"You know what, Marshall," she said as she pulled him around from the crowd of officers. "I've got something to show you. For future reference."
As they turned out of sight around the corner of an outbuilding, Mary grabbed Marshall by his jacket and pushed him against the wall. Without hesistation, she crushed her lips against his. Marshall raised his arms in surrender, "Whoa Mar--" he tried to blurt out, but the moment his mouth opened, Mary's tongue took it as an invitation to enter.
'It's a trap, Marshall,' was the last coherent thought he recalled as his patner's mouth mingled with his. She pulled his hips against hers, then snaked her hands under his shirt, splaying her fingers across his back. For his part, Marshall wound his arms around her neck and his hands tangled in her hair.
Then, as abruptly as she had attacked, Mary pulled away. She had that look. That tilt of her head, that half-smile. "That's the difference between 'smearing lipstick' and 'kissing.' Just so you'll know which we're doing in the future. Are we clear?"
"As day." said Marshall, in awe of how adeptly his partner could wrap him around her little finger.
"Good," said Mary matter-of-factly with a nod of her head. She turned and headed toward the cars. "Let's go home."