Danny had only to throw a fast elbow at the right moment, and have Tom doubled over, before grabbing him by the collar and pushing him up against the wall. He’d struggle, of course, try to fight, but Danny had a knife. Cold metal against this throat would settle Tom down nicely. Danny would hold him there, talking into his ear, telling him what he’d been wanting to do since Tom had cast a glance his way during Danny’s first orientation session. He’d watched Tom tear himself apart over Ellie, knowing all the time it could never work and thinking that maybe he’d be able to pick up the pieces. Trousers were dropped and Danny drove Tom’s legs apart with a well placed knee.
Danny was barely aware of Jools’s hand, slick with Danny’s sweat, jerking him off. Tom protested, tried to get the knife and ended up with a trickle of blood running down his face. Realising that Danny meant business, he braced his hands against the wall, but his eyes were still cold. He might kill Danny for this, but Danny would get what he wanted first.
Jools was slowing down, lightening his touch just when Danny desperately needed it to be harder and faster. He couldn’t stand it. He pulled a hand free and grasped himself tightly. Tom. He was fucking Tom against a wall in Thames House and Tom was finally breaking. Danny grunted, kept his hand moving, faster, faster. Tom was screaming. No, that was him. The other hand was back. Two hands working rapidly, squeezing as he called out and spilled into Tom’s ass.
But it wasn’t Tom’s heat wrapped around his cock. It was cool silk that caught the gush and wiped him clean.
Danny leaned against the back of the chair, his head falling backwards as he panted, his mind torn between holding onto the sensation and fighting its way back to reality. He touched his face, now completely soaked. Wait a minute. I touched my face. The blackness was pulled away from his eyes. He squinted against the expected brightness, but the room was dim. He looked down at his hand, unbound with no marks on the wrist at all.
“And the truth shall set you free.”
Jools was standing against the wall, looking more pleased with himself than usual.
“And you believed.”
He pulled his other hand sharply away and was instantly unbound. The ankles came next. Danny shook his head. The usual combination. Pleasure followed by disbelief and self-disgust.
“I’d had rather enough of your ‘close your eyes and think of the service’ routine.”
Danny wished he had the blindfold back, rather than having to face Jools Siviter’s piercing blue gaze. The room was cooling down, offering Danny some relief from the heat. He looked in vain for a hint of sweat on the other man. Always so bloody cool. Making sure I didn’t mess up my clothes, or maybe just protecting the club’s carpet.
He stood, pulling up his underwear and trousers, wanting to begin the process of forgetting.
Jools was still watching, a smile hinting around his lips. One hand had dropped to just below the hem of his tuxedo jacket, the pale skin standing out against the black fabric. Danny stopped buttoning his shirt and watched as the hand slid with mesmerizing slowness toward Jools’s inner thigh.
“Should I leave?”
“The curtain goes up at the National in forty-five minutes and I’d rather not leave the shadow foreign secretary trying to figure out Tom Stoppard on his own. I’d like you to remove your trousers and bend over that chair. Or you can leave right now.”
“I have agents, Danny, not prisoners.”
He looked at the door and then at Jools. The hand was still stroking the flesh below the fabric, ever so slowly.
Danny made his way back to the chair, There was a shadow minister who couldn’t be kept waiting. He grasped the sides of the seat, waiting. Jules was never gentle, but for the first time Danny let himself accept that he wanted it. He wanted Jools Siviter to roger him rigid. His own body shook with the effort of holding on to the chair for balance, as Jools took his pleasure with smooth, strong thrusts.
“Jools,” he whispered, finally saying the name out loud, when he felt the wetness explode inside him.
It seemingly took only seconds and the slightest sigh of satisfaction for the other man to collect himself and re-adjust, while Danny was still dizzy from having his head down for so long. The smell of cigar smoke nearly made him keel over.
“That should make the evening a bit more bearable. Hague’s got the personality of a single-celled paramecium, although not quite as much intelligence. “
Danny lost the struggle not to giggle while he finished dressing. He’d hate himself again in the morning, probably sooner, but he might as well enjoy the moment. It wasn’t every day he got to hear the head of MI6 take the piss out of the former leader of the opposition.
“Keep an eye on Harry.”
So much for joviality. If he wasn’t being used one way, it was the other.
“I know the drill.”
He finished buttoning up his shirt, feeling the dampness where he’d been sweating, performing like a trained seal.
“And you’re doing a bang-up job. GCHQ only wishes they had my information. They couldn’t plant an agent with a shovel and a sack of fertilizer. You’ve got a special treat coming.”
Danny put on his jacket. Jools was a bastard, but he’d been generous in other ways. Danny expected an envelope or some new gizmo as he was being shown out. Instead he was treated to a pat on the shoulder and a chilling promise.
“Next time the knots will be real.”