In the bookstore, I did it.
I leant in and, trapping him neatly against the American History shelf, kissed him, ignoring his rather breathless, snarky murmur.
Per usual, he gasped, just a little, and his hands fumbled uncertainly, not sure what to do, where to go…after a few moments, they found my waist, and he relaxed, the habitual stiffness leaving him as he started to kiss me back, whole body shuddering delightfully when I traced the curve of his lip with my tongue.
He groaned softly in the back of his throat, and I grinned—sort of. As well as I could, anyway.
It never failed to amuse me how much kissing was Bernard's weakness. Snark was powerless against the enjoyments of the flesh, it seemed.
And it was even funnier how he always sought to pretend he was never ruffled in the least afterward.
My fingers were in his hair, and my body pressed close to his…just to drive him a little wild, I let my fingertips lightly skitter up the nape of his neck.
He made another soft, incoherent noise, and his grip tightened, becoming, if not confident, at least not so fumbling.
When I at last pulled back, I just looked at him for a few moments, breathing a little hard and reflecting to myself that Bernard was absolutely adorable when he was flustered. His cheeks were flushed pink, and there was, on his face, something which was dangerously close to being a goofy little smile…
None too collected myself, I grinned at him and lightly touched his lower lip.
"You have lip gloss on your mouth," I said quietly, noting that, judging from the expression in his eyes, Bernard was somewhere far off.
Sure enough, he only murmured "Hm?" in a way that was so…un-sarcastic that I laughed.
"You have lip gloss on your mouth, Bernard. Not to say that it doesn't become you, but I thought you should know."
At this he collected himself, albeit rather slowly, and mumbled, in a voice which sought to be dry and cool but didn't quite succeed:
"Sharp, your attack was uncalled for."
Not fooled in the least, I retorted:
"You didn't seem to think so two minutes ago."
Because he knew I was right, Bernard scowled for a moment, and then blushed, and then scowled harder, and finally said, in the best attempt at "toneless" that he could muster:
"Women."
I imitated that trademark "To hell with all of you" sigh and intoned, in that same drab voice:
"Bernards."
For a split second, his mouth—which, by the way, was still quite a decided shade of candy pink from the lip gloss and…other things—twitched, and I knew he wanted to smile…but, per usual, he conquered the impulse, and, with a shrug, turned to examine some of the books whose existence he'd just remembered. Humoring him, I leafed through one about the Presidents, waiting for the unnaturally bright color to leave him.
I considered, for a moment, telling him how absurdly cute he was all flushed and out of his element—but decided against it.
He probably wouldn't appreciate it overmuch, and, given his horrible childhood, he would probably think I was being flippant.
Still, though…it might do him good….
"Bernard?"
"What?"
"Can I tell you something?"
He sighed.
"I wish you wouldn't."
"But I will," I told him, smirking faintly now. "I shall, so you'd best just listen."
"Fine. Go for it."
I leant way in, so that my mouth was very, very close to his ear; Bernard, predictably, looked distinctly uncomfortable, and made as if to back away; putting a hand on his shoulder to keep him there, I whispered, with a grin:
"You're really cute."
He said nothing, and immediately forced his mouth into a cool, disdainful little scowl, but I knew from the way he started as if electrified, and from the color creeping up his neck that he liked it.
And that was enough for me.
