There are few who would call William Andrew Philip Bodie a saint, but he's never lied to me. Yet there he was, telling a bold-faced lie. To my face, and all.
"No, I don't fancy you."
"What do you mean, you don't fancy me?"
"Shocking as it may be, Raymond, not everyone falls at your feet." He puffed out his chest and gave that smirk that I find endearing and infuriating in equal amounts. "Now me, on the other hand..."
"Yeah, yeah, you slay them every time."
"Oh, you've noticed."
"Only because you're constantly reminding me."
"One does have to remind the little people where they stand." And there he went, using that faux poncey accent he pulled out for special occasions. Like impressing the birds. Or getting up my nose.
"And I say that you fancy the little people. Or one of 'em, anyway." I moved in closer, forcing him against the wall of his foyer. "Me, specifically."
"Bollocks," he said, but there was a slight waver in that confident voice.
"I'll get to those, sunshine," I said. "But not right now." And then I leaned in and kissed him.
His mouth opened as he let out a small gasp of shock. I licked at his lips and then moved my tongue forward. I acted on instinct, enjoying the heat of his mouth, the feel of him, the taste of him. Enjoying his reaction: a careful stillness that changed into a passion I'd long known him capable of.
After a long minute, I pulled back from him and took in the delectable sight of Bodie unmanned, his breath coming in harsh gasps, his pupils gone wide.
I smiled, and went for the kill. "I, of course, don't fancy you at all."
"Liar," he said. And kissed me right back.
Got any comments? Send 'em to firstname.lastname@example.org