Her message is very much received, his heart hammers in tandem with his quaking hand as she closes the distance between them once more.

"You're the Herald of Andraste, I must be dreaming," he starts weakly, fumbling for reasons in a battle already lost between willpower and some half-forgotten vows.

"Even Andraste had a lover, I don't think she minds." His Inquisitor digs her fingers into the feathers to pull him closer. She kissed him. A light kiss, the merest brush of her lips on his, but he could feel her tremble as he slid his arms around her. "I am not whole without you."

Her mouth opens readily for his tongue and the kiss he returns to her is free of all reservation as he devours her with the weight of his hunger and longing.

"Cullen," she said weakly when his gloved hand snaked its way from her hair to her collar, the rough stitching gently grazing the soft flesh of her neck in their path. The flimsy tan undercoat's collar yielded to him with no resistance, allowing his lips passage to her collarbone. Both of their hands work frantically at the clasps on her coat, she whispers something born of frustration and his lips meet hers once more, kissing her silent, kissing her until the modest coat gives way. As his hands find her small breasts under the fabric, he kisses her until she moans for him.

She wanted this? He would be happy to oblige. The first time she attempted a peek at his expression, he had seemed unsure, so far away, but he was here now. His amber eyes staring down at her with the passion and certainty he felt for her. She could almost see the darkening hunger as he looked around for somewhere to gain purchase, anywhere would do at this point.

There is a clear moment in his expression when a decision is made. Her commander knocks the candles on the stone steps out of the way and leans her back slowly, firm hands on her hips and waist guiding her, covering her from lips to navel with his burning kisses. Then, he began work on the lacing of her breeches. He would have her on the altar and no power short of divine intervention would stop what she had set in motion. Wax pools on the stones surrounding them as the candles flicker and die but they are past caring.

His hands grip the waist of her undone bottoms, pushing them roughly downwards as she fumbles at the ties on his armor with feeble fists, whispering his name into his skin. Her Commander is here and far away at the same time and her whispers are barely heard, a dim sound over the thrumming of rising blood. The job she started on the ties of his own pants is quickly finished with his practiced movements.

She can hear his ragged breathing hitch as he pushes her bare legs apart, the leather of his gloves is cool on her skin but that is the last thing on her mind. With only a thin layer of undergarments between them, he slides his hands almost reverently up her bare skin, rubbing her gently through her smallclothes before pulling them down completely.

"Hurry," she was whispering now, hands reaching out to guide her lover "yes, now."

She was gasping as he thrust into her, "my Commander, my love, yes, yes, like that, yes."

As she kissed him, moving with him and gripping at his soft curls, Cullen lost himself in her. She pants and arches into him; their hearts beating in time with their rhythmic motions until neither has anything left to spend. They lay in the comfort of each other's silence, him still buried in her wetness until either can summon the desire to move.

Trevelyan can see Cullen flinch, even from behind as he wrenches the chapel door open, peering as far into the garden as he can without being seen. He makes it less than four feet out the door before freezing in place. Still rearranging her braids into some semblance of their former style, she pulls the hair pins from between her teeth to slide into her hair as she casually sidles up next to him to see what the problem is. He is in the middle of a lengthy process of turning every shade of red imaginable and she can't help but smile as her eyes meet a very disapproving Mother Giselle sitting on the bench across the way, a single eyebrow quirked in mother hen disapproval. The Inquisitor simply grins and shrugs at the Mother, planting a kiss on her Commander's cheek, who mumbles something about the war table and dashes off as swiftly as his tired legs will carry him.