James Bond relaxed as he shifted gear and took the Jaguar XJ through the country lanes. The sun was behind him, a cloudless sky above him and he felt good to be alive. He was now completely recovered from the mission last summer that had left him as close as he’d ever been to dead. His ribs had healed, the reconstruction work on his jaw no longer pained him, and once again he was able to take pleasure from the simple things in life. He reached down to the console and slid one of the cigarettes, made especially for him by Moorland’s and containing a mixture of Balken and Turkish tobaccos, out of the gunmetal cigarette case and lit it with the aged Ronson lighter he habitually carried in his right-hand hip pocket. Bond was a creature of habit, likely the worse thing to be in his profession, but now in the moment he didn’t need to worry about that.
At the moment, James Bond didn’t feel that he had anything in particular to worry about and it felt good.
He shifted gear again as he approached the hill, the incredibly powerful 4.2 litre engine, responded immediately and Bond felt himself pushed back in his seat as he built up speed. There was a woman waiting for him at the end of this road and Bond anticipated a pleasant evening ahead. Good food, a few drinks and an early night. Though Bond knew that much of the coming night would be spent enjoying the delights of the woman’s body.
Elizabeth Lyon possessed a particularly fine body.
#70YEARSOF007
TO BE CONTINUED....
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