Cullen catches himself sucking in his stomach just before he responds to the Inquisitor. She has asked him to join her for drink later in the evening, so he stumbles out a reply that isn't quite what he means to say.
She doesn't even bother to suppress a laugh. At least it's a warm laugh. He can read the warmth in her eyes. "So, you will be joining me?" she asks.
"Yes." His throat is painfully dry.
And she seems satisfied enough. She turns and walks away, but then she looks back over her shoulder just as she leaves, just as he absentmindedly gazes at her swaying hips.
A rush of embarrassment floods up Cullen's neck, drowning him. His face flushes with prickly heat. He is certain what the Inquisitor had meant, and that this isn't another case of his idle hopefulness.
Even though he has always been honest with her — sometimes too honest — he cannot stop worrying that she will think less of him come tomorrow.
Every day he carries a decade of bad sleep and bad food as a layer of unseemly fat encircling his gut. After ten years he still has vivid nightmares that jolt him awake, body drenched in sweat.
Cullen can't even remember the last time he has woken up in the morning with a proper erection or the last time he became hard in his hand. So, no matter what he tells her when they lay together, no matter the truths he confesses after bringing her pleasure, something in his words will certainly ring hollow when his body falls flat and fails to desire her with that heavy expectation of primal urgency.
No matter what happens, by tomorrow she will think differently of him and choosing not to spent the night with her will only postpone it. As much as he knows how he needs to hold her and feel the hot weight of her flesh anchoring him down, he won't let himself fall asleep with her in his arms only to strike her by accident when he jolts awake before dawn, limbs thrashing.