He watches, rapt, as she draws him up to standing, as she lets her gown fall away and bares skin for skin's sake. His doublet is dropped behind him, his shirt follows suite, and by the time they have pooled on the chaise and the floor, the laces of his trousers are undone and, frankly, so is he. Her mouth passes over his throat, over the base of it where once he'd been so terribly wounded.

He draws a narrow, deep breath and his hands find her hair, settle against the side of her head, against her jaw, and pull her back to his mouth. He can kick his boots off without looking and does--toes one and then the other, and steps out of them as he walks her back toward the bed. Their cast off clothing is forgotten and his trousers are all but hanging from his hips as they reach the mattress.

He is not hard yet, the shape of his erection is half-mast and bare against his small-clothes, but that is not terribly shocking. He is far drunker than he ought to be...but that will not stay their tender touching or the advancing of the night. He is a skilled cocksman, for whatever that is worth, but one doesn't necessarily need to thrust a cock into anything to make an evening truly special.