Author: aimorai

Word Count: 5,644

A/N: A slight time-skip here, and there will be two POVs within this chapter, alternating back and forth – hopefully the switches will not be too confusing! Also – fair warning – content NSFW!

As always, I appreciate any and all comments and criticisms, and I hope you're enjoying the story.

'Later' always took a longer and longer time, so it seemed.

Trials were over; ashes were pinched. Arl Eamon was resuscitated, only to declare upon his awakening that Alistair's bloodline should grant him a spot on the throne. He wouldn't have been the first bastard to claim power in history, to be sure, but…

Tired, injured, and emotionally weary, the words had sounded ridiculous to Nell's ears, and she'd responded with sarcastic anger. Alistair, though – he was just shocked. They hadn't had their 'private talk' or even a private moment since the tense dealings in the Temple. At least this time, he hadn't run off, but gently requested time alone in response to Nell's probing glance. Some sort of progress, then. At her core, however, she was frustrated. Alistair got to deal with his problems, his emotions. Everyone was sensitive to his moods, and he was able to wallow and fester in his indecision. Nell, however, had nearly died, and since her awakening from the Fade no one had even asked how she was handling herself – beyond Wynne's gentle questions as to her physical state, there hadn't even been a whispered 'How are you holding up?' or 'So…death. What's that like?'

It was annoying, and tiring, and isolating. She felt like she was leaping into the fire of this Blight with a blindfold and a wide-arching hammer of uneven justice – each decision snowballing upon itself, but there was some….sense, now, that it was merely expected of her. True, she did not willingly share her travails – had not opened up to anyone totally since that fateful night by the river and roses - but she had never felt more distant from her self or the people around her; from Alistair to Morrigan, they were all strangers.

I never asked for any of this.

Her legs had brought her to her quarters at Eamon's estate, and it seemed they could go no further. Nell's knees buckled; she sank to the edge of the bed and wept. A thousand thoughts echoed in her mind; she felt her fingers tightening over her temples, as if her head might burst at any moment. Fractured images were accompanied by half-formed, nebulous words -

Alistair's voice, lyrical, soft and charming…even then, even then…Join us brothers and sisters…join us as we carry the duty that cannot be forsworn…

You are required to do nothing, least of all believe. Shut one's eyes tight or open one's arms wide, either way, one's a fool. Flemeth's laughing, her knowing eyes – that witch…

Eyes looking to her, always looking, expecting a decision, expecting the right choice, when any fool could see that no choice was ever right. Flemeth knew. Nell knew, now. The best a choice could ever be was informed. And even then – information, history, facts, all tainted.

The taint was even in her blood, her insides. She wondered if healing had been so taxing because Wynne had had to heal a body that was already partly dying. A slow death by duty, corruption by an irreversible decision that was neither right nor wrong, but merely necessary, made in a moment of panic.

And only now did she see the implications, only now did her fear manifest, stronger than any demon. She understood now, how men created demons – why nothing would ever be alright…

His Warden was crying.

No…really, she was weeping – her throat closing on sobs to mute them even now, when she was not aware she could be overheard.

She had said that she wanted to talk, and Zevran's body had been tense since she'd uttered the words. Some part of him knew that the next words they spoke to each other would push them one way or the other, irreversibly. This was the first moment that he'd found her alone, and he had waited for as long as he could. Truthfully, he did not even know what there was to be said between them. Nothing…though, perhaps everything, as well.

He had even toyed with the idea of leaving her to whatever fate was before her, but his feet would not take the steps. Besides, where would he go? Back to the Crows? Perhaps to Denerim or Rivain, work as a mercenary? None of the options left a good taste – the copper of his blood, drawn by his Warden, was somehow more palatable.

Her tears, however, were not.

He was in front of her before he'd realized the decision to take the steps, crouching to place his hands over her long fingers and pull them from her face. She frowned, jerking back her head and blinking several times. To his distaste, she straightened once she registered that it was he, immediately trying to disguise her previously softened demeanor.

Zevran studied her for a long moment. She had not yet bathed, though had cleaned herself quickly upon arrival at the estate. Her cheeks were pale except for a quick splash of red high on her cheeks – the look was almost fevered. Her eyes were swollen and red-rimmed, her cheeks wet and puffy, her lips chapped, her neck dirty, hair mussed. Her fingers were shaking within his cupped grip; with hazel eyes riveted upon him in surprise, Zevran guessed that she did not even realize he held them. He did not squeeze or grip – simply tried to grant some measure of calm with his own steadier palms, unobtrusively.

"What are you doing here? I-" She turned to look at the door, which was opened only halfway.

"You said you wanted to talk, my dear Warden."

He expected his lightly salacious tone to spark something within her – temper or heat, perhaps - but Nell's face simply crumpled.

"I can't really- there's-" She was speaking in fits and starts, her shoulders falling in. He waited; she took a breath and continued. "I have a lot on my mind right now, Zevran, I- I fear I can't give you my full attention." Her brows knitted together, eyes finally flicking back to his face. Once their gazes met, Zevran turned his downward; looking her in eye was uncomfortable. She could read him well. "You could have knocked."

He felt one corner of his mouth lift; he was watching her pulse, just above her collarbone, and it rose with her chiding tone.

"Mm, but you would have told me to go away, no?"

"No-" She started, and then winced. "Yes." Nell looked down at her hands in his grip and automatically raised them; the flush across her cheeks grew noticeably. "Would you wait, even so?"

"If you ask me to, I suppose I could think about it. Do you wish me to go?" Slowly, he tilted his head. Seeing her face in such disarray gave him an uneasy pain – superficially, she looked terrible, but in that moment he felt that knew what was bothering her more than she even did, and the sudden knowledge was unwieldy.

His Warden had nearly died, but still she was asked to solve the problems of a life that, he believed, she did not even want. She had the love of a half-realized man to wrestle with, and had to carry the expectations of an entire Order on her thin shoulders, without him even attempting to shoulder the burden with her. Worst of all, perhaps, was that she had not learned how to say 'no' to those around her. Even now, he fully expected no real rebuff from her, no matter what he did. She might push him off, but never away.

These thoughts would normally have incensed him, but instead he felt – protective.

The knot around his heart tightened.

He lifted a thumb to smoothly wipe away her tears, from one cheek and then the other – not gentle or rough, but deliberate, his eyes focused on the movement but his mind locked on her quiet response. Nell shook, but held firm – allowing it, but giving no indication of any other feeling. Frustrating. Entrancing.

"Zev…please come back later." Her tears gone, she lifted her head from his hand, and he obligingly moved it from her features. Her words were a plea, not a command, just as he'd expected.

"Hmmm…" Zevran tapped his finger to his lips, pretending to think. "No."

Zevran could really not have picked a worse time to appear; Nell felt broken, and when she had felt strong hands on top of hers, and opened her eyes to see the golden elf, the urge to allow him to soothe her had waxed strong. There had been no disappointment that he was not Alistair, and her heart trembled to admit it. His face was also lacking in the hatred, the bitterness she'd sensed for the last couple of weeks. Perhaps it had only been because she was crying, but to see him without the hard edge gave her an unexpected relief.

He needed to go. She was too raw, going to be too honest. Either one way or the other.

"There is too much to say, and I won't get it right. Later would be-" She shook her head.

"Oddly enough, my dear, I think there is not much to say at all." Zevran interrupted, subtly spreading his arms before her in a gesture of placation; a willingness to drop it, she gathered. He is always willing to drop it. It niggled.

Nell's mind was fuzzy. "There is." She sighed and closed her eyes, so she didn't have to look at him. Feeling soft was dangerous; she deliberately chose in that moment to be confrontational. "We could start with how you were cruel to Alistair, or about how you kissed me. Take your pick."

"I would always rather talk about kissing you." Zevran's deft, quick retort seemed easy, though his eyes flashed. "You need not worry, you have asked me not to do so again, and so I will not. Life is too short for unwilling lovers."

Nell finally opened her eyes, regarding the elf in front of her. While he had done away with some of his armor – the heavier or more awkward pieces, like his gauntlets and light pauldrons – he still looked prepared for a fight. His demeanor was defensive, but there was also that terrible air about him again – closed off and cold. She looked away, towards a window.

"Why did you-?"

His reply was immediate. "Because I wanted to."

"I find it hard to believe that was the only reason."

"Why?" Zevran laughed – a fragile sound. "I could say I was curious, or that I did it because you are a beautiful woman. Perhaps I could give you other reasons. Or, I could simply say I wanted to – they are really all the same reason."

Nell snorted. "None of those are any answer at all. You know that I am with Alistair, that-"

"Ah yes, Alistair. Our other topic, no?" He cut her off, lifting a few digits in what appeared to be a dismissive gesture, standing to move away and lean against the nearest wall. "Are we to talk about my cruelty to him in kissing you? Or perhaps my nerve in telling him what he knows to be true – that he mishandles you? It is funny, my dear Warden, that we are discussing my cruelty when I am the one to wipe your tears, no?"

"That's not fair, Zev, he's been told that the Arl intends to make him a king-"

"Considering that he is the one with a shield, Warden, you leap to his defense so very often."

"Well, he's not here, and you're insulting him behind his back."

"It is nothing I have not already said to his front." Zevran did not appear at all ruffled by the conversation at first glance – he had his usual defiant smirk – but Nell noticed that he simply grew tighter. Hard became harder; his body seemed to vibrate with tension, while his face was impassive.

"And you, my dear, can you own to such honesty to the man you claim to love?"

The words out of his mouth were so fast and so casually said that it took Nell a moment to process his true meaning. The mockery, the insouciant smile, the blatant knowing in his entire frame was an insult – he could not have hurt Nell more if he had punched her. He knew she'd said nothing. How could he not know? She and Alistair hadn't fought about it, Alistair hadn't tried to hunt Zevran down in jealousy, and there had been no fallout. And the guilt in it being pointed out so openly squeezed. "You bastard-" Nell was surprised at her tone; her raised voice, hands balling into fists. At how quickly he got a rise out of her.

"Ha! Bastard son of an Antivan whore, did you forget so easily? Do not expect me to act differently." Quick as a flash, he was off the wall. And she was getting on her feet. His face was locked, eyes searching – she could only imaging that she was his mirror. It was like they were both daring the other to be the one to push – and somehow each reluctant to be the instigator of a fall from…whatever sort of relationship they had. He continued.

"I have made no pretense with you, my Warden. You cannot blame me for this." His words were spat out, daring her to disagree.

"No pretense? No blame? You kissed me. I feel like I don't- you are not the same as you were. I would give anything to go back-"

"Mm, anything?" He purred. Mocking.

"Stop. You went from being my friend to being- you hate me, don't you?"

"Hmm, hate is a very strong word. I try to avoid anything requiring so much…commitment." Nell took a chance and raised her hand, gripping Zevran's chin tightly. She forced his face straight, eyes to her.

"Why?"

His eyebrows narrowed, head lifting out of her bruising grip. She let him go, but otherwise persisted. "Why?"

"You are getting dangerously direct, my dear."

"Stop." Nell pushed him, though he gripped her wrists in reflex, muting the tiny force she was able to muster and holding her captive. She was so easily handled by him, and it made her feel stupid. She felt she had to regain control – some semblance of her normal authoritative self. "Answer the question, Zevran"

"You spared my life, Warden, and you have my blood oath. That does not mean I need to answer your questions. You may ask, and I may choose not to answer, yes? Or…must I? Is that what my oath means to you?" His hands squeezed painfully around her wrists.

"I-" Nell was taken aback. Zevran looked angry, his eyes darkening to a deep golden color she was certain that she had never seen –did I make him feel like a slave? "So that's it, then? You are simply going to…dislike me, without telling me? Shall I just release you from your oath now, so you can be free of something you obviously don't want? Your oath is- it's only what you want it to be, Zevran. Nothing more."

He blinked. "You would not hold me to my oath?" Surprise replaced anger; Nell even glimpsed sudden insecurity, of all things, on his face.

She jerked her hands back, rubbing at her wrists "I hold you no longer to any oath. I haven't- for a long time. Leave any time you like." The words were dead, but sincere. Defeated. It was curious how she could be so angry at him – so frustrated, confused, but yet not wish him to leave. Zevran's presence had become a boon to Nell – something depended upon, something that she ultimately liked. More than liked…

However, the oath had ceased to matter to her in the immediate days after sparing Zevran's life. She'd meant what she'd said to Alistair – if he'd wanted to kill her, he would have. Poison in her stew, knifing her in her sleep, there were a thousand ways to kill her. Her eyes drifted downward. Perhaps it was just permission to leave that he'd wanted in the end – she'd gotten no further towards getting her questions answered. He didn't care enough to tell her, it seemed – he didn't want to work it out. Whatever had been holding him to her- those lines had somehow become cut. The thought caused a tug at her stomach and shivers in her forearms. She sank to the edge of the bed, weary.

"Do you wish me to go?" It was the second time he'd asked that question in scant minutes – but this time softly, so quietly. This time, it made tears brim.

"No." She shook her head immediately, unwilling to play a game. "No, Zevran. I wish for you to stay. I wish for you to be here." Nell pushed her hands back through her hair, trying to prevent it from falling into her eyes. "But I don't wish for you to be unhappy. I wish… I wish for you to choose. You've- you've gone from one oath to another, haven't you? One-Maker, I hate the word, but one form of master…to another, haven't you? Zev, I wouldn't hurt you for the world, but I have anyway. And- and you're right, there's nothing I can make you say. It…I made a mistake, making you talk to me, but I'm sorry. For whatever I did or did not do, I'm sorry."

"Warden-" Zevran faltered.

"I don't know if your shade hated me, but if you hate me, then what we had is just another thing I failed at." Another decision I've made poorly. "I didn't spare your life to make you hate it, so…if you've just been waiting for me to tell you to go…go. If that is your wish. With my blessing."

There was no end to his torment at the hands of the Warden.

He'd resolved to hate her, and she was sorry for his hatred. He thought to leave, and he had her blessing to go. It was not even martyrdom – it was…acceptance. Complete acceptance of his will – of his wants as a person, his happiness, wherever it may take him, whatever it meant. Acceptance that she had somehow erred with him, and that his mood was not of his own making, a product of his past and his stubbornness – she was wrong for thinking so, but that she was willing to shoulder the blame for this as well as the fate of the world was too much to be borne. She would say anything to alleviate him, perhaps, but she would also mean whatever she said the moment after it passed her lips. She was stubborn like that – and stupidly kind.

Kindness. Mercy. Acceptance. In a beautiful, flawed package he was bound to beyond false oaths and contingency plans.

It would no longer do to curse her. Himself, perhaps, for his reaction to her, but not her. She bore too much. Watching her suffer because of his insecurity was something he would not do.

Zevran heard himself make a strained sound, though he tried to cover it up with a chuckle.

"You wound me, Warden."

His tongue felt like lead, but he tried to say what he meant.

"I do not wish to go." He crouched in front of her again, lifting one corner of his mouth, daring to meet her eyes. "I wish to follow my oath. That is enough for now, yes?"

His Warden actually smiled, though it was watery, tainted by the tears caught up on her lovely lower lashes.

"And now I have made you cry. Perhaps I am as cruel as you say."

"You're very wicked, Zev." The Warden sighed, raising her knuckles to her eyes to wipe away the forming tears.

He stood smoothly, looking down at her tired frame. Despite the dirt and the caking of sweat on her now-dingy robes, she was still beautiful to him. Taking a chance – for when was it not worth it? – he put out a hand to run a dirty brown curl through his deft fingers, musingly. Nell turned her head towards him eyes widened again, but she did not tug away. That was a good sign.

"Perhaps someday, I will answer your question, my Warden."

"Which one? I think I asked at least two." She lifted a corner of her mouth, mimicking his thoughtful-but-amused expression. Her eyes were fixating on his face. He had noticed that she had developed a habit of running the lines of his jaw, his neck with her gaze. It was a fascinating mannerism, and one he only approved of. Feeling her regard even in that small sense was a quicksilver thrill in his thighs.

"Mm. True." He flashed a feral grin. "Then I shall pick which question to answer. I hope it is the one about kissing."

"You hope?" She slowly arched a fine brow, and he watched the muscles around her forehead change with the inherently graceful movement.

"My dear Warden, I have pledged not to kiss you again. A pledge which I am already regretting at this moment – as only demonstration would answer your question completely." A smooth chuckle left him; the sound was surprising to him. Flirting, while fun and prone to providing him with laughter, involved a fine give-and-take, a bantering dance that he could normally remove himself from while still participating. However, now, even small hints of his true emotion came through. Zevran did not know if the Warden even guessed at it, but it was enough to make the creases of his abdomen tighten. Further, if he kissed her again…he did not know what would happen. Better to deflect, and bring it to a place where she was uncertain to follow.

"We can talk about kissing without actually kissing."

"Oh, you think so?"

"Of course, we're not children." Nell crossed her arms just underneath her bosom – he looked. Mages really did have delightful breasts in general, but hers- "Mm, you are so very right, my dear…"

"Oh pft." Nell stood then, gently removing her hair from his lightly stroking grip and waving her arms in a remarkably effective shooing gesture – enough to make Wynne proud, he supposed. Despite her false fluster – she was no blushing virgin, and the conversation was not even close to risqué for either of them, he knew – there was far less emotional tension about her, now. Physical tension was always between them, would always be, but Zevran took a queer pride in knowing that it had been his comfort that had eased her.

Though, now there was something he simply had to know…

He was grinning, but at least he was backing away. Nell thought her breasts were still tingled even from his teasing, unheated glance. Just the mention of his kiss had made her remember exactly how good the elf was at it, and her traitorous body wanted another …demonstration.

So, it was best that he go.

Once backed to the door, Zevran glanced out, and then plucked one of her waving hands from midair, as easily as if it had been still. He stared at her for a long moment – the light flirting expression of his features was gone, replaced by an expression that was guarded and watchful, though not stony, thank the Maker.

A slow smile caught over the assassin's mouth, dangerous in its presumption, in its knowing. As if in a dream, Nell watched him guide the tips of her middle and index fingers to his lips. A deft movement of his thumb saw it slip between the two digits and ride through the space between –a slow rubbing. Only he could make such an otherwise innocent gesture somehow intentful – tapping into a strange sensual knowledge that riveted her to the spot, with electricity shooting through her nerves, through her forearms, and to her spine. His eyes never left hers, and she could only part her lips on no words when his mouth - and the barest pressure of his teeth – slid lightly but warmly over the pads of her fingers.

Nell choked, softly.

Zevran chuckled.

"I look forward, my dear, to our next adult conversation, yes?"

She wanted to flay him with words, but instead her eyes just dropped and her lips swelled, watching the dangerous play with her skin.

"Mm. Yes. That is a yes." He laughed then, eyes dancing, and released her, slipping out the door before she could do anything but throw hot breath at his retreating back, and stand there dumbly. Numbly. Sinful mage.

What if Alistair had seen?

Oh, Alistair. Nell sank against the wall, crossing her arms about her middle and letting her head fall back against the wall with a satisfying 'thunk,' taking the dull pain it caused as her due. Guilt immediately clawed at her stomach, and Zevran's words echoed in her mind.

"And you, my dear, can you own to such honesty to the man you claim to love?"

No, she couldn't. And she still wouldn't. What she felt for Alistair was not the same as what she felt for Zevran, and even as the word selfish echoed in her mind, Nell was also aware that complete honesty in love was a foolhardy notion. All couples had secrets, mystery – a space apart for themselves. Telling Alistair that she was attracted to Zev would only hurt him, and she would only really hurt him if she followed her physical impulses.

The emotional impulses that she had towards the assassin – the tugs in her stomach when he was in pain, and the swelling of his heart when she knew he would remain – were not things that she was even prepared to confront in her own mind, never mind on Alistair's brokenhearted face.

Nell breathed deeply, resolving to keep herself together. Her skin was alive – curse the elf – and she was suddenly restless. A walk in the cool air would do nicely, and then a bath.

Oh, a bath.

She forced herself to think of luxurious warm water, and dirt, and scrubbing brushed, then opened the door – and walked right into Alistair's chest.

"Oh-!" She both breathed out and laughed.

"…We really need to stop meeting like this." His well-loved tones made her sigh; happy to hear the chuckle in his voice rather than stress. Large, calloused but gentle fingers lifted her up by the jaw, and Nell smiled into his blessedly soft face.

She was too good, really, at not letting her guilt show. Too good at blocking her mind, at opening the part of her heart that belonged to my Alistair.

He lifted his brows towards her, and then looked over his shoulder and back, eyes sliding over what she could only imagine were the dirtier parts of her face. The corners of his brown eyes crinkled, however, and she tilted her head.

"You've been crying – did he – I saw him leaving…" Alistair's grip slowly firmed, and Nell immediately found herself babbling, trying to execute damage control.

"Oh! Oh." Nell shook her head furiously. "I mean. Oh. I was crying. And Zev insisted on talking. And I shooed him out."

All true statements she told herself.

Alistair's frown deepened. "I don't trust him. I-" he sighed, lowering his hands slowly to squeeze about Nell's shoulders. "I know you do, and I know I went a little crazy after- after everything, but I still think that you need to be careful. I don't want you alone with him."

Nell smiled gently, her hands of their own volition running down the fabric of his shirt. He had taken the time to undress from his armor, and the warm feeling of hard muscle under soft linen was a savored sensual delight. Every physical moment chased away the warmth left by Zevran's mouth on her fingers.

"Why were you crying?"

"Because I was upset. And worried about you – and…that was a long journey, Alistair. And the Arl, and all that fighting, and-"

"I made you cry?" The bereft tones of his voice were so sincere as to nearly be a caricature of broken-hearted guilt. Nell opened her mouth to respond but Alistair huffed out a frustrated breath, lowering his arms for leverage before hefting Nell towards his mouth as easily as if she were a doll.

She squeaked in surprise against his lips but surrendered happily. His mouth, at first, was soothing – the gentle press of his lips seeking some sort of forgiveness – but as Nell's body slid closer something strained, and then snapped in his demeanor. There was a pregnant pause where Alistair breathed against her mouth, and she cracked her lids. His eyes met hers, and she watched them melt – his gaze became dark chocolate, his jaw firmed. Anticipation cracked like a whip in her abdomen. Nell felt her skin flush just as his hand boldly snaked from her back to the swell of her bottom. He gripped, roughly, and uncharacteristically molded her frame to him, pushing her center to rub and chafe through cloth.

Nell breathed in raggedly. It had been weeks. And she was primed. Zevran had-

"Maker's breath-" Alistair's voice was low, caught halfway between surprise and desire. They were both dirty and tired, but the combined physical lack and emotional fallout was a potent cocktail. He stumbled forward awkwardly, kicking shut the door, and it was all Nell could do to prevent tripping over his feet and her own. The backs of her thighs smacked into something hard – end table, her mind supplied. Alistair was gripping her clothes like he was searching for purchase, and Nell only barely found the grace to perch herself on the edge of the furniture.

They had made love several times now. This was not making love. It was visceral – the expression of concern, exhaustion, rage, care, and confusion of the last few weeks. It manifested in a jumbled sense of desperation – of life and you are here and I need you and I'm scared. For Nell, it was also I'm sorry.

He was panting in her ear, and his hands were tight – hesitant but wanting, trembling up the pale length of her legs. Normally they dipped their toes into physicality and meandered through the steps slowly – perhaps Alistair somehow needed to cope with this facet of desire. Nell encouraged him, blatantly opening her thighs to his touch, letting her teeth rake on his neck – he liked that, always had. Distracting him from the novelty was the best that she could offer. She bit until he grunted – until he seized the hard-edged gilding of this, until he understood that it was needed, it was alright.

His rough fingers rode upwards until they found her; he slid the backs of his knuckles against the pulse at her center before turning his hand over, stroking with gaining confidence. Nell lifted for him, soft and submissive encouragement, letting her eyes flash into his to maintain their trembling connection. Her hands went for the ties at his waist, and Alistair swallowed, muscled throat working.

"Maker – Nell-" He still had to ask, didn't he, at least with his eyes. She shook out her head, dipping her hand to find the length of him, manipulating the hot velvet in her palm; he choked and hissed. She brought her lips to his ear, whispering gutturally to her knight.

"Just make me yours."

"I-"

"Now. It's alright…have me."

He cursed. Alistair didn't swear much, but he was very fluent when he did. Perhaps he had wanted to affirm their connection more tenderly, but the rough rawness of it was something she knew that she needed. He needed it too – so often they put aside their flashes of lust for some higher calling; giving in to that bond was making her heart quake. He needed to know that she wanted, that he wanted, that it was okay.

Alistair was a man uncomfortable with his own desires and wants – he pushed them aside too often, unless they involved those he loved. He asked for little – he complained, surely, but he never offered an alternative. He almost never said yes, this. His life had been one of be seen and not heard, or being sent to the Chantry, of being saved or given what he wanted by hands other than his own. The only time she'd seen him follow a desire had been in his pledge to her; in his asking to come to her bed.

Sometimes, a man just needed to take. Perhaps this was the arena to learn, when it was just the two of them. Nell moved her bottom forward and tilted up her hips; she relinquished his arousal and pulled his breeches down roughly, flagrantly rubbing herself against him when she could. Tempting, teasing, and trying to get him to lose control.

He heaved in and out, raggedly, forehead beading with the effort – struggling to take all of the hints, to let go. Nell crashed her mouth on his – she bit and tugged with little care to pain. She needed him to do it – secretly, she needed him to erase the sensual stamp of another man as well, and brand himself on her. Perhaps it will help there, too.

Finally, after what seemed an hour but was probably a minute, he plunged. Gasped. Withdrew. Repeated. His eyes were squeezed shut and Nell just clung. She did little but remain open and encourage him, whispering filth into his ear that would have made Andraste weep. She fed on the ripples of his want, the coiled tension releasing. His fingers bruised on her hip, and the painful slap of her thighs on the corners of the end table would chide her come morning, but Nell didn't care.

Neither of them lasted long. Heat and sliding, slick sweat let them forget everything but flesh, until there was nothing but yellow stars, spiraling release, and oblivion.

And Alistair. Only Alistair.

For now.