Of course he had imagined this. It usually went something like this: In the heat of the moment, probably at the height of an argument as she raised a hand to smack him one, he would grab her wrist and pull her to him. Passionate and fiery. Pounce on her when she least expected it and damn the consequences.

But when the moment came, he was surprised to realize he really wanted to savor it.

She had leaned over, laughing, to wipe the bit of creme off his cheek that he kept missing with the napkin. Another drip had landed on his tie. Damn Luigi and his poncy Italian desserts. Not that it wasn't delicious, but he wasn't going to admit that out loud.

"Ya dozey bird, I don' need a mother 'en," he muttered, squirming slightly but not really doing much to stop her, mouth set in a petulant grimace, the hint of a smirk around the edges.

And suddenly, without warning, there it was. The moment. Perched next to one another at the bar, restaurant empty save for Luigi, who was currently hiding in the kitchen in hopes that they would soon leave so he could lock up. Her smiling face leaning in to him, eyes wide and shining. She had brushed the drop off his tie, and her hand had come to rest against his chest. For a split second they both froze. They might have even stopped breathing.

Bloody hell, he thought. Now? This is the moment?

Not breaking eye contact, he put a hand over hers, holding it against his heartbeat. They'd been here before; his own words echoed in his head from that first day he'd laid eyes on her: "Now then, Bollinger Knickers, are you gonna kiss me, or punch me?"

She might as well have punched him, for the effect she was having right now. An image of her in that short skirt and black hose flickered through his mind. Damn good memory, that. Well, there was nothing for it. Now or never.

He reached up with the other hand to her face, and felt her fingers stiffen against him. Just like a skittish mare, he thought. Not too fast, now, slow and steady. Don't fuck this up, Genie-boy.

He traced a thumb along her lips, and her eyes softened. She did not pull away. Good sign. His fingers continuing to play lightly along her jaw, she leaned into his hand slightly. Very good sign.

He let out a breath slowly, audibly. Seems he had stopped breathing there for a second. He leaned in toward her ever so slightly, and her eyes fluttered closed as he approached.

Well, now. Perhaps not the adrenaline-fueled, heat-of-the-moment snog-fest he had long envisioned, but then, where's the fun in everything going according to the script? Besides, he thought, if I'm going to hell, the scenic route was looking quite promising at the moment.

So, struggling against the roar in every nerve that was screaming at him to move in fast and firm, he held back. He tasted her, sipping her, drawing in her breath with each torturously deliberate nibble. She was… exquisite. A truly posh dessert to be sampled and savored with small bites first, before devouring.

He'd always had a soft spot for strawberries and champagne, he mused. If he were a religious man, he'd have sent a silent prayer of thanks to whoever made her lip gloss.

More. He needed more.

Soft. That was her first thought. Soft, gentle, slow. No pressure. No hurry.

Oh, dear. She was definitely in trouble now.

And the taste… she absentmindedly realized that she had always imagined it would be a combination of the fags and single malt — the same as his breath when they were in each other's faces during a shouting match. That was there, of course, but there was also something else. Something sugary, something... sweet mercy, he was delicious.

All this whirled through her mind in less than a second, with the first warm shared breath. Eyes closed, lips parted slightly to his, she breathed him in. Whatever she had expected from him, it wasn't this.

He pulled back a bit, not breaking away, rather just enough to return with purpose; deliberate, not tentative, but still entirely unhurried. His tongue traced along her bottom lip and he pressed imperceptibly closer. Lips grazed against one another, testing, tasting, almost teasing as she permitted herself the luxury of letting him take the lead. Finally, she allowed the tip of her tongue the briefest caress against his. She felt rather than heard his rumble of approval.

The Manc Lion was purring, she thought. How appropriate.

Exhaling, she couldn't hold back. "Mmmm, Gene..."

One hand worked around to the back of her neck while the exquisitely soft, lingering, almost lazy yet masterful exploration of her mouth continued. She responded in turn now, resisting the temptation to increase the pace even as she felt her control burning away. His other hand still rested on top of her own, pressed to his chest. Only the fingers that were beginning to intertwine with hers and work into her hair belied the urgency that he was willfully still holding in check. For now.

There it was again, a hint of cinnamon and espresso. What on Earth… ah, that was it, she remembered hazily. She made a mental note to thank Luigi for insisting he try the tiramisu for dessert.

He pulled back and this time they broke apart, though he did not let her go. They were still close enough that she could feel his breath.

She opened her eyes to find him looking at her so intensely that she was grateful she was already sitting down. He leaned in close to her ear, prickly evening stubble brushing against her cheek, like a cat leaving his scent. She couldn't help but draw in a sharp breath at the contrast between the rough and soft. She also couldn't help her smile at the thought that she had once again compared him to a giant cat.

"Bolly."

It was almost a whisper. Gruff but quiet, it was question, statement, demand and plea all at once.

Oh, hell, she was lost.

"Yes, Gene," she replied, equally quietly. Not a question. A fact. Acquiescence.

She slid her free hand around to the nape of his neck, and her fingers worked into his hair.

"Yes," she said again, more firmly, pulling him back to her.

This time, he did not hold back, and neither did she.