Obligatory mature content warning. Proceed with caution.

Of course she knew what he was asking. How could she not? And she knew as well that she should refuse him, should shake free of his hand and walk away. It would be the safest, wisest choice. But she thought that, perhaps, a small part of her might actually...love this man. Just a little. Not enough to wear her heart out on him when he left, of course, that would be unforgivably foolish. But enough to recognize the things in him that no one else seemed to be able to see. Enough to occasionally get a glimpse of the man hiding behind the shield of his sarcasm, his ever-present cynicism. He was lonely, wounded, broken, and he needed her, desperately.

And maybe she needed him, too. Because the closest she had ever come to finding peace, to freeing herself from the shackles of her own past, had been in his arms. How, then, could she deny him?

So she pulled free of his grip on her wrist, caught his hand with hers, and laced her fingers through his. A sign that she hadn't merely acquiesced to his request, but had made her choice of her own free will, so that maybe in the morning, when the silent spell of night had been banished by daylight, he might be able to shake off the guilt that would surely plague him. He had not coerced her; he had merely asked and she had given her answer.

A brief moment of silence, of contemplation, maybe of surprise - she thought perhaps he had expected her refusal, had hoped she would have the strength to refuse where he had not the strength to resist. Then his fingers curled around hers, and he drew her down to him, across his lap in the chair. His free hand cupped her cheek, turned her face toward him. His lips brushed her forehead.

"Darling girl," he sighed. "You should have gone."

"I know," she whispered back. "But I couldn't."

"I've nothing to offer you."

"I don't recall having asked for anything." She slid her arm around his shoulders, her hand stroking the soft hair at the nape of his neck.

"No," he acknowledged. "You wouldn't, would you." And he knew that she would not - she never asked, never demanded, never took aught that was not freely given. Instead, she gave with both hands, generously and openly, and expected nothing in return. She bound him not with iron chains of expectation, but with the silken threads of her kindness, her ready affection. And she was not even aware of it.

In his arms she performed an enticing little wiggle, settling more comfortably into his embrace. Then she lay her head upon his shoulder, brushed her lips across the pulse point at his throat. She sighed, her warm breath a teasing caress upon his skin. He rubbed his thumb across her knuckles; in reflex her fingers squeezed his. With his free hand he unlaced the ribbon binding her hair, dropped it heedlessly to the floor, and the fair strands tumbled down over her shoulders, satin soft, cool, and shining like the moon in the firelight. He drew her hand to his chest, pressed it over his heart, turned his head, and kissed her. Just a whisper of a caress, a careful overture. And she welcomed him, her fingernails scraping gently across his chest, up over his shoulder, and finally, tentatively clasping the back of his neck. She was melting against him, her sweet lips parting beneath his, and it was all he could do not to fall upon her like a starving man.

But he wanted to enjoy this, enjoy her. She deserved better than to be handled roughly, pawed at clumsily. She deserved to be cherished. She deserved so much better than him, but he was too much a pirate not to take what she offered.

He brushed her hair over her shoulder, feeling for the bow at her neck, catching up a string and tugging it loose. And she leaned into his kiss, making room for his fingers to slide down her spine in search of the remaining bow. This time she was not a passive participant, not caught up unaware in the force of his desire, swept along helplessly by it. This time she helped him, aided him, thrust the binding fabric away from her body, sank back against his supporting arm, let him look his fill. His fingers traced her smooth shoulder, marveling at the warmth beneath his fingertips, the way the flickering firelight played over her skin, by turns gilding and shadowing. And he bent, brushing his lips across the upper swell of her breast.

A sigh, his or hers, he could no longer be sure. A shudder, definitely hers, and her nipples tightened to taut peaks. Her eyes were closed, her head was thrown back in a glorious arch, exposing the slender column of her throat, and he knew that he would have to get her to the bed - there was simply no way he could do her any justice here, as they were, in the chair.

His knuckles stroked across the downy softness of her cheek; her eyes fluttered open.

"You have no idea how beautiful you are," he murmured.

She gave a jerky, self-conscious shrug, more uncomfortable with his praise than with his eyes on her exposed flesh, said, "I'm not, really." It was too dark to tell, but he imaged she must have blushed. He would never tire of that; he intended to coax out as many of her blushes as he possibly could tonight.

"You are, really." He drew her closer, brushing his lips over cheek, her forehead, her lips. "You glow. I've never seen anyone glow like you do. You make the whole world brighter."

"You don't have to flatter me," she said on a flustered laugh. "I'm already here."

He sighed, shook his head in chagrin. "I am hardly given to empty flattery," he said. "I see I shall simply have to convince you, show you how beautiful you are." He unfurled himself from the chair, lifting her with him, and her arms came around his neck. Three short strides brought him to the side of the bed, and he set her down gently. The covers were cool against her back; the heat of the fire did not reach this far. He stood at the edge beside her, gazing down at her, and the firelight was too dim to read his expression.

As he fumbled with the clasps of his vest, he was somewhat shocked to discover his hands were trembling like a lad's. She was far from the first woman he'd taken to his bed, but his body behaved as though she were...or perhaps as though she would be the last, the one he would never let go of. Insurpassable.

Perhaps because she'd noticed his fumbling, or perhaps because she felt he was taking too long, she rose to her knees, brushing his hands away to perform the task herself. His vest was loose, and then she was ably managing the buttons of his shirt, and finally pushing shirt and vest together off of his shoulders. He dragged his arms out of them, tossing them out of the way. Then, as an afterthough, he strode to the window and jerked the curtains open to admit the radiant moonlight, because that was, he thought, how Penelo ought to be clothed - not in homespun garments, nor even silks and satins, just in the glow of the moon upon her bare skin. As she had been at the hot spring, the night that he had first seen her as she truly was.

And she looked up at him, her legs folded beneath her, with that perfect guileless expression, swathed in the milky moonlight, glowing like a fairy, all ethereal innocence and earthy temptation. Lustrous, pearly skin inviting his hands, silky hair a glorious tumble down her back. Blush pink lips curved in a hesitant, welcoming smile, wide blue eyes the exact color of the summer sky. He cupped her face in his hand, taking a seat beside her, feathering his fingers over the petal-softness of her lips.

"That night on the coast, at the hot spring," he said. "I wanted you then."

Her lashes swept down, hiding her eyes briefly. "I thought you were having a laugh at my expense," she said.

"No. You looked like a siren rising from the depths, and I could never see you in the same way I had before, because you tempted me so." He lowered his head, breathing the words at her ear, "You have tempted me ever since."

A low, husky sound from her throat, shivering as his lips caressed the soft skin beneath her ear. She turned her head, brushing her hair over her shoulder with fingers that trembled to give him better access. "I never meant to."

"I know. That made it worse somehow, that you could so effortlessly tie me into knots, and you didn't even know you were doing it. You didn't know how much I..." but he trailed off, lost in the simple pleasure of touching her, kissing her.

"How much you...?" she prompted, holding onto the conversation by a thread, because she so desperately wanted to know what he had been going to say.

He drew back, green eyes rapt on her own. "Wanted you," he finished. "Wanted this." He pressed her back against the pillows, covering her mouth with his own. And her fingers were in his hair, and her body writhed beneath his, and her legs parted, accepting the fit of his hips between them, the weight of his body on hers. They had been here once before, on the passenger ship to Archadia, only this time there were no secrets left to come between them, the shades of the past vanquished, at least for the moment. This time it was pure and perfect, worshipful hands, impatient bodies, and mutual passion.

His hands spanned her waist, sliding down her body to the gentle flair of her hips, hooking his thumbs beneath the waistband of her pants, easing them off of her, and she lifted to help him, eager to be free of the confining fabric, and then there was nothing to separate his fingers from the warm silk of her skin. She reached for his belt buckle, but he stayed her hands.

"Not just yet, sweet." And at her inquisitive look, he added with a wry grin, "It would be over too soon."

Her small hands rested on his chest, feeling the flex of his muscles beneath her palms, her eyes going sultry and heavy-lidded, and Balthier realized that if she kept touching him like that, looking at him like that, it would all be over anyway. So he lifted her hands, stretching them above her head, wrapping them around the bars of the headboard. The movement arched her body, brought her perfect breasts within a whisper's distance of his lips.

"Keep them there," he commanded, releasing her hands.

She wriggled beneath him. "But -"

He silenced her with a kiss. "For once, darling girl, don't argue. Don't think. Close your eyes. Feel."

Her lips pursed into a petulant pout, but she closed her eyes all the same. Her fingers tightened around the bars and she shifted minutely, settling back against the pillows, waiting, anticipating. And when his touch finally came, fingertips tracing her ribcage, stroking across the softness of her flat stomach, lingering on her hips, he knew she was a siren, for her breath escaped on a throaty moan that shook him to his core, made him weak.

She arched to his touch, the slender length of her body undulating, twisting to his fingers, seeking more pressure, more contact. Her brows drew together in silent protest of his light touch, her teeth worried her full lower lip, but her head fell to the side in surrender. And he smiled, stroked his hands down the satin of her thighs, felt the tremor that coursed through her, reveled in her guarded responses. And he repeated the slow, gentle caress upwards, listening to her rapid breathing, heard her breath hitch, felt her body tremble with tension. When he finally cupped her breasts in his hands, the tension snapped, and she melted beneath him with a breathy cry of anguished desire.

"Balthier, please," she whispered desperately, and her legs curled around his hips, seeking the pressure of his against the most intimate part of her.

His lips quirked; she was so sensitive that the merest brush of his thumbs on her nipples made her gasp, pant with need. "Please, what?" he asked curiously. He wondered if she had any idea what it was she was pleading so prettily for.

Her head thrashed, frustration coloring her tone. "I don't know, just...something." He was tormenting her, killing her with his slow caresses that inflamed but failed to satisfy. And then his hands left her breasts, and she wanted to scream her vexation. But his hands were sliding beneath her back, lifting her, and the hot, damp suction of his mouth was on her breast, and then she nearly screamed her exultation.

Instead her breath left her lungs on a shuddering sigh. Unconsciously she uncurled her fingers from the bars, threaded them through his hair, held him to her. He raised his head; she whimpered, bereft.

"Your hands, Penelo," he said patiently.

"I can't," she said pitifully, "It's not fair; I want to touch you." She needed to feel the warmth of his skin, the ripple of muscle beneath her hands. She needed to grab his hair, clutch his shoulders, steady herself with him, because she was drowning, and if she did not hold on to him, she would go under entirely.

"Later," he said, because his control was a hair's breadth away from snapping entirely, and he could not bear her soft hands on him.

"Now," she insisted. And she opened her eyes, brilliant and resolute, and dragged herself up to meet his lips with her own, giving his lower lip a sharp, wicked nip. His hard-won control fragmented, splintered almost audibly. He groaned, so absorbed in the sweetness of her mouth, the tender strokes of her tongue that it took him a moment to realize that she had worked free his belt buckle and was shoving his trousers over his hips. And then he was helping her, and suddenly, at last, they were skin to skin, and she fit beneath him like she'd been made for him, like they'd been carved from the same block.

He sighed, the delight of feeling the naked length of her trembling body against his at last weighed against regret that he had been unable to wrest control from her, to deny the both of them until he'd stroked, kissed every bit of her, driven her to the brink of fulfillment. He needed her to come away from this satisfied, and for once in his life, he was desperately afraid he would embarrass himself.

"I had wanted this to last," he sighed against her throat. But she wriggled beneath him, instinctively rocking her hips to his. Her legs locked around his hips, and she gasped as she felt him against the heart of her.

"Oh," she whispered, and her fingers clutched his shoulders, eyes going wide with a sudden clarity of understanding.

"Yes, oh," he mocked gently. He rolled his hips, not enough to enter her, but in the pale moonlight her cheeks flushed vividly. She took a shuddering breath.

"I, um...I understand the mechanics," she muttered. "But I don't really have any, um...practical knowledge." Her fingernails kneaded his shoulders like little claws.

"So I surmised," he said. Another gentle thrust, still not enough pressure, just to allow her to acclimate to the feel of him there, to relax a bit, to anticipate, to learn. She softened beneath him, rediscovering the urgency that had gripped her when his lips brushed her throat, when he bit her there, then soothed her tender flesh with the hot lash of his tongue.

She shivered, sighed, lifted to his touch. And then her body yielded to the pressure of him at her entrance, and she gasped at the alien sensation of him entering her body. He stretched her; she managed a tremulous, shocked breath as he drew her knees up, forcing her thighs wider to admit him. Pressure became pain; he swallowed the tiny cry that escaped her lips as something fragile tore inside of her. And then it was easy; there was only the fullness of him inside her, the sense of completeness that she had never known she was lacking. And she gasped helplessly, because he had invaded and conquered in one smooth motion, because she could feel him in her body, because he had hurt her and soothed her all at once.

It was astonishing; a totally foreign feeling, to be sharing her body with him, to have him be a part of her. He brushed away the few tears she hadn't even noticed she'd shed, pressing a tender kiss to her forehead.

"All right?" The words rumbled from deep in his chest, and she noticed for the first time that his breathing was labored, as if it was costing him a great deal to remain still, to give her time to adjust to him. His jaw was clenched; he looked as though he were in pain, but she didn't see how he could possibly be - it had not been his body that had yielded to the demands of hers.

She nodded, because he seemed to need the reassurance. "It hurt a little, but it's passed." And somehow it suddenly seemed terribly intimate to be speaking while they were joined like this. She shifted beneath him and his eyes flared with intent. His hips drew back, withdrawing, and there was emptiness, and then he surged forward, and she gasped.

"Ohhh." Her head fell back; friction, pressure, heat, the weight of his body over hers, the almost too-tight fit of his body in hers. Pleasure banished pain; a searing pool of desire settled deep in her belly. Instinctual motion; her hips rose to meet his, her arms curled around his neck. Whatever she had expected, it had not been this, the smooth strokes from the inside, unfurling an answering warmth that stole through her, centering on the place they were joined, growing wilder and less controlled.

"Yes," he hissed through clenched teeth. He was trying desperately to stave off climax, to keep his thrusts measured and even, to let her learn the feel of him, to grow accustomed to this, but she had made that tiny little breath of a sigh, and he had felt it in every cell of his body. That pure sound of amazement, of awe. Like she'd been waiting all her life for this one perfect moment.

And it was perfect, he realized. Because no one had ever driven him to this level of frenzied madness before; he had never before even come close to losing control. He had lost all finesse with her, had hurt her in the heat of his need, and was dangerously close to total abandonment. She was the only one who had ever brought out the wildness in him, the only one who pushed him past his natural limits. She alone could reduce him to primal instinct.

She was so hot, so wet, so perfect. He wanted to watch her, to see her face in the throes, but he was never going to last; she'd flayed him to ribbons already. Her legs flexed around him; she made tiny mewling sounds near his ear. He broke, shattered. His resolve crumbled; he thrust sharply. She arched her back, gasped, clenched her fists in his hair. She had liked that; she writhed beneath him, clinging desperately, all sensual abandon, a creature of fire, of need, of burning, all-consuming passion. He drove furiously for fulfillment, praying that she would reach it as well, wondering if ever the mortal had existed who could satisfy the wild, sensual goddess in his arms. One last driving thrust, he shuddered, spent himself within her. She cried out, and he felt her inner muscles contracting around him rhythmically, felt her clench her fists in his hair...felt her body surge against his in a taut, trembling arch, and then slowly go lax, replete and satiated. Exhausted, he laid his head upon her breasts, reveling in the sweet aftershocks of pleasure that shook her, listening with immense satisfaction to the rapid flutter of her heartbeat, her ragged breathing.

Good. He had gotten at least this one thing right.

An hour or so later, after a well-deserved nap, Penelo awoke as Balthier rolled her onto her stomach.

She tried to twist around, but his hand was on her back, holding her down, stilling her. "What are you doing?" she whispered.

His husky laugh sent a shiver of awareness up her spine - raw, primitive, the sound of a man unleashed from the bonds of polite civility. His hands grasped hers, stretching them above her head, wrapping them around the iron bars at the headboard. His breath was warm, stirring the hair near her ear.

"We're going to try this again." He nipped at her earlobe, eliciting a shocked gasp, a shameful shiver of delight. "Don't let go of the bars."

And when he was through with her, when she was weak in the aftermath of his insatiable attentions, when exhaustion at last overtook her and she could not manage the strength even to curl up against him, when he had at last kissed and stroked every inch of her as he had intended, she acknowledged that he had, indeed, made her feel beautiful.