A/N: And at last, this is the chapter where this story earns its promised M rating. All NSFW warnings accordingly apply ;)

Moira huddled, arms wrapped around her legs, before the fire, staring into its depths. The flickering embers popped and sizzled, and she allowed herself to float away, her thoughts untethered and roaming free. She was content to sit there, mindless, entranced in the hypnotic rhythm of the flames, until a shifting log sent forth a spray of red-hot cinders, and a stray fleck of fire seared against her skin. Recoiling instinctively, she hissed in pain and backed away, raising a hand to the tender skin. With her face now turned away from the fire, the air cooled at once, and with it, her thoughts returned, unwelcome and unbidden.

The evening's revelations had come swiftly, tumbling one over the other in an avalanche of doom. The Grey Wardens' duty. Morrigan's dark bargain. Her feelings for Loghain. All had been a shock – and yet, it was the last that now held her captive. Perhaps because she sensed, on some level, that it was not truly a revelation at all, but an affirmation of that which she had known but denied to herself for some time now.

Because it doesn't make any sense, she argued with herself. How can I love him? It's only been a short time that we have traveled together, gotten to know one another. Before that, he was trying to kill me. It's absurd! But absurd or not, it was true, and she could no longer lie to herself. Her feelings for the taciturn teyrn had grown, blossomed, taken root; they had transformed from wary acceptance into steady friendship, and, at last, into a deep and abiding fondness. She knew, on some level, that his feelings for her had undergone the same metamorphosis, though whether they ran as deep as hers did, she could only wonder.

She thought back to the Landsmeet, back to when Alistair had begged her to execute Loghain. She'd been taken aback by her friend's insistence, and instinctively recoiled against it; at the time, she hadn't been able to say why. But now… she knew she hadn't loved him then, certainly, but now she recognized that perhaps the seed of what would one day grow into her present affection for him had even then been present, somewhere inside her. Perhaps it was an appreciation for the man he'd been, all his life, before Ostagar; the Hero of River Dane, but also a man out of place, a commoner elevated to the nobility, a man who'd been born with nothing, had lost everything, and yet had managed to forge a place for himself in the cold, uncaring world. Perhaps it was a sense that, given the right pressures and conditions, she could all too easily imagine herself treading the same path he had taken, a path that had led to darker and more desperate decisions each step of the way. He'd made mistakes, it was true, many of them dreadful; but what would she have done, in his boots, faced with the same decisions? Would she have had the wisdom, the fortitude, to see Howe for what he was, despite the dark whisperings of his retinue of mages at the back of her mind, urging her thoughts along their desired path, bending her slowly, imperceptibly, to their will?

Moira sighed deeply. She knew that no one else would understand – that no one else could look at him and see the man she saw: the man whom fate had presented with a losing hand, and who had thrown in all his chips anyway, because he would be damned if he'd fold. He was a stubborn, sullen grump; distrustful and hardnosed, practical to the point of ruthlessness. And yet, he was also the man who had comforted her, encouraged her, and reassured her over the past few weeks as her stamina and sanity reached their breaking point – the man she'd grown to lean on, the man whose quiet regrets for his own mistakes did not keep him from giving her his careful, considered advice. The man she'd fallen in love with.

She ran an agitated hand through her hair, tangling her fingers through the loose auburn waves, and took a deep, shuddering breath. The air inside her room suddenly felt too hot, too stifling. She needed fresh air. Adjusting her linen shirt, she pushed open the door that Morrigan had left ajar and emerged into the corridor. Loghain's door, just across from hers, was firmly shut, and the sight of it caused Moira's heart to flutter in her chest. He was in there, just on the other side of it, quite likely asleep by now – but perhaps not. Moira had lost track of the time that had melted away while she'd sat in a trance before the fire, but it could not have been that long – it had been perhaps half an hour, at the most, since she had taken her leave of him. Since he'd planted that maddeningly chaste kiss on her hair and bid her goodnight.

She hovered, unmoving, staring mutely at his door. And what would you say if you knocked, she asked herself sardonically. 'Good evening, I just realized that I've fallen in love with you, would you let me come inside?' And then what?

Heat rushed to Moira's cheeks as she contemplated what exactly might happen after "then what." She recalled the morning by the stream, when she'd come upon him half-dressed and been unable to tear her eyes away. She knew she desired him – that part, at least, she'd been unable to deny for some time. But there was a difference between physical desire and what she now felt – a deep, steadfast longing, welling up from the depths of her soul, suffusing her entire body with an ethereal glow. This was stronger, more substantial – not just the passing fancy of a young woman observing a handsome man.

She swallowed past a hard lump that had suddenly formed in her throat. She had never been intimate with a man before. She'd never seen the need. Oh, she enjoyed the idea of sex, certainly – she'd had plenty of youthful fantasies about some of Highever's handsomer knights, glimpsed with an admiring eye as they sweated and strove at their exercises in the keep's courtyard. But an actual dalliance had seemed another beast entirely, and one she'd never wanted to entangle herself in. She'd never been coquettish, and did not relish the idea of breaking anyone's heart – and, handsome though the knights might have been, she'd always known that they'd been far too beneath her station for her father to consider them as a marriage match. It seemed so ridiculous now – now that Highever had been reduced to a smoldering ruin, and her father reduced to ashes – but she'd always waited, hoping to meet the man who would be both a suitably handsome and earnest husband, and a suitably noble match.

But that had been before Howe, before Duncan, before the Joining, before Riordan, before Morrigan. That had been the fate for a different woman with a different life. Moira's fate was now bound up with the Blight and the Archdemon – there was nothing in her future but darkness and death. Her death, or the death of the only person who now meant anything to her in the whole of the world.

It was beyond cruel, beyond unfair; but even as the capricious injustice of it threatened to swallow her whole, she found within herself a growing determination that all hope was not yet lost. Riordan might still fulfill his vow, after all; and as callous as it seemed to wish such a fate on another, Moira found herself hoping against whatever odds might present themselves that the veteran Grey Warden – an aging warrior with no family, no ties to the world, no desire beyond fulfilling his duty – might yet spare her from the terrible choice that otherwise awaited.

She needed, if nothing else, to convince Loghain that it was unnecessary for him to take the final blow himself. He had already informed her of his intention to do so, inspired by his sense of duty and his perceived need to atone for his sins – but Moira suspected that there was more to it than that. He'd seemed entirely unmoved by her insistence that she, as the senior Warden in the event of Riordan's death, would have the right to decide who made the sacrifice – he clearly did not intend for there to be a choice at all. He thought to right his wrongs, and save her life, by sacrificing his own in the process.

The thought made Moira sick – did he really think it would be better for her to lose him? To face her uncertain future alone, without a soul left in the world in whom she could trust and confide? To suffer through heartbreak yet again? Did he think that he would be protecting her by forcing her to live without him?

Damn him and his sense of responsibility, and duty – he was not the only person of whom duty made demands! What about her duty – she was the senior Warden, damn it all, as much as she'd never wanted to be. What about her responsibility to Ferelden – which, whatever her feelings about the Grey Wardens, she would give her life to save, just as he would? But, of course, the real crux of the issue was that she – not he – had just rejected the one means, however dark, of ensuring that they both survived the battle. It had been her decision, and she should be the one to pay the price for it. Not him. Never him.

She blinked hard, clearing away the mist that threatened at the corners of her eyes, blurring the rich wood carvings on his door into an indistinct dark smudge. She needed to tell him how she felt. If this was what she meant to do – if her life was forfeit if Riordan failed – then she at least needed him to know what he meant to her. That, thanks to him, she would know, if only for a few nights, what it felt like to be dizzyingly, breathlessly in love. Maybe it was just fate's last, cruel way of making a joke at her expense; maybe it was because she knew she had such little time left in the world. But she knew, in a way that she'd never be able to articulate, that it was real, for however long it could last.

Swallowing the knot of grief and desperation that had formed in her throat, she took a deep breath, strode to his door in two steps, and delivered a solid, emphatic knock on his door.

As soon as she did, a thick, overwhelming fear gripped her – the realization that the bell could not be unrung, as it were. Oh, Maker. Now I have to figure out what to say to him – except maybe he's asleep, and he won't hear me, and I can pretend this never happened and not have to actually face him and try to find the words to tell him –

Her rambling inner monologue was silenced immediately when the door opened mere moments after her knock, and there he was, still dressed in his soft linen shirt and simple trousers from earlier.

"Moira?" He regarded her curiously. "What is – " His voice trailed off as he seemed to take in her appearance, and his brows furrowed in concern. "Is everything all right? Are you having trouble resting?"

"Oh," she managed, stupidly, taken utterly by surprise by his sudden appearance. "I, uh, thought perhaps you'd already be asleep."

He offered a rueful half-smile at that. "I can never sleep the night before a battle. My mind races and won't be still for even a moment. It would be a supreme exercise in futility to try."

"Oh, well. I didn't mean to interrupt. I just…" The words died on her tongue as she looked at him, gazing at her with a mixture of gentle concern and wry amusement. Her chest clenched tightly, threatening to burst apart under the strain of emotion, and her courage quailed. Perhaps sensing that she was still distraught over Riordan's words from earlier, he eased himself away from the door and opened it further.

"Well, there's no sense in you standing out in the hallway all night, Maker knows. If you can't rest either, then you're welcome to join me." Taking a deep, steadying breath for courage, she stepped inside his room, closing the door softly behind her.

The click of the door's latch, though soft and subtle, seemed deafening in its finality. She watched as he moved to the fireplace and picked up a poker to stoke the flames – the interplay of his muscles beneath his shirt brought a flush to her face, and she noticed, to her dismay, that her hands had begun to tremble. The implications of what she meant to say to him had finally begun to sink in.

Maker, get hold of yourself! You are a warrior, and a grown woman, not a simpering milkmaid! Though she supposed it was fair to admit that, in the arts of love, she hardly had any more experience – and probably considerably less – than most milkmaids.

"I'd offer you some tea, but I'm afraid I don't have any. And I have to admit I don't much care for the idea of going to the kitchens to get any. Maker knows I'd probably run into Eamon taking his late night stroll, and short of the Archdemon, I can't imagine anyone I'd rather see less." She managed a wan smile at his bleak humor, but tea was the furthest thing from her mind.

"It's fine," she said distractedly. "I don't need tea, thank you. I just…"

Just say it. Tell him how you feel. You're wasting time… and time is the one thing you don't have much of any more.

"Loghain, I can't let you do this," she burst. He turned away from the fire to regard her seriously.

"Can't let me do what?" he asked, placing the poker back against the mantle and turning to her with a frown. He must have read the answer in her face, because he closed his eyes and sighed deeply.

"Moira." He sounded weary and resigned. "You have to realize that, should Riordan fail, I am the obvious choice, which is as it should be. I am much older than you. You said this 'Calling' comes to mature Wardens – I cannot imagine, should I survive the Blight, that it would spare me for much longer. And you cannot deny that I am, at least in part, responsible for Ferelden's dire circumstances." He heaved a frustrated sigh. "I am… touched that you do not wish to see me come to harm, but if it comes down to you or me, then you will surely see the wisdom of allowing me to take this burden."

"No, Loghain, I do not see the wisdom!" She took another deep breath – her face still burned hot, and her hands had nervously gathered at the hem of her shirt, bunching up fistfuls of linen, to keep them from trembling. "Don't you see? Don't you see that losing you is worse to me than sacrificing myself?"

"Moira." His voice was affectionate and exasperated all at once. "I… your concern is kind. And I do not take it lightly. But…" And now he approached her, and her heart nearly stopped in her chest as he placed a gentle hand on her arm. "Do you not think that I too have no desire to allow you to perish, if I can prevent it?"

Her breath caught in her throat as she met his eyes at last, his pale blue eyes searching deep into hers. Even through the thin material of her shirt, her skin was on fire where his hand touched her, the soothing pressure of his touch threatening to overthrow her senses.

"You don't understand," she whispered, and boldly raised a hand from the hem of her shirt to rest atop his. "This was my decision. I'm the senior Warden, and you can't…" She trailed off, her eyes never leaving his. Slowly, agonizingly, she trailed her fingers across his hand, her blood throbbing with every beat of her heart as her touch ghosted across the rough skin.

"You just can't," she whispered, feeling a rogue tear slip down her cheek, unable to blink it away in time.

"Moira, I…" He hesitated, and she saw in his eyes an unspoken struggle. "I care for you, greatly. I do not think I could add to my guilt by allowing you to take on a burden that, by all rights, should be mine to carry."

"Bugger your guilt!" She reached up to grab at his shoulder with her other hand, and shook him, gently, for emphasis. "When are you going to stop carrying it around like a shield? You are a good man, and a kind man, and… I order you not to do this!"

He had enclosed his hand around hers, and her pulse raced as his fingers lightly stroked hers. Beneath the palm of her other hand, his chest was broad and warm, and she longed to touch him beneath the thin layer of his shirt, to feel his hot skin beneath her fingertips.

To her surprise, he smiled at her. "Well, now, if this is an order, then I suppose I have no choice but to obey." He broke the gaze, and looked down to their entwined hands. With a small ghost of a smile, he allowed his thumb to linger against the inside of her wrist, tracing along the delicate vein, feeling her pulse throb beneath her skin. She stared wildly at him, her body on fire with the reactions his soft, graceful touch was eliciting in her.

His acquiescence had been too easy, too sudden – and Moira did not believe it. But a greater part of her knew that she was never going to convince him – he was too dutiful, too gallant. His guilt was too great, and – she realized with a sharp pang – his feelings for her too strong. Morrigan had been right. The realization brought forth a heady rush of need, and Moira moved her hand from his shoulder to his chin, gently turning him to look at her once more.

"Loghain." She needed to say the words before the moment passed. "I –"

"Hush," he murmured. "Moira… are you certain this is wise? You have had a very difficult day. The next few will be even worse. I do not wish to be a complication." He sighed, and released her hands. "It is very late. You should go get some rest. I would not wish to distract you."

Moira stared at him, in equal measure indignant and disbelieving. "You want me to leave?"

He sighed in frustration. "I don't – Moira, it is not a good idea! This is not a good idea. The last thing you need is an entanglement –"

"Who are you to decide the 'last thing I need'?" she challenged hotly. "The last thing I need is to worry about you killing yourself in some misguided attempt at atonement! What I need is for you to understand how much I love you!"

There it was: the bell had been rung. For several moments, which stretched out before her like an agonizing eternity, Moira waited, hoping wildly that she had not pushed him too far, had not taken this fragile thing they had and shattered it as carelessly as a child with a teacup.

"Moira, I do not want you to do anything you might regret," he said carefully. "I am – Maker, Moira, I am an old man with nothing to offer!"

"Oh, Loghain," she shook her head sadly. "You already have what I want. And I am not leaving unless you swear to me, before the Maker, that you do not love me. If you can speak those words, honestly and to my face, then I will leave and I won't bother you again. But I do not want you to doubt that I am here because I love you, and I want you, and I don't want to die and never know what it was like to love a man." A hot tear slipped down her cheek, and she brusquely wiped it away.

He stared at her, his eyes blazing in the flickering shadow of the fire, and for a brief, terror-stricken moment, she thought that perhaps she had read him all wrong: that he did not love her, and would now send her from his room, never to speak of this again.

Instead – with a long, slow sigh that seemed to come from the very depths of him – he approached her slowly, almost reverently, until he was standing just before her.

"I am no prize, Moira," he said softly, his hand reaching up as if to take hers, but hesitating, holding back at the last moment. "And I would not drag you down to share in my shame."

"If there are any who shame you, then they are fools and I care nothing for what they think," she whispered, hope reigniting in her heart as she reached out and seized his hesitant hand in hers. "Loghain, please… I want this. I want you."

Something transformed in his ice blue eyes, then; the lingering hesitation seemed to melt away, and Moira's heart thrummed with wild desire as she saw him now regard her with undisguised passion.

"Then, if you are certain…" But even as he spoke the words, his hands had moved to rest gently, but firmly, on her hips, tugging her closer until their bodies were nearly pressed together. He leaned in, and Moira reminded herself to breathe as one of his braids brushed softly against her cheek.

"I've never been more certain of anything." She lifted her arms to entwine them around his neck, a thrill racing through her as his muscles tensed in response. She inched forward, parting her lips in anticipation until – with a jarringly odd sensation – her nose bumped against his, and she instinctively jerked back in response with a startled "oof." Loghain laughed – actually laughed –and, with a swiftness of purpose that made Moira gasp, he tightened his arms around her waist, pulled her in, and kissed her soundly.

Moira had kissed men before – well, perhaps it was more accurate to say that she had kissed boys before. There had been stolen moments, during various interminable aristocratic gatherings, when she and some or other reasonably-attractive young noble buck had, feeling mischievous and naughty, snuck off to the stables. None of the experiences had ever left Moira wanting more – the lads, eager though they undoubtedly were, sadly lacked any technique commensurate with their ardor, and Moira had often found herself hastily extricating herself from the situation, sputtering some excuse or other to the crestfallen young man. She'd always been disappointed that such stolen kisses had never managed to live up to the reputation they had in romantic ballads – far from inspiring bountiful passion, they had mostly just been sloppy and wet, forcing her to desperately come up with an excuse to abandon her would-be paramour so she could wipe his saliva from her lips without his noticing.

Kissing Loghain proved to be nothing like kissing an inexperienced, feckless boy behind the stables. Now, as Loghain's lips moved against hers, applying just the right amount of pressure in exactly the right places, Moira finally understood what all the fuss was about in the ballads. An ache blossomed deep within her belly, warm and tingling, as he parted his lips just enough to take in her bottom lip, his tongue flitting softly against her, as if asking for permission. Daring greatly, she opened her mouth to him, and gasped in surprise as he deepened the kiss, his tongue gently but meticulously exploring her, discovering her slowly. She could feel, more than hear, his growl of pleasure rumbling through her, seemingly coming from inside her, and in passionate response she pressed herself flush against him, dancing her tongue against his, making her own foray into the contours of his mouth, tasting him, discovering him in turn.

This time, his growl was plainly audible, and with a sudden and impatient motion, he pushed her backwards, until her back bumped roughly up against the wall. A rush of hot desire pulsed through Moira's blood, centered in her belly and spreading lower, and she pressed herself closer yet to him, feeling the firm muscles of his chest clearly through the scant layers of clothing that came between them. Moira, restless and desperate to touch him somewhere, anywhere, slid her hands up along the heated skin of his neck to tangle in his soft black hair. He snarled impatiently, huffing out a breath that was equal parts growl of desire and sigh of pleasure, and abandoned her lips abruptly. Moira's whimper of displeasure was silenced at once by the feel of his mouth against her jaw, kissing its way roughly up to take her sensitive ear between his teeth.

Moira now knew why some likened love to madness – she could not think clearly, could not see clearly, could imagine nothing or no one that could possibly matter more than him, here, right now. She was possessed of the single-minded need to touch him, to feel all of him beneath her hands and skin. Abandoning his soft hair, her hands roamed aimlessly across the broad expanses of his back and chest, and she was pleased – in the part of her brain still capable of formulating rational thought – that he felt as solid and muscular as he'd looked that day she'd lustfully stared at him by the stream. She shifted against him, pressing closer, and – with a realization that sent a throb of molten desire straight into the core of her womanhood – felt the evidence of his desire for her, pressing insistently against her belly, straining against the thin material of his trousers. With a bold impulse borne of delirious madness, she reached down and stroked her hand across his length, feeling the power and virility of his manhood beneath her palm. She shuddered in longing, her knees weak at the thought of such vigorous masculinity inside her.

With a growl of startled desire, he jerked away from her, as though shocked. She had just begun to come back into herself, and a creeping anxiety stole over her; afraid she'd done too much, too soon, and scared him away – but before any such thoughts could take hold, he pressed himself full against her again, more forcefully this time, ensuring that his manhood poked hard into her belly.

"You see what you do to me?" His voice was rough and rasping, and Moira was once again lost. With a suddenness that surprised her, he reached out and grabbed her wrist, pinning her against him. Taking her in his arms, he maneuvered them around, until she faced the wall, and then – gently, but assertively – pushed her backwards onto the bed. With a startled yelp, she landed on her back, splayed across the rumpled bed coverings. Her heart hammering wildly in her chest, she slid backwards until she reached the pillows, and sat up, her face flushed and hair tousled.

I am in Loghain's bed. Sweet Maker, this is actually happening.

She looked up to where he stood before her, taking in all of him for the first time since they had kissed, and the change in his appearance was startling. His pale face, normally so coolly composed, was now flushed and bright, his countenance openly unguarded, making no attempt to conceal his desire. His ordinarily smooth hair was unkempt, and the braid that framed the left side of his face had come undone, the dark hair falling softly against his cheek. His clothes were rumpled and disheveled from the wandering attention of her hands, and she noted, with a pang of desire, that she could see the profile of his substantial manhood, clearly defined against the thin fabric of his trousers. He stared at her with unabashed lust, and she could tell, from the way he flexed his fingers in rhythmic distraction, that he was as lost as she was.

"Moira… if you do not want this, now is the time to say so."

His voice was hoarse and tattered, and she could see that he clung to the precipice of self-control. The ache she felt, deep in her core, had become a constant, rhythmic throb, pulsing in time with every beat of her heart. She gazed deeply at him, this handsome, rugged man – the man she desired, the man she loved, the man who so evidently desired her in turn.

She was reclining against his pillow, and realized – as she followed the path of his lustful gaze – that her linen shirt had hitched up, leaving the creamy skin of her belly exposed. He stood there, fixed and immobile, awaiting her response; with a boldness that surprised her, she sat up, pulled her shirt over her head in a smooth motion, tossed it aside, and lay back against his bed, nervous but eager, clad only in her breast band and trousers, and invited him to come to her with open arms.

His response was instantaneous. With a growl, he tore his own shirt hastily over his head, and Moira was treated once again to the delectable sight of his firmly-muscled chest. With a sudden impulse, Moira sat up, shifting to the edge of the bed, and pressed her hands to his chest, stopping him from joining her on the bed.

"Moira…"

"Hush," she whispered, ignoring the modest voice in the back of her mind that was increasingly self-conscious about her own state of undress. "I want to touch you."

She wanted him to touch her, to explore her – but first, she needed to touch him, to feel his chest beneath her hands, to run her fingers through the sparse dusting of hair and trace his scars. This she did, reverently and with deliberation, her fingers deftly following the trails of scars both old and new, mapping the contours of his robust musculature, feeling the heat of his skin. With her breath catching in her throat, she leaned in close, and placed a kiss against the hard plane of his chest, his coarse, prickly chest hair brushing against her cheeks, tickling her nerves. He was so close, and she could smell the scent of his skin, a beguiling, masculine blend of soap and leather and his own unique essence. Just beneath her breasts, she could feel the heat of his manhood, so agonizingly close, still concealed beneath the maddening barrier of his trousers. Moira was on fire – her skin burned, her pulse raced, and she did not think she could bear the urgency of her desire for much longer. With an impatient tug, she grabbed his hips in her hands and pulled him down onto the bed with her.

Her back had barely hit the bed coverings before Loghain, who had endured her teasing ministrations with rapidly-waning fortitude, took charge. With a sudden movement, he pinned her to the mattress, and Moira moaned as he pressed his full weight against her, his mouth claiming her in a frantic clash of lips and teeth and tongue. She heard his rumbling growl in her ear as his hands roamed across her body, and she arched her back in startled delight as his palms found her breasts, the sensation of his fingertips brushing against her sensitive buds sending a jolt of lightning through her nerves. No sooner had she recovered from the intensity of the sensations his fingers had produced than she felt his hands slide roughly across her sides, before he braced himself on his arms and propped himself above her. He regarded her intently through the curtain of dark hair that framed his face, his blue eyes burning with desire, and Moira felt herself blush under his scrutiny – aware, through her own raging lust, of the fullness of what she was about to do with him.

"Loghain, I…" Her voice trailed off as she thought of how she should express exactly how special this moment was. "I've never… I mean… you're…"

"Shh." It was his turn to shush her now, as he leaned down and placed a soft, impossibly tender kiss against her lips. "You have no reason to be afraid. I will be gentle."

His words banished the last of her hesitation, and with a trembling, unsteady laugh, she gratefully wrapped her arms around his neck, exploring the tautness of his muscles with her wandering hands. "I'm not afraid," she whispered, kissing him in return. "Not when I'm with you."

He smiled at her, then, and, as he leaned down to kiss her, she felt his hands moving across her chest, around her sides, until his fingers lingered at the edge of her breast strap. Her pulse quickened as she realized what he meant to do, and a sudden notion of modesty seized her at the thought of being revealed before him; but the feeling passed as quickly as it came, and, as he worked the band free and tossed it gently but carelessly to the floor, she found she had no urge to cover herself. Nevertheless, she felt her face grow hot as she observed his frank appraisal, his eyes hungrily roaming over her bare breasts with undisguised approval.

"Maker, you're beautiful." His whispered words sent a thrill through her blood; the feel of his lips against her breasts, as he leaned down and took a rosy nipple in his mouth, amplified that thrill a hundredfold. Moira gasped and arched against him – she'd never known that her body could produce such feelings of intense physical pleasure. A ragged moan escaped her throat as he paid his delicate ministrations to each sensitive breast in turn, and she threaded her fingers through his hair, holding him tight against her chest, urging him to continue with eager hands.

The pressure in her lower core had been building with every kiss, every caress; and now, Moira felt as though she would burst if she did not receive any relief. With a groan, she pressed herself close against him, a throb of desire pulsing through her as his clothed manhood came into contact with her own trousers, pressing insistently against her aching center. As though he'd read her mind, Loghain – earning a groan of disappointment from Moira – eased away from her breasts, and raised himself to his knees. His eyes never left hers as his hands strayed down to the enclosure of his trousers, and Moira's throat constricted as he nimbly untied the laces, finally revealing his considerable manhood to her avid gaze. She thought she noticed a ghost of a smile on his face as he observed her reaction, before he tugged his trousers down and off entirely, leaving him naked before her.

Maker, he was handsome – she'd thought once that he was in good shape for a man his age, but she now realized that hardly did him justice. He was in fantastic shape for a man of any age – his muscular physique, strong and robust without being bulky or heavy, would be the envy of a fighting man of her own age, let alone of one with twice the years again. And this was the man who would introduce her to the art of lovemaking. Suddenly taken with an impatient, ardent frenzy, Moira reached down to her own trousers, scrabbling at the ties with fumbling fingers, trying to remove them as fast as possible. With mounting frustration, she realized that they stubbornly refused to budge – she tugged harder and more emphatically at them with an impatient growl, until she felt Loghain's hands still hers. She looked up at him wildly and was supremely riled to notice his eyes glittering with mirth.

"Here. Allow me," he murmured, an undercurrent of laughter in his rumbling tenor as he worked patiently but insistently at the tangled laces of her trousers. At last, the lacing gave way, and – with a firm and triumphant tug – he pulled them down and off, and they joined his in a discarded heap on the floor. She flushed hotly, realizing that there were now no barriers between them – physical or otherwise.

"Maker," he hummed, his hands traveling the length of her body uninterrupted by clothing. "If I am not the most fortunate man in Thedas, I do not know who is." His hands lingered as they traced a path down her belly to her thighs, and she whimpered when he deliberately avoided touching her where she most craved him.

"Patience, dear Moira," he whispered, but even as he said the words, he took pity on her, and brought one large, rough hand to rest at the juncture between her thighs, sliding a finger slowly, tantalizingly across her wet entrance. Moira choked out a breathless cry of pleasure – the sensations that had so strongly commanded her when he'd kissed her breasts now returned with an intensity that dwarfed anything that she had ever felt before. His fingers danced across her womanhood, sliding inside, finding the tiny center of her desire – each new, bold touch bringing Moira closer to the edge.

Moira had never known that anything could be this wonderful; that she could experience such raw, unadulterated pleasure. She was dimly aware of Loghain's other hand, pressing against the hot flesh of her inner thigh, as he continued to plunder her sex with his teasing, searching fingers; she vaguely perceived a tension in her inner core as he slipped another finger into her depths, all the while his thumb pressed and circled against her sensitive nub. Moira was aware only of each burst of pleasure, exploding in time with every beat of her heart, and her own gasping, panting need for air; she could distantly hear the sounds of ragged, incoherent moans, and on some level, was aware that they were issuing from her own throat. Then – with a wave of intensity that was upon her before she had time to prepare – a pure flash of crystalline pleasure exploded along every nerve of her body, buffeting her over and over relentlessly, until at last receding like the tide, leaving her body trembling and quaking in its wake.

By the time she came back into herself, she noticed Loghain, propped above her on his arms, the warmth of his body lightly pressing against her. Overcome, she threw her arms around him, the rippling aftershocks of pleasure reignited by the sensation of his rigid cock poking into her belly. She was ready, now.

"Maker, Loghain, please. I want you to take me," she whispered, lifting her legs to brush against his. With a soft chuckle, he nuzzled his face into her neck.

"I intend to," he murmured, his hoarse murmur thrumming against her skin. With a soft kiss, he raised himself up again, positioning himself above her, his eyes fixed unblinkingly on hers. Moira slid her hands across his body, mapping the muscles of his back as he flexed above her, shifting his hips until she felt the tip of his cock against her entrance. Slowly, deliberately, he pushed himself into her, and with a gasp that was equal parts anticipation and apprehension, she felt her walls expanding to accommodate his length, the mild discomfort of his size offset by the reverberating pleasure of the sensations he produced as he moved in her. With a sudden, sharp pang, she realized he'd broken through what remained of her maidenhead; he seemed to have had the same realization, because he stilled himself, and placed a soft kiss against her forehead.

"Are you all right?" he asked gently, his lips resting tenderly against her skin. His hands caressed her soothingly, tracing soft patterns against her skin. She gave herself a brief moment to get used to the feel of him inside her; until, as the pain receded to be replaced by a growing, urgent need, she realized she could feel the throb of his cock within her. The sensation was electric, and the final vestiges of her virginal pain faded into the background to be replaced by a renewed sense of desire.

"I've never been better," she replied honestly, squeezing his shoulders for emphasis, and lifting her face to meet his lips with a kiss. "Now make love to me, Loghain."

He was, as she soon discovered, eager to oblige. Satisfied now that the pains of virginity no longer plagued her, he began to move, at first slowly and deliberately; but, as she gained confidence and poise, and began to match his rhythm with her own, he increased his pace, moving against her with increasingly passionate abandon. Moira matched his tempo, following his lead; and, as their bodies moved together in a sweaty, frenzied harmony, she realized that lovemaking was like a dance; all she had to do was follow Loghain's lead, respond to his cues, and the rest took care of itself. Perhaps one day… perhaps eventually… she would be bold and experienced enough to take the lead herself, and lead him on the dance.

With eager bravado, she dared to wrap her legs around his waist, urging him deeper inside of her, spurring him to take her faster. He complied at once, his groans of pleasure a sweet music in her ears; to see, to feel, the taciturn teyrn come so undone, and to know that it was her doing, was almost enough to send her over the edge a second time. She was near climax again, she knew – the feel of his manhood inside her, moving, sliding against and within her, was agonizing and sweet, and she felt herself shaking, coming apart from the inside. She needed to be as close to him as possible; she wanted to wrap herself up and push herself inside him, to merge with him until they were one body, one soul. Desperately, she clung to him, her hands scrambling for purchase on his sweat-slick back as he thrust wildly into her, trembling legs clinging for dear life against his waist, her thighs quaking and rubbery and threatening to abandon their hold. She was so close, again –

With a burst of stars against her tightly-shut eyes, the wave broke over her, again, and this time she heard her own cry of pleasure, ripping from her throat and through the room, as the wave battered her again and again. Her thighs gave out at last; her arms lost all strength; and with what waning energy she had left, she pushed herself against him, willing every inch of her skin to touch his as her release took her and echoed through every fiber in her body. She heard his rough, labored rasp as he thrust against her, hard; and as his own ragged groan filled the room, she felt his release, deep inside of her, as he too reached his climax.

When she came back to herself, she could smell the scent of their coupling in the air; the musky smell of sweat and particular aroma of sex permeated their skin and the coverings of the bed. She was boneless, exhausted, and spent – and more deliriously, giddily happy than she'd ever been in her life. She flopped over in the bed, gracelessly, to find herself scooped up readily into Loghain's waiting arms. She rolled into him, as close as she could get, resting her head against the sweat-plastered hair on his chest. She wanted to say something, to honor this moment with a passionate declaration, but as Loghain's hand slowly stroked along her shoulder, and her eyes grew heavy and sleepy as she rested against his chest, she thought, dimly, that passionate declarations could wait for another day. There would be, at least, a few more days; that she knew for certain.

Moira fell into a deep and satisfied sleep, untroubled by thoughts of the Archdemon and the Blight for the first time since Ostagar.