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“O’Hara, this is hardly professional.”
“It’s just one kiss, Carlton. I promise it’ll make this whole thing so much easier.”
Lassiter’s mouth is pinched tight and the look on his face says that he thinks kissing his partner will have the exact opposite effect of “making things easier.” He shifts a little further away on the couch and Juliet’s right thigh feels the absence.
-
Karen had called them into her office earlier that day and told them that they’d been assigned a new undercover operation. Juliet jumped at the opportunity even before Karen had told them the assignment- she loves undercover work. When the chief told them that they’d be playing a married couple, Lassiter had visibly paled, but Juliet wasn’t going to let the challenge keep her from this opportunity.
-
She tries again. “What do you think is gonna happen when you have to kiss me for real, huh? In front of our perp? Do you really think it’s not going to be obvious that we’ve never kissed before?”
“I think you’re underestimating my acting skills, O’Hara,” Lassiter says, tetchy.
“Look,” she gentles her tone a bit, “I have the utmost respect for you and your abilities, Carlton, you have to know that.”
He nods.
“But,” she puts her hand carefully on his thigh, “that doesn’t change the fact that I have serious doubts you could even hold my hand convincingly in front of a suspect.”
It’s quiet for a few seconds and Juliet starts to feel silly with her hand on her partner’s thigh so she removes it in what she hopes is a casual manner.
“O’Hara, what you’re suggesting… At the very least things could get awkward.”
“So what’s the worst that could happen?”
“It could ruin our partnership! I’ve spent too long molding you into the perfect partner for it to end like this.” (She’ll come back to that “perfect” thing later, after the wine, after the kissing)
“Carlton!” She slaps her hand back onto his thigh (rather hard, if his expression is anything to go by). “This is not going to ruin us. Okay? Say it with me. This is not-“ she pauses to let him catch up.
He glares. She waits.
“-going to ruin us,” they finish in tandem.
“Good. Now, what if we get drunk first?”
-
They’re a bottle deep into her most expensive red (Carlton had insisted that if they were going to go through with this “ludicrous exercise” then they were not going to do it with her favorite boxed wine) when Juliet decides it’s probably safe for them to get started.
“Okay,” she places her again empty glass on the coffee table and reaches up to gently take Carlton’s glass from his hand and place it next to hers.
He looks nervous. His hair is sticking out at his hairline from where he’s been bothering it, and his skin is flushed a light pink. He feels warm to the touch.
Which she notices because she’s now touching his face, a movement she can’t recall initiating but, given the catch in his breath and the slight opening of his mouth, it’s not one she regrets.
“Okay,” she says, again, quieter.
“Okay,” he breathes out. A breath she feels against her face because they’re close enough now that she can feel things like that and there’s a little less awareness of her actions than she’s used to but there’s also a lot more Carlton than she’s used to and that feels like a pretty good trade off right now.
His lips finally meet hers and she can barely feel it at first, it’s so light. But then he presses forward a bit and her hands instinctively reach up, one finding purchase on his neck and the other wrapping itself in his hair, his really, really thick hair.
Carlton hasn’t done more than press their lips together but Juliet can feel his pulse thudding under her thumb and his chest feels tense, pressed against hers.
She realizes that he’s nervous about half a second before she realizes that that’s not going to do. She traces her tongue against the seam of his mouth, he tightens a fist in her hair, and opens his lips on a gasp.
It’s funny. The Carlton Lassiter she knows, the one that’s been her partner for three years now, she never could have imagined kissing him like this. (Well maybe once, in a dream, but everyone knows that doesn’t really count).
But she is. And he is.
It could be the wine, or it could be Carlton, or her, but everything is blurring together: the quickly fading taste of wine in his mouth (her partner’s mouth), the scrape of his nails against her lower back where he’s pushed her shirt up, her teeth catching against his swollen lip, the rough fabric of his jeans against her thighs where she finds she is now straddling him, skirt riding up, rendered ineffective in its primary role as clothing.
Her hands have moved themselves from their homes on his neck and in his hair and found their way to his shirt, making quick work of the buttons separating her skin from his. She feels a pop against her back, pulls back sharply, realizes it’s her bra.
Carlton’s pupils are wide and dark and they’re both breathing heavily, hands still inside each other’s shirts. They both look down, taking stock of their situation and Carlton, instead of leaping up and running away like she would have expected, merely laughs, his eyes glinting.
“How was that?” He asks, hands traveling slowly down her back.
“Horrible,” she says, popping open another button, “we should probably try it again.”
He doesn’t respond, but the crush of his mouth against hers, hands hot on her hips, is more than enough of an answer for her.