She knows that it isn’t his fault. This is what is required - being separated, having to be on different sides of the world when she would rather be beneath him, whispering about nothing against his throat, scratching at his silver-peppered scruff.
Still, she can be irrational - affectionately frustrated, really - knowing that she will spend two weeks alone.
“Yes. Of course I’m missing you,” he says. “I went into the city just to use the phonebox. Just to tell you.”
Her nose flares. “Well, that doesn’t make me feel any better. If that’s what you were intending.”
“Oh no. I want you to feel as awful as I do,” he says, and there’s a snooty tone in his voice.
She can’t help but smile. “I want you here.”
“Well, that can’t happen,” he says with a huff.
She lays back, sinking down into the couch with a moan. “What time is it there?”
“Morning,” he says simply. “Come to me.”
“Come to me,” he repeats himself. “I’m working - yes, yes, I know - but we’ve had plans for months now and - I was looking forward to that time.”
She swallows, because she knows that they shouldn’t.
“Come to me, Miss Moneypenny. I want you here.”
She recognizes the warmth in her tummy and the strain of her fingers. She’d spent three nights grasping at her pillows and sheets, trying to milk out the frustration, the loneliness, the heat. The thought of him kissing under her ear, pressing his weight between her legs -
“Okay,” she sighs, as if it would be troublesome to do so.
He only laughs, because he must know her feelings exactly.