Given that he could lose himself for hours in her lips alone, the thought of having more of her was damn near overwhelming.

Damn near, but he'd manage, he thought wryly, as they set to the succulent task of thoroughly devouring one another.

Christ, she was a strong bird. He knew that already, of course, having been on the receiving end of a couple good slaps and one extra-memorable left hook, but this was different. In the good way. The very good way.

And now she was upping the game.

She slid off the bar stool, breaking apart just long enough to coax him to his feet as well, then she pulled his head down to hers again, mouth open. One hand still entwined in her hair, he wrapped his other arm around her waist, turning them both so that she was backed against the bar. Lips and tongues immediately made short work of reacquainting themselves.

When they came up for air again a minute later, he began an assault on her jaw, her neck, her shoulder; licking, nipping kisses alternately ferocious and gentle. She answered by deliberately drawing the hand that currently rested in the small of her back around and up to her breast. Bloody hell. Definitely a D-cup, he determined, as he continued his feast, now nibbling on an earlobe.

He'd bet her legs were strong, too. Stunning gams that went on forever, thighs wrapped in black stockings, garters peeking out at the top… he'd put down hard money that if those legs were wrapped around his hips he wouldn't be able to break free until she decided to release him.

Oh, don't even go there, you randy bastard. That is just asking for more trouble than you're already in. Just enjoy the mind-blowing snog, cop a good feel, let off some steam and work each other out of your respective systems. Besides, she surely wouldn't— no, not a chance.

He had to admit, this was right up there with the better moments of his formidable imagination. He tried to ignore the fact that not even in his mind had she been this much his equal. She met him grip for grip, strength for strength, want for want. That kind of match was dangerous. Playing with fire.

He licked at her neck under her ear, and began working his way back to her lips. Hmmm, yes, very tasty, those lips. No, this is as much as you can hope from her. Just keep your head in the game and you can keep right on enjoying the moment a little longer. The Gene Genie can keep control. Hopefully.

When he felt her right leg sliding up against him, he did just that, chalking his body's reaction up to a pleasant unavoidability that he could deal with... um... on his own. Later. Wouldn't be the first time, after all. And when she then hooked the leg around him and pulled him firmly against her hips with it, he found himself enjoying a lovely mental picture of being solidly buried between those black-stockinged th—

Fucking hell. He pulled back, control very nearly shattered. "Shit! Hold up, Bolly."

They were panting, needing to catch their breath, but not moving. Her eyes were wide and full of fire. Oh great, you bloody big oaf, you're in for it now.

Crap. Calm, Alex, calm. God, he's like a caged animal. He's holding back. She leaned in, resting her forehead to his.

"What is it, Gene?"

His voice was strained. "Soldier's getting a little jumpy, Lady B. We go much further, I'm not like to be able to stop. You alright with where this seems to be headin'? 'Cause we've both been hittin' the booze and—"

Wha— Surely not. Really? He was being a gentleman? Now, even after all this? She straightened and looked him up and down. She had underestimated him. Again. She lifted her chin and looked him straight in the eyes.

"I am not drunk."

His eyebrows shot up and he pursed his lips, obviously biting his tongue. Damn him.

"Fine. I'm not very drunk. And you are barely even starting on a buzz. For you, you're downright sober."

He blinked, opened his mouth, appeared to think better of it, and closed it again.

"I've had plenty of time to think about this," she continued. Truly, if she ever heard Billy Joel again, it would be too soon. "And you want this as much as I do. Don't you go all noble and 'I'm doing the right thing' on me again."

He swallowed and seemed to be considering his words carefully.

"Can't deny the want, Bols, but there's noble, and then there's pride. If you think there's a chance you'll regret this tomorrow morning and toss me out on me arse, then I can still be as noble as Prince Bloody Charles. Even if I do end up with blue balls for a week."

His eyes flicked around the empty room and he quirked an impish, naughty smile. Oh, here it comes, she thought. "At least there's no Thatcherite wankers hangin' around this time to prey on you," he added. "Thank 'eavens for that, I'd be a right tosser to leave you at their mercy again."

OK, fine, she deserved that one. Her eyes narrowed. "Listen to me, you infuriating man. I haven't a clue why I ended up in your world..."

"You asked to—"

"…Hush. And I haven't the foggiest why, or how you have the effect on me that you do. You're in my head, Gene."

"And it's one hell of a confusing place to be, Bols, let me tell you that."

"Shut. Up." She smoothed out the rumpled front of his shirt as she continued. "You... are the polar opposite of everything I ever thought I found attractive in a man."

"Well, you sure do know 'ow to flatter a bloke, luv."

"Mmmm." The sides of her mouth twitched up. "And yet here we are. And I can say, without a doubt, that I…," a hot kiss to his neck as she walked fingers lightly up his chest, "…want…," a light nip on his jaw and the fingers joined those already behind his neck, "…you."

He still wasn't sure he'd heard her right, but her leg tightened around his waist and her lips on his were brokering no further discussion. Nope, he thought, couldn't go now even if I wanted to. This woman would be the end of him, that much was certain. Her hand traveled down his back. He suspected he should still be protesting, but he couldn't find it in himself to argue against such a clearly well thought through conclusion, given that she was currently still wrapped around him tighter than… tighter than… oh, hell, he couldn't even come up with a properly juicy metaphor at the moment.

Of course, the blood was not exactly pumping to his brain. He planted a hand firmly on her arse — holy hell, he'd wanted to do that for so long — and pulled her in even closer.

She broke apart slightly, eyes mischievous. "And more directly to your concern about being chucked out on your… ahem…," he felt a firm squeeze and a pat to one cheek of the aforementioned, as she leaned in and ran her tongue along his ear, continuing in a whisper, "...considering what I have in mind for you right now, I have a feeling we'll both be lucky if we can stand up in the morning, let alone walk of our own accord."

His mind was well and truly blown. He leaned back and gave her an appreciative once-over.

"You utterly gorgeous, filthy, posh little tart, you."

She smiled wickedly. "You have no idea."

"Try me. My imagination is legendary."