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Spock raised an eyebrow as the Lieutenant finished her song, then struck the lyre and sang his own verse:
"There is a woman dark and young
whose fetching smile and nimble tongue
Her siren's song already sung
Has rent my heart in two
Nyota is my darling,
My darling, my darling
Nyota is my darling
I know not what I'll do"
"Why Mister Spock," Her sultry voice pulled at something buried deep under Vulcan logic, "I didn't know you could sing."
"The arts are essential to brain development, Lieutenant." She hovered around him like a hummingbird, touching his cheek, her thighs brushing against each other suggestively under the too-short regulation uniform skirt. "Music in particular is inextricably linked to mathematics, pitch and tone..."
"There's more to it than that," her half-closed eyes were intriguing, "If you want to sing well, you've got to put feeling into it."
"Feeling, Lieutenant?"
"Don't be coy with me, Commander. I can tell you feel something for me by the way you sang that song." She smiled and batted her long eyelashes, "You can't just sing 'Nyota is my darling' without meaning it."
"I simply followed the same rhyme scheme and meter, Lieutenant. My choice of words was a logical retort to your verse about me." His tone did not change, nor did his expression, but the Lieutenant knew there was more in that green heart of his.
She walked with a purpose, closer to him than was proper for a subordinate officer, and leaned in, "Well, Mister Spock, let's see your 'logical retort' to this." Her lips parted to meet his, a warm and firm kiss from the Commander. "Well?" She placed her hands on her hips expectantly. He stood, carefully set aside his lyre, and kissed her with what could only be called passion.
His cheeks greened as he held her by the hips and sang, "I know not what I'll do."