James
by Gail Christison

Pairing: James/You
Rating: Soft FRAO for romantic sexual encounter
Disclaimer: Not mine. James and Terry belong to the BBC or somebody...worse luck :-))
Feedback: Always like to know if you had fun
Distribution: Just drop me a line and let me know if you want it.

Summary: An 'Anywhere But Here' story, set during the first season of Manchild, before James visits Elizabeth to 'discuss' his problem :-)) James and Terry go to a ski resort, which you just happen to be at as well.

Author's note: Thanks to Ruth, who is the reason I suddenly remembered having written it in the first place. LOL :-))))

It's been a long evening. Your friends, the ones who so helpfully invited you to spend a weekend in the snow with them, happily oblivious of your third wheel status and commensurate discomfiture in the presence of their all but perfect and glowing relationship, are talking quietly about their trip to Majorca in a couple of weeks time. Meanwhile your last glass of wine is beginning to prompt action.

You excuse yourself and head toward the Ladies room. On the way you are pathetically, you decide, scanning the room for any sign of life other than couples and families or robust young men with too much energy and far too few aspirations above the age of about twenty-five. It's an empty house, except for a woman in a business suit tapping on her table as though she's been waiting too long for someone, and a figure on the couch by the clich? log fire, which is blazing beautifully given the chill outside.

You realize fairly quickly that it is a male with impossibly long legs, and decide that on the way back from the Ladies room you will warm yourself by the fire, studiously ignoring the fact that all you really want to do is indulge your curiosity and suddenly overactive imagination.

Back out in record time, and confident that you have no food on your face, your makeup is fine and your hair isn't coming down, you casually pick your way over to the fire, expecting Mister Legs to have left or be hard at it with another of those plentiful, athletic under twenty-fives the place seems to be filled with.

Instead you extend your hands towards the heat of the fire, and surreptitiously steal a glance to see a figure sitting on the couch, staring into the flames, a half consumed drink in a brandy balloon in his left hand. He's not young, but his green eyes are exquisite as the flames light them up, and he looks quite elegantly stunning in a 'really don't give a damn' sort of way.

It takes you several minutes to find the courage to just turn around. It's then that you realise, suddenly and with a small jolt, that he's desperately unhappy.

"Not exactly lively tonight, is it?" you venture quietly, deciding that if he doesn't answer, or is rude, that you'll just smile and push off post haste.

He looks up very slowly and you swallow hard. It's been a very long time since someone could do that to your body with just their eyes.

"Hello," he says simply. "Cast adrift in a sea of rampant youth?" he jokes then turns a violent shade of red.

You decide he's adorable but let your eyes flash with irritation none-the-less. "Actually I rather thought that might be your story," you retort pointedly.

He reddens even more. "Touch?," he acknowledges ruefully. "I um...I was actually feeling rather that way myself," he reveals, watching a couple of the young bucks making great progress with a couple of very young, giggling blondes.

Suddenly you get it. You smile. "Not so easy being on the market again when the competition is buff and pretty and willing?" you sympathize, not entirely falsely.

He looks at you with something akin to real respect. "You too?" he asks, this time in a genuinely empathetic tone.

He has won you over enough to sit down on the couch next to him and acquiesce when he raises his hand to a passing waiter and asks what you want to drink.

When the waiter returns with your scaled down version of what he's drinking, you casually take a sip, only to choke and cough, bringing a broad smile of amusement to his face. You realize he's watching you and chuckling. You make a face. "I just wanted to know what it was," you growl.

"A B&B. Brandy and Benedictine," he explains. "Not for the uninitiated, but rather good for anaesthetising one when necessary."

You wrinkle your nose again, which he seems to like, and take another sip. It warms like fire and has a taste and a burn that lingers for some time afterward, but you realise after the third sip that it's actually rather good, in a one-sip-at-a-time sort of way.

"My name is James, by the way," he adds, when you finally smile back.

You tell him yours, feeling shier than you ought to, then cover it by looking over at the voluptuous blondes. "You sure you wouldn't rather I moved on so you can concentrate on more er...pressing...issues?" you drawl, well aware of his wandering eye.

"If that's what you want," he replies with a disarming lack of false charm. "But I am actually enjoying your company. I can't deny the view," he adds sheepishly, "or that I'm interested, but I'd be lying if I said I wanted you to go."

You tilt your head to one side and smile at him. "You know, maturity has its own rewards," you purr, aware that you're flirting and not caring one whit. He's gorgeous, adorable, and the first seemingly single man over thirty you've met in a dog's age who was neither bored with your company, nor crassly trying to manoeuvre himself into your drawers at the earliest opportunity...at least not yet. You get the impression that he's not averse to playing the game, only that his heart's not really in it tonight.

He grins back at you, that telltale colour rising from his throat again now, subtle but adorable on his very angular and masculine but, you decide, handsome face.

"I've heard that," he manages, and takes another large sip from his drink. "Are you here with someone?"

You nod, and flick a glance over the back of the couch to your friends, who are still deep in an intimate t?te-?-t?te at your table. "A close friend and her husband."

"Ouch," he says softly, the vague sympathy enough to be genuine, without being patronizing.

You snort. "And you?"

He shrugs. "I came with a mate. A good friend, actually."

You look around, then at James' face again and the penny drops. "Not that good," you observe.

He chuckles at himself. "No, I suppose not. Not that I really expected more. H-he's not really...he rather wanted...I..."

You pin it in one. "He brought you here to cheer you up but very quickly found his own bit of cheer and you haven't seen him since?"

It was his turn to nod ruefully. "You're good," he observes.

You shake your head. "Know the type," you confide. "Not entirely unlike yourself."

James is a little abashed, but none-the-less still impressed with your candour.

"Not at the moment," he says into his drink, in a fit of candour of his own.

You have no idea what his dark tone might be referring to other than the unhappiness you detected when you first saw him.

"Nice to meet someone who isn't afraid to acknowledge their flaws," you tease, hoping that he'll cheer up, even if just to retort in kind.

He looks up at you, his eyes flashing then laughs...a real, honest laugh. "You have no idea," he sighs. "No idea."

His obvious melancholy gives you pause. After a beat you venture an apology of sorts. "I-I hope it's nothing serious," you manage, hoping you won't need surgery to get your foot out of your oesophagus.

That makes him chuckle again. "Depends on your definition of serious. My ex-wife, for example, thought it was a great joke."

Now you're confused. There is obviously no bereavement, or illness, or custody case or anything else too serious for such a frivolous response. It's a relief, but you can see he's genuinely down, and not really much cheered up since you've been talking. You wonder if he's just tolerating you after all.

"If it makes you unhappy, whatever it is, then it's not a joke," you tell him, choosing your words carefully, but genuine in your attempt to comfort.

He looks at you with just a little bit of genuine admiration in his eyes then they cloud again.

"It is, rather," he admits. "At least to everyone but me, though I suppose from my ex-wife's point of view there is a satisfying irony..." He trails off, aware suddenly that he's getting dangerously close to the issue. "So tell me...did they bring you up here to cheer you up, too?" he asks, in a valiantly suave attempt to change the subject.

You let him. "They thought I needed it," you admit. "There was someone for a long time. Now there isn't," you manage, amazed at yourself. You haven't even been able to discuss it with your friends, even though it's been over for three months now.

James stares into his drink, swilling the contents so that the ice tinkles against the side of the glass.

"I hope he wasn't too much of a bastard...um, it w-was a he?"

You can't help smiling. He's so adorable, despite the fact that he's also quite obviously as much of a cad as his friend, and your ex. Except that James doesn't play mind games. At least not right now. You suspect that whatever else he is, it isn't in his nature.

"Yes," you finally put James out of his new misery. "Lloyd was quite the bastard. I think his current girlfriend is a model and about nineteen."

James exhales visibly. "It's this new age, you know. Not the thing to assume...um..."

You nod and smile at him yet again. "No it's not," you agree, then add quietly, by way of a subtle warning, "but I'm also not in the market for another bastard right now."

Again he looks at you, not strangely, but as though he hasn't met anyone like you in a very long time.

"Done," he says finally. "As long as you don't go."

You feel the subtle change in atmosphere, and realise he's asking an equally subtle question of his own.

You search his eyes and realise he really does want you to stay...very much. It feels so wonderful you have to collect your wild thoughts and metaphorically clear your throat before answering.

"I'm not going anywhere," you assure him and don't object when he puts both your drink and his on the side table before turning back to you. You half expect him to disappoint you, but he doesn't, simply shifting to draw your back against his chest, and curling his arm around you, resting his hand on yours, in your lap.

When you are still tense after several moments, he says quietly in your ear: "I've had a yen to do this since we started talking. Do you mind terribly? It isn't really important if..."

When his arm loosens you realize everything really is okay. Slowly, you relax into his expensive cashmere sweater and shift a little to make your legs comfy before feeling his arm tighten again, when he knows you're comfortable.

"I like your sweater," you tell him inanely.

He smiles and kisses your hair. "Probably more than you like me," he teases. "I like your hair."

You grin to yourself before covering his hand shyly with your other one and closing your eyes.

The fire crackles and dances and you forget the murmur of voices, the clatter of glasses and cutlery and the subtle music in the background. All you know is that in this moment you are happy. And you haven't been able to say that for a long time.

Neither of you move for a long time, until, finally, a voice forces your eyes open.

"Well, what d'you know?"

"Bugger off, Terry," James' voice rumbles dangerously above your head.

"What have we got here?" Terry continues.

You study him. He really is a bastard. It's written all over him. Not the kind Lloyd was. This one is just an overgrown, not overly bright, teenager. Lloyd was never young. And he'd earned every single letter in the word 'bastard' before he was done with you.

"Where's your...date?" James asks almost awkwardly.

Terry's face falls. "She...ah...remembered something she had to do."

James snorts. "Well be a good chap then, and remember something that you have to do."

Terry looks startled, staring at you as if you are the eighth mystery of the universe or something.

"Old friends?" he asks finally, as though he can't come up with anything else.

"New ones," James says, his tone genuine, despite his amusement. "And intending to rectify that as soon as possible."

You feel him kiss your hair and shiver involuntarily at the touch of his lips brushing the tip of your earlobe. You also realize Terry's mouth is open.

"Absolutely," you agree, smiling. "So bugger off, Terry."

When he's gone James starts to giggle. You can feel his chest moving behind you and it's a fun giggle, male, but helplessly silly.

"What?" you ask, trying not to join him.

"You were fantastic," he tells you, between chuckles. "I've never seen anyone do that to Terry before. If I promise not to be a bastard for as long as you're here, can I...can I see you?" he asks in a rush.

You turn in his arms, because you want to see his face. "He's going to give you hell later, you know," you point out gently. "You're supposed to be cradle snatching, not..."

"Don't," he growls. "I'm going to ask you again, and you're going to tell me. Can I see you?"

In reply, you reach out and touch his face. His skin is smooth but not soft, shaved very closely...close enough to make you trail your fingers down his jaw.

He stares into your eyes for a long moment then bends his head.

His lips are like velvet over steel. His kiss is like none you've ever experienced before, yet you sense it's still tentative, seeking, asking. You respond, answering the question and filling in the whole questionnaire while you're at it. James takes you in his arms, continuing the kiss until you both surface, breathless and flushed, and immediately look at each other.

A moment later you both laugh, both realising that each of you is as insecure as the other.

James brushes his fingers tenderly across your rosy cheek. "I like a woman whose colour is her own," he says softly and caresses your lips again with his. When he lifts his head, he suddenly pauses, then swallows, then laughs a little nervously.

"What?" you ask, suddenly concerned.

"Um...well, I'm so used to being a bastard, I'm rather...um...lost about what happens next. Normally I'd ask you to come back to my chalet for a drink..."

"Or ask to see mine," you fill in, teasing, and trying to take some of the pressure off him, now that you realise it's not all going to fall apart, at least not yet. You look across at your friends and realise they haven't even noticed you've gone yet. A sudden thought alarms you. "Tell me you aren't sharing with Terry?" you ask.

"Oh...no, of course not," he says hastily. "He wouldn't be seen dead..."

You giggle. "Not the thing...rooming with your mate, looking like a couple of old queers?" you guess.

He looks a bit sheepish but nods after a beat. "W-would you like to see mine?"

The words hang in the air, and then you are both in fits of giggles. You can't decide if it's the brandy or if you're really just this happy. When you both sober up, you find yourselves moving together.

James immediately wraps an arm around you when you step out of the main doors and the ice-cold air hits you both, despite his leather jacket and your coat. You decide there really isn't anything as nice as someone automatically thinking of your needs, especially when no one has, for very, very long time.

James' is one of the most expensive chalets at the resort. You find yourself rubber necking while he's still stomping snow off his boots, and hanging his jacket before helping you off with yours.

You watch him poke the embers of a fire with a poker and throw more wood onto them when they start to glow.

"Considering what this place must have cost, you'd think they'd have invested in central heating," you point out irritably, still chilled to the bone.

James looks over his shoulder for a moment, sees you shivering and reaches for a large handful of the lightest kindling, and some larger pieces to lay across the logs. Moments later the fire flares and begins to noisily consume the feast James has provided. He holds out his hand and you grudgingly move to the hearth.

"Better?" he asks.

The heat radiating from the flames has reached your bones. "Much," you tell him and finally smile again. "I hate the cold," you add grumpily.

He blinks, then laughs again. "Perhaps your next holiday had better be in Majorca or somewhere else that's warm and sunny?"

"Not Majorca," you say too quickly. "But Nice, or Sydney or Tahiti are all nice dreams."

James looks as though he approves of your daydreams. "Can I get you anything? There's a bar...and food in the refrigerator. Not exactly sure what, but some gourmet package that goes with the room..."

You shake your head. You enjoyed your meal with your friends more than amply, believing it was going to be the highlight of your evening. Food is the last thing on your mind at the moment.

"Coffee?" you venture, realising that all the cosy intimacy of the restaurant has not made it any easier for either of you to start again here.

He seems pleased, and you follow him into the kitchenette, watching as he loads a Dripolator, before quietly preventing him from adding enough coffee for six people to the filter in his enthusiasm.

"Coffee not really your thing?" you ask dryly.

"Making it isn't really my thing," James laughs as you take over.

Both of you enjoy the quiet drink by the fire, and you wonder at his patience, given that the whole purpose of his weekend is probably pretty much the same as Terry's, their differing personalities notwithstanding.

"Do you have...someone?" you venture, suddenly overcome by the idea that he might be attached and not very good at playing hooky with Terry.

James looks at you with amusement, and curiosity. "Not any more," he says quietly. "My fault, really. Should never have married. Not made for it."

"Did you love her?" you ask, shocked at yourself, but aware that the question popped out because you know he won't mind, somehow.

Again, a small smile and a shake of the head. "Thought I did, for about five minutes. I was too bloody young. You wouldn't have liked me back then."

"Who says I like you now?" you ask, making him stop and consider that. His head tilts endearingly.

"I do," he decides, and leans forward to take your lips with his, deepening into a kiss of seduction and promise.

By the time you both surface your heart-rate is flying and heat is radiating from all manner of places on your body.

"Like," you whisper huskily.

"Like," he agrees and kisses you again.

You find yourselves in the bedroom, with its king-sized bed, probably to accommodate his not inconsiderable length. You are starting to get more courageous in your explorations. His body is still firm and deliciously warm. It has been a long time since you've felt this good.

James is kissing his way down your neck and you shiver as he lifts your soft sweater enough to slide his hands underneath. They're warm and amazingly deft in their worship of your curves.

You are barely coherent, your nerve endings exploding as he continues to remove the sweater.

When he straightens after making you gasp several times and turning your legs to jelly with his lips and tongue, you move to draw off his cashmere sweater and under shirt. He allows it, but you see something in his eyes that makes you hesitate once you've dropped the clothes on the floor, despite how good he looks just in pants and boots.

After an awkward moment you run your fingers through the golden brown hair on his chest and shudder when he gathers himself and begins to caress you again. You lift your face to his kiss and return it passionately, feeling him once again wanting you as much as you want him.

In the midst of the mind-melting frenzy of your kissing, you instinctively slide your hands down to undo his belt buckle. In a nanosecond you feel him tense, for the second time. This time you continue until the buckle is undone and you've found the inside button and unhooked it. Before you can move your hand inside the dark Armani pants, however, he breaks the kiss, looks up at the ceiling almost wretchedly, and, you notice, turns as red as a beet.

"James?" you whisper, full of self-doubt.

He hears the tone in your voice and shakes off whatever is bothering him enough to look at you.

"I'm sorry," he says unhappily. "That was unforgivable. I-I...look, I want you, very much. I just..."

You push down the notion that he's suddenly realised that only a nubile young figure will do after all and look him in the eye, knowing that whatever the truth is, he won't be able to hide it.

It's a surprise to find that all his eyes are filled with is embarrassment and sorrow.

"Tell me," you tell him, not giving him time to think.

"I-I don't even know if I can..." he stammers, also without time to think, or even to stop himself looking down at his pants.

You follow his gaze and realize there is no bulge in his trousers and you know full well there was moments ago. Things begin to fall into place. You remember his look as he gazed into the fire in the restaurant. For a fleeting moment you hate him for not telling you, or for starting this in the first place, then you realise that he wouldn't have tried unless...

You push his pants off his hips, much to his surprise, and draw his briefs down.

He draws a shuddering, ragged breath as you slip to your knees and begin to explore his body, teasing and playful at first, then, when the first signs of arousal appear, you step back and unzip your own pants, sliding them down provocatively as he watches. When you step out of them he realizes you're wearing only a black g-string, something you wear as a rebellion against the notion that being neither the size of a toothpick nor still having your school uniforms in your closet or newly packed away, somehow makes you irrelevant.

He gazes appreciatively at your curves, the fullness of your breasts, and the way the very expensive g-string moves with your body, and slowly becomes visibly more aroused. Without letting him see that there's any problem, you realise that he's still only semi-erect. You were right: it's a confidence issue. What you do know, is how much you want him, how much you want this to work. In your heart you know that if it does, he probably won't even be there when you wake up in the morning, but right now you want it more than anything.

Looking up at him, you take your breasts in your small hands and cup them for a moment before sliding your fingers down your belly to the band of your panties. His eyes are alight and fixed on what your fingers are doing. By the time you have slipped your fingers down into them, groaning as they caress your swollen flesh, he's forgotten about his problems and his member has remembered what it was designed for.

Now you move back to take him in hand, to show him just how good you are, enjoying the sounds of his pleasure, and the occasional wobbling of his knees as you work your magic. At the moment when you know it won't do to provoke him any further, you rise and he kisses you again, hard, then sweeps you off your feet and lays you on the bed.

His lovemaking almost sends you over the edge. It's obvious he's determined to make it great for you too and he knows exactly what he's doing, smiling when you gasp and shudder for the umpteenth time as he dances lips and tongue over soft folds and wanton flesh. Finally, he moves up beside you and you realise that for your sake he's risked flagging again.

Your response is to encourage him to lay on his back, to give him another taste of your intention to please. It doesn't take long, using every trick you've ever learned, or read about in interminable romance novels on long, lonely winter nights, to get a healthy response.

He turns then, opening a faux cigarette case on the side table and swiftly tearing open a packet before expertly slipping on protection. He gathers you in his arms, slipping between your thighs and smiling as you immediately curl your hips up and wrap your legs around him.

It's been so long and you want him so badly that when he enters you, you feel like a thousand waves of pleasure are crashing over your body. His almost astonished gasp as you both become one turns you on almost as much as the sensation of him filling you more than you ever have been before. It's obvious that he's both amazed and extremely aroused by his success. You can feel his firm erection harden even more inside you, straining your channel to its, so far, birth free, limit.

Incredibly aroused, both of you succumb to your needs and you rise to each other without hesitation or patience, taking each other until your orgasm begins to build. You move even more frantically then, until you begin to whimper and buck and writhe beneath him.

James cries out and arches his back, going with you, sent over the edge by the intensity of your release. You hold on to him and move with him, providing just enough motion to keep his body wracked with wave after wave of pleasure, until, sated and exhausted, he rolls to lie alongside you.

For a moment you feel terribly alone, and then his long arm curls out and draws you to his chest. You snuggle close to him and feel his arm close even more tightly around you as he kisses the hair he likes so much.

He's about to say something when the phone rings. He stretches out his other, equally long arm, and snatches the cordless handset from its holder.

"What?" he growls. "No, I didn't know there was a sauna here. No I don't want a midnight massage. Terry..."

You turn in James' arms and groan throatily just the right distance from the phone, several times, encouraging James to exercise his theatrical skill as well. Cleverly, he manages just one, long, low growling groan before you snatch the handset, both of you trying desperately not to giggle.

"Bugger off, Terry!" you tell him. "He's mine. Get your own," and hang up the handset.

James is rolling with laughter now and pulls you down with him. By the time you've both managed to stop laughing your eyelids are heavy.

"You are amazing," he says softly.

You're still not convinced that you'll be 'amazing' in the morning but you smile at the earnestness in his voice.

"I'm just me," you whisper back, trying to stifle a rude but contented yawn.

James draws you back into his arms and holds you close, his face resting contentedly against your soft hair. "Don't fish for compliments," he teases gruffly and kisses your ear.

You retaliate with a well-pulled elbow to his ribs.

His good-natured ouch is accompanied by a smothered yawn. "You have to give me your phone number tomorrow," he mumbles, as sleep overtakes him. "Can't... lose..shhoo..."

You listen to the low rumble of his breathing knowing he's asleep and sigh, feeling a strange mixture of euphoria, contentment and sadness. You knew when you started this that it was never going to go anywhere, and yet you've still let yourself start to fall for this beautiful, caddish, boy-man.

When you stir late the next morning, the last thought you had the night before is the first thought as you wake. The next is that you are alone. The sadness almost crushes you. It takes you ten minutes to stop crying and motivate yourself to get up. You are only just turning to slide out of the bed, when the chalet door rattles and opens.

James is in full ski gear and covered in fresh snow, but he is also carrying a comical armful of items, including a bunch of fresh red roses now scattered with snowflakes

"Sorry I wasn't here when you woke up," he said, kicking the snow off his shoes and legs before clomping in, putting down his load and stooping to unbuckle the ski boots. "Terry dragged me out at sunup. You looked so beautiful and peaceful lying there I hadn't the heart to disturb you to tell you I was going." He looks truly regretful. "I had to go. It's Terry's weekend. He paid for it. I couldn't really tell him to bugger off again." By the time he's finished talking he's unzipped and extricated himself from his ski suit and accoutrements and is padding across the room in his rather nice Calvin Klein t-shirt and underwear, carrying his parcels.

The roses are highly scented and fill the bed with their perfume as he hands them to you with a funny, but adorable little white teddy with the name of the resort in a red heart on its tummy.

Seeing your bemused look, he shrugs. "I was never any good at gifts or remembering, or caring that much, really. I...I just wanted to." He looks down and then back up again, obviously struggling. "I was afraid you wouldn't be here when I got back."

You don't know whether to laugh or cry. "I thought you were gone," you tell him, and find one or two tears escaping whether you like it or not.

He moves the flowers, the chocolates, the fruit and the bag of pastries he's brought back, but finds you unwilling to part with your bear.

"I don't want to be gone," he tells you, brushing the moisture away with an extended finger. "Truth is, I don't know what I want...except that I have a horrible terror of never seeing you again."

Silently you put your arms around his neck and his wind tightly around you and crush you to him. The embrace lasts for a very long time, your breasts crushed against his pale grey t-shirt with its short American sleeves. When you both finally part you realize that James is no longer quite fitting so neatly into his matching soft grey Calvin Klein boxer-briefs.

This time the two of you make love slowly, almost lazily, James revelling in his restored masculinity and amazed at how very much he wants you after the night you've shared together.

You are on top, finding out just how sexy James is, lying on the bed, his head thrown back and gasping as you ride him, when a rattle at the chalet door tells you James forgot to lock it. You look up.

Terry sticks his head in, obviously not expecting you to be here and his eyes immediately dilate to the size of dinner plates. You deliberately don't stop, and James, unaware of anything or anyone but you, shudders and groans as you lift yourself and begin to take him in earnest. When James shouts out his, again, earth-shaking release and you recover enough from yours, you open your eyes again and smile sweetly at the stunned, would be Lothario, who still looks like someone knee-ed him in the groin. And mouth the words:

"Bugger off, Terry..."

The End