Tonight, she was no different from any of the other patrons of the Hanged Man; just another sad sack drowning her sorrows in cheap ale. Looking for excuses not to go home to her recently emptied bed.

No, let's not be melodramatic. "Recently emptied" gives the false impression that she'd shared it for more than a night. She sighed heavily into her drink. After almost three years of waiting and wishing and wanting, he had finally yielded to the fire that had slowly built between them, and for one night, the blaze consumed them.

Her throat tightened even as her cheeks flushed at the memory of his hands - gentle, nimble, strong - and his deep, throaty moans of pleasure. He had collapsed into her arms...but she'd awoken to find him trying to creep out like a thief.

That's not fair. If he'd wanted to sneak away he almost certainly could have. Still, it was of little comfort to her that he chose to stay and reject her to her face. "This should never have happened in the first place," he had said, the words an icy needle in her heart.

Hurt and anger gave way to shame as she recalled the events of the previous evening, and she decided another pint was in order. But before she got it back to her table, a man jostled her, and she sloshed ale across the front of her robes.

"Shit, sorry!" the man slurred. "So sorry!" He forced a grimy handkerchief into her palm.

"It's fine," she sighed, blotting wearily at the soiled navy fabric. "It's not as if anyone's looking," she muttered to herself.

But the remark didn't go unnoticed. "Well, that's a shame, innit?"

She looked up at him, somewhere between surprise and disbelief. He gave her a crooked smile and cocked his eyebrow at her. She'd seen him in here before - a LOT - but never paid him much attention. Until now. He had the broad shoulders of a skilled swordsman and striking amber eyes under his unkempt mop of blond hair. Decent enough; maybe even handsome, if he tried. She returned his grin. "Isn't it just?"

He had all the clumsiness of a drunken one-night-stand, but he handled her with frustrating softness, his hands skimming her body through the thick fabric of her robes. She grabbed him by the shirt and plundered his mouth with her tongue.

"You won't break me," she whispered, though as she ran her hands down his chest it occurred to her that he probably could.

He laughed nervously. "I - ah -" She nipped at his neck, tasting sweat and stale smoke, and he shuddered. "I should warn you, though."

"Warn me what?" she murmured, tugging his shirt off. Too many nights in the pub had started to soften him, but only just; she ran her hands over the solid planes of his chest appreciatively. "You're not a demon, are you?"

"What? No, nothing like that!" He trailed a finger over the closures at the front of her robes. "I just...I'm a bit...rusty, you might say?"

"Hmm," she said thoughtfully, working the closures open one by one until the garment slid from her shoulders. He reached for her, but she shoved him back against the door, his fingers barely grazing her hip. "Uh-uh," she teased. "Let's get you up to speed, shall we?"

"What are you talking about?" he groaned theatrically, his eyes glued to her as she slipped off her breast band and wriggled out of her smallclothes.

"Well, we haven't really the time to practice," she said, bending over the bed. "So I'll just have to show you what I like."

To his credit, he learned quickly. Unfortunately, he proved quick in other aspects as well, and before she knew it he'd collapsed beside her on the bed, spent. She sank back onto her heels. "Right, then," she sighed.

"Oh, not so fast," he said, sliding one hand up her thigh. "You wound me, Messere," he chuckled as he laid her on her back. "To think I'd forsake a lady in her time of need!" He lowered his face between her legs, and if his willingness came as a surprise, it had nothing on his skill. Soon stars exploded across her eyelids and she cried out in ecstasy, her fingers curling into his hair. Gradually she returned to her senses and sat up, leaning back on her hands.

"That was…" she shook her head and brushed an errant curl back from her cheek.

"Mm, my thoughts exactly," he chuckled in a low, sultry tone.

"So, you're Fereldan?" she stood and stretched, collecting her clothes. "And not so rusty as you might think," she added with a wink. To her amusement, she noticed that he'd furtively covered himself with the blanket.

"Oh, right. I'm sure lots of men in Kirkwall lack stamina." Suddenly he looked stricken. "Not that - I don't mean that you - when I said 'lots of men' I didn't -"

Laughing, she bent down silenced him with a kiss. "Maybe you should save your mouth for that other thing," she whispered teasingly, and slipped out the door.

And like magic, she slept soundly through the night.