He's jumped into this new life – this half-human life – with his typical exuberance, and there's nothing it seems he won't try. His alien interest is piqued, and he throws himself into human minutiae like cooking, and grocery shopping, and even laundry with a relish that she wasn't expecting, as if he sees them as opportunities and not as the chains on a prison made of carpets and doors and curtains. She helps him explore these tiny, day-to-day adventures as best she can, wanting to make it an adventure for them both. And she most certainly makes sure to be present on adventures such as this, as they sit side-by-side at a long, crowded bar, their conversation nearly drowned out by the pulsating music, the oppressive heat of the place almost surpassed by the heat of the glances he keeps getting from a few of the women around them.

The adventure of the evening is to get themselves stupendously sloshed, properly pissed, indubitably inebriated and all the other phrases he's been trying out for size and fit and feel on his new tongue, rolling them around for taste and texture between his teeth like a cherry stem tied into a knot. It's making Rose stare far, far harder than at his lips than she'd planned on, an effort made much more difficult after three Flamin' Beavers, two Purple Hooters and one Red-Headed Slut … and if that brunette on his right 'accidentally'brushes his arm with her tits one more time, Rose swears to God...

Rose suspects she's going to have a headache tomorrow. Not just from the alcohol, either – she's flushed not only with drinks, but with the thrill of this little game they're playing, to order the dirtiest-named concoctions possible. The thought suddenly occurs to her that it's a new way of skirting the issue of this new relationship between them, dancing around words instead of the TARDIS console as they get to know each other again, she supposes, and the realization sobers her slightly.

"Buttery Nipple?" he asks huskily with an inexplicable little smirk, his eyes hazy and completely focused on Rose.

Rose gives small smile and shrugs.

"Or even better! Buttery Nipple With a Cherry Kiss, how marvelous does that sound?"

She looks into his eyes then, at his cheerful novelty over this new experience, and although she doesn't want to take this away from him, she's not sure if she wants to stay or go in that moment. Suddenly, there's something new and uncertain encroaching into his gaze, and any of her own reluctance flips into her stomach and disappears. She won't ruin this for him, she can't.

"Rose," he whispers, his eyes gentle and his hand lightly reaching over to cover her own. "Is this –"

"One minute," Rose interrupts, downing the glass of water in front of her, the lemon slice perched on the rim of the glass giving her an idea.

She hesitates only momentarily. Screw it, she thinks to herself suddenly, what does she have to lose? Better yet, why the hell do they keep dancing around this? He's either willfully ignoring every other woman there on Rose's behalf, or he doesn't register that their little game is full of double entendres at all. Either way, it's a plausible excuse for what she's tempted to do, and the alcohol is making her care less and less as the moments tick by.

"Actually, Doctor, I think there's one part of your education tonight that's lacking," she says, drawing out the syllables on every word, and his eyes grow darker as he leans further towards her with a curious expression on his face, his gaze focused entirely on her mouth.

"Shot of Patron, please," she shouts to the bartender over the din surrounding them, and it's quickly delivered to her.

The Doctor sits on the barstool facing her, completely immobile, as Rose pulls his suit collar back and to the side. She pulls his T-shirt slightly off to the side as well, to expose more of his neckline. Running her fingers gently over the soft skin, she sprinkles a fine trail of salt along his neck towards the hollow of his clavicle.

"Rose," he whispers, but it doesn't seem like an objection at all to her ears, "what are you…"

She brings a single finger to his lips then, moist and cool from his drinks, and uses the slack-jawed expression on his face to gently ease his mouth open.

"Like this," she says, placing a wedge of lime gently between his teeth. He holds it just as she's positioned it, his gaze hot and riveted on hers.

Almost achingly slowly, she brings her mouth down to his neck, her tongue caressing the skin, and she licks up the sprinkles of salt as she incidentally finds them. She starts to suck harder, near his pulse point, and knows she'll leave a mark, but his breath quickens and his hands find her hips, drawing her in, and she presses her body into his, her hands tangling in his hair.

Without warning, her mouth pops off his neck, and he's staring at her breathily, his hands still firmly on her hips. Holding his gaze, she feels around on the bar for her shot of Patron, swigs it, and then moves towards his mouth, hearing him moan before she even reaches her destination. Her mouth meets the lime, the sour little impediment to what she really wants to do, and she nips at his bottom lip as his arms come up to embrace her.

All of a sudden, his hand reaches up and the rind is gone, it's just their lips and mouths moving together, salt and sour and tequila and them, all pretenses gone. Finally.

After a long moment, they pull back, foreheads together, and he chuckles.

"Much better than a Cherry Kiss," he murmurs, and she laughs.

They ignore the bartender's suggestion of a Sex On The Beach, on the house, as they take each other's hands and head for the exit.