Chapter Text
Cullen didn't know why he was surprised that things hadn't changed between them, but Evie's smile over the breakfast table was the same as always, warm and familiar, if without the wickedness she'd displayed the night before. It made sense for her to not behave differently when the rest of the staff was around, but he couldn't help wishing for some sign that she was thinking of their night together as much as he was.
It was easy to push it from the forefront of his mind while he was working, and he threw himself into not only his patients, but also reorganizing his office. He tore apart his shelves to put everything back in a barely-discernibly-different order, went through his patient records and reviewed treatment plans, read through a handful of medical journals he'd let pile up, sorted the piles of miscellany on his desk and shoved them into files. As curfew approached, he eyed his neatened office and sighed; he couldn't put it off any longer.
The staff lounge was particularly lively when he stepped into it; Bull (Cullen wondered if he would ever find out his proper name) was telling a story with expansive gestures—probably a dirty one, to judge by Dorian's sour expression beside him. The staff gathered around was roaring with laughter; even Cassandra had lost her usual scowl, though Cole still looked confused—the boy was the definition of naïve, despite his professional competence. Evie was in the thick of it, her arm slid familiarly around Dorian's waist as she murmured something in his ear that made him smile, hastily smothered.
Maker help him, he wanted to tear Dorian away and growl.
He'd never realized that he could be jealous before.
It wasn't an entirely welcome revelation.
He felt irrationally possessive, embarrassingly so, and she wouldn't appreciate—and didn't deserve—the base urge of his lizard brain to stake his claim. He thought he heard his name in Evie's voice as he turned to leave, but he couldn't stand to remain a moment longer. Once outside the lounge, though, he paused, at a loss as to where to settle instead.
His room was not an option, not when he could still picture the way Evie looked naked against his sheets, remember the way her body molded against his, the way she sighed his name when he stroked into her. No doubt a run would work off some energy, but he felt too nervous, too fitful to be able to control the urge to try to outrun his thoughts, and there was no benefit to truly exhausting himself. The staff had full access to the therapy facilities after hours; perhaps he should take some time in one of the hydrotherapy rooms or—
It was perfect. Feeling lighter with a destination in mind, Cullen hurried from the staff hall, as the sound of laughter lingered still behind him.
The feel of the keys under his fingers sent him back to his childhood, when his mother had dragged all four of her protesting children to music lessons. Branson had gravitated to the guitar, Rosalie to the flute. Mia, ever contrary, had insisted upon the bassoon. Cullen, sullen and resistant, had turned down everything until his mother had made the executive decision that he was going to be a pianist, and so he'd become a pianist. It had been to the surprise of not only himself but also his erstwhile teacher that he'd had an affinity for it, and what had begun with dread and resentment became an oasis from the chaos of home and school and nosy siblings.
The lesson piano then had been much like the piano in the music therapy room: an upright that, while obviously well cared for, was showing signs of wear from the touch of countless hands. Recitals had always been played on the conservatory's grand pianos, but there was something familiar about the uprights, something that made just stroking his fingertips over the keys calming, almost transportive.
Culled pulled out the bench and settled on it, pressed his thumb on middle C. The note rang clean and bright, and he found himself relaxing as he added E and G. The chord vibrated through him, loosened the knot he'd thought impossible in his chest, and he exhaled heavily before he played a scale—clumsy, rusty. He winced, tried again, and that was a little better, and the next was better than that. Slowly, his fingers warmed up and remembered the old patterns, and soon the scales were smooth and confident. He played major and minor, then traded arpeggios between his hands until both felt limber and ready to tackle anything. He inhaled, exhaled, and began to pick out melodies, snatches of half-forgotten songs woven together as they came to him.
He played tavern songs, hymns, simple one-handed songs from his first lessons and refrains from his last recital pieces. He played long after his hands, unused to the demanding movements, tired, until he could barely manage a clumsy trill, then cut off abruptly and simply rested his hands on the keys. He closed his eyes, listened to his breath and the silence and and quiet footsteps that—
Footsteps?
He opened his eyes to find Evie standing at the end of the piano, her fingers curled over the top corner. She smiled, fleeting and, if he didn't know better, shy, and shifted her weight from foot to foot, but didn't say a word. After several long moments of staring at each other, he closed the keyboard cover and pressed his hands to the bench. "How did you find me?"
Evie smiled again as a faint flush crept over her cheeks. "Woof," she said, and that was all the explanation necessary; Cullen should have known he couldn't hide from a mabari. "I didn't know you played," she added a moment later, and ran her hand idly down the side of the piano, her expression wistful.
"There are a lot of things we don't know about each other." He moved his hands to the keyboard cover again, stroked his thumbs along the keyslip as an anchor to keep from catching her hand. "It's been years," he said into the silence that stretched again between them. "I'm surprised I remembered how."
"You sounded good." Evie shifted her weight again as her eyes slid to the empty music deck, stared at it with a soft lack of focus. "I used to sing in college. At boarding school, too, but the material the sisters allowed wasn't particularly exciting." She slid her gaze to Cullen's with another faint smile. "Does this mean we have something in common?"
Cullen returned her smile and gave into the urge, took her hand in one of his and ran his thumb over the back of it. "Not just this," he murmured, and drew her hand up to press a warm kiss into her palm, then folded her fingers around it. "What did you sing?"
She played it cool, he'd give her that, but her voice had a new huskiness when she spoke. "No more hymns once I was in college, I can guarantee that." She smiled, a wry twist of her lips. "A bunch of us from my Elvish studies got a group together, actually; we sang a little of everything."
Cullen's fingers found her wrist, brushed lightly over the steady pulse there. "You studied Elvish?"
"I needed an elective, and I wanted to stick it in the sisters' faces—not the best reason to choose it, but there it was." She pulled her hand away, then, and curved it over her belly instead. "Our first concert was a class project, actually." She laughed, a soft huff of amusement. "I thought I was going to be sick, standing up there and singing In Uthenera, but I made it through somehow."
Cullen closed his hand around hers, felt the muscles of her abdomen lurch against the backs of his fingers. "I would like to hear you," he said, and her huskiness must've been contagious; his voice held a rough edge he barely recognized. "Would you sing something for me?"
Evie blinked. "I suppose it's only fair, isn't it?" she said, then licked her lips. "It won't be very good—I didn't warm up and it's—"
"It doesn't matter." He released her hand to loosely grip her biceps, then slid his hand to her shoulder and rubbed his thumb over the line of her clavicle, exposed by her loose blouse. "You heard me just now; you don't have anything to worry about."
He'd expected an argument, but instead she inhaled. It wasn't for the old Elven song he'd anticipated, though; the first words from her mouth were bright notes of a song he instantly recognized—one he'd even played earlier.
For a Marcher, she certainly sang Andraste's Mabari with familiarity, and her enthusiastic rendition brought a smile to his lips. As she sang about Andraste's old smelly wardog, he lifted the keyboard cover again and picked up the melody, then added his voice to hers at the start of the next verse. Together, they sang through to the end and, as the last note faded, grinned at each other. He was fairly certain Evie was the first to chuckle, but it wasn't long before they were both laughing as earlier nerves gave way to mirth.
Evie was still giggling when Cullen turned on the bench and caught her wrist to draw her between his spread knees. "That was... nice," he said, and settled his free hand at the curve of her hip. "I haven't played with anyone since before I left for templar training."
"Mm." Evie smiled and rested a hand on his shoulder. "We should do this more often, then." She paused, then, red lips turned down with a faint frown. "Are... are we OK, Cullen?" No doubt she read Cullen's confusion from his face, as she hurried to continue, "You seemed upset earlier."
Cullen felt his cheeks heat and cleared his throat lightly. He opened his mouth to deny it, to tell her it didn't have anything to do with her, but the falsehoods died on his tongue. Instead, he used his hand at her hip to pull her closer until he could lean his forehead against the fullness of her breasts. "That's something I need to work through." He sighed when one of her hands slid into his hair to gently rub his scalp, smiled wryly despite the fact that she wouldn't see it. "I'm more selfish than I'd thought."
The stroke of Evie's fingers paused, before she tugged Cullen's hair until he lifted his head. "Selfish?"
"Selfish." Cullen's smile curled a bit more tightly as he met her eyes. "I want you all to myself."
Evie studied him in silence, her expression worryingly blank, then pulled her hands from Cullen's hair. "Do you," she said, muted and flat. "Cullen, I—"
"Evie," Cullen interrupted. He framed her hips with his hands, traced his thumbs over their lush curves. "I'm sorry. I don't want you to— I don't mean to— I'm not trying to pressure you." He met her eyes, tried to read her thoughts in their shadows. "I want to give you space, but—" The press of her finger to his lips stilled the torrent of words, the pressure light but implacable.
"You want me all to yourself," she said, still quiet, though a hint of wonderment won out over the earlier flatness. "All right. I don't see anyone else here, do you?"
"No," he said, the sound blurred by her lingering finger. When she made no move to remove it, he pursed his lips against it, then flicked his tongue over the tip. It was almost a disappointment when she pulled it away. "It's just us."
"So it is." She stepped away. Cullen reflexively tightened his grip on her hips, but there was no need; she moved back just as quickly, nudging his knees with her own as she straddled his lap. The heat between her thighs against his was almost unbearable, and he struggled to loosen the curl of his fingers. "Suppose we should take advantage of that?"
He could practically feel her lips against his already, taut with her sharp, impish grin. Fighting the urge to match reality to fantasy, he ran his hands up her sides. Her blouse caught on his wrists and skimmed up her torso, and catching on quickly she lifted her arms so that he could sweep the garment up and off in one smooth motion.
Her bra this time was pink lace. It brought out the roses in her skin and did absolutely nothing to mask the stiff peaks of her nipples. As her blouse hit the floor, his hands reversed and smoothed down her sides, angled in over her rib cage until they could rise to cradle her breasts against his palms. The lace rasped slightly against his skin as he twisted his wrists and fanned his fingers over her ribs again, his thumbs left to roll over the nipples outlined by the thin material.
"Cullen," she said, more breath than sound, and arched her back into his touch. He felt powerful, invincible, almost divine; it was he who was drawing those sounds out of her, the tiny tremors and soft gasps. One thumb continued to tease its captive nub, while he slid his other hand around her back, pressed against it and drew her closer until he could bend his neck and wrap his mouth around her other, abandoned nipple.
He couldn't taste her, only the dry sensation of the lace with a faint hint of fabric softener, but it was no deterrent, not when she whimpered and squirmed in his lap, squeezed her thighs around his for leverage as she pressed herself to his mouth. Her hands lifted to cup his cheeks, her fingers danced erratically over the faint stubble roughening his jaw and traced the hollows as he suckled. He learned that judicious application of teeth brought broken moans from her throat and so repeated it, over and over against until she was panting, a mass of quivers over him.
With one last bite, he drew his mouth away, then found her throat and tucked his nose against it. "You're amazing," he murmured as his fingers twitched against her spine. "I've never felt—"
Evie smiled beatifically in the face of Cullen's gasp and finished sliding Cullen's belt open, then yanked it none-too-gently from the belt loops and tossed it in the vague direction of her blouse. "Tell me," she said, soft and sweet and dark and dangerous. "Tell me how amazing I am."
Cullen swallowed thickly, but before he could so much as begin to form words, Evie's fingers had caught the pull at his fly. She toyed briefly with it, tugged it out without opening the zipper, flicked it up and down. He inhaled sharply, intent on— he didn't know what he'd intended, because everything shattered into a rough groan as she slid the zipper down and slid her hand into the gaping opening to curve over the bulge still caught behind his briefs.
He only realized that he'd closed his eyes when he opened them to find her frowning thoughtfully down at the hand in his pants. Her expression was indescribable, even moreso when she caught the elastic at his waist and slid it away, let it tease down his swollen shaft until it stretched beneath his balls. He should have felt ridiculous, still completely dressed but for where his cock flopped out of his pants, but no— It was right, perfect, and nowhere near enough.
Evie explored the length of his cock with one hand, then both; they traced the swollen veins, weighed his balls, circled the base and stroked up with a swift twist of her wrist. He very nearly came off of the bench when she flicked a fingernail against the head, and very nearly cried when her hands were abruptly gone.
"We should do something about this," she breathed against his ear, and he fumbled for meaning until he realized that her hands were at the front of his shirt. She slid each button from its hole with torturous care, let her fingers dip within the widening gap to stroke his chest, his abs. When they were at last all loosed, it was a struggle to release her long enough to let her free him from the shirt; it took a greater application of will than he thought himself capable of to remove his hands from her hips and shake the shirt over his wrists to let it slither, forgotten, to the floor.
Instead of renewing his grip, he slid his fingers into her hair and rubbed his thumbs over the upper curves of her ears. Her eyelids drooped, left nothing but a sliver of blue visible as her lips parted, the tip of her tongue visible where it was caught between her teeth.
He had to taste it.
Struggling against his urge to sink into her mouth, he brushed his lips lightly against hers, a tease of contact that left tingles in its wake. The next pass was a soft sweep of his tongue, barely flicking past her lips to delicately touch the tip of her own. Her lips parted further on a gasp and he surrendered, slanted his mouth over hers and wormed his tongue between her teeth. She met it enthusiastically, gave and took with equal fervor, and throughout it all the most amazing sounds rose from her throat: breathless whimpers, abortive and eager. Each one pulsed through him, vibrated along his tongue straight to his cock, which already ached with the depth of his arousal.
When his thumbs ran along her ears again, her whimpers morphed into a full moan and she undulated, rolled from knees to shoulders in a wave of contact. The torture of her heat pressing against his cock was amplified by the drag of her nipples against his bare chest, the slight scratch of the lace containing them flaying his nerves as effectively as any lash. He tore his mouth away to press his face into her hair, found an earlobe with his teeth and nipped sharply, rewarded by another full-body shudder before her arms shifted to loop around his neck and tightened to hold him in place—as though he had any interest in escaping.
"Evie," he breathed against her ear, more heat than voice, and slid his hands down her back until he could cradle her backside in his palms, feel the tension as the muscles there flexed within his grip. The fabric of her skirt was an annoyance and so he grabbed fistfuls of it, dragged it up until he could get both hands beneath it and play his fingertips over her heated flesh, tease along the line of her panties. He wondered if they were pink lace, too, only to lose the thought a moment later when her nails dragged over his shoulders, hard enough to sting.
"Maker," he growled then, and lifted her, just enough to be able to spin on their awkward perch on the bench. He dropped her on his lap again and ran his hands up her thighs to catch behind her knees, lifted again until she unfolded her legs and shifted them to dangle behind him, left her with her toes skimming the floor and her weight pinning him to the bench. His hands found her cheeks again, held her steady for a bruising kiss that left them both breathless and shuddering, then gently pushed her away, just far enough to be able to see her face, admire her swollen lips and dark eyes, the tautness in her expression that hinted that her hold on control was as tenuous as his.
Silently, he tugged her arms from around his neck and coaxed them back, guided her elbows to rest on the keyboard behind her. The jangle of notes that resulted startled a giggle from her, cut off abruptly when he pressed a sucking kiss against her sternum, another at the dip between her clavicles, another at the pulse point that throbbed beneath her jaw. She'd bear marks the next day, but he was beyond caring, far more concerned with tasting her sweat-dampened skin as she dropped her head back and gasped for air.
Unhooking her bra took far longer than he liked, his fingers clumsy with the lust firing his veins, but he managed it at last. He retrieved her arms one at a time to slide the straps down them, drew each hand to his mouth to place more kisses against each fingertip. When the scrap of lace was finally discarded, he caught her wrists before she could complete her reach for him and pressed them against the keyboard again. The cacophony of octaves of smashed keys filled his ears, but it didn't matter in the slightest, not when he could lean forward and close his mouth again around one of the nipples that rose to meet his tongue.
Evie's breath sobbed from her as he rolled the nub between his lips, plucked it with his teeth, soothed it with his tongue. Her back arched, the line taut as a drawn bow, and though her fingers twitched, occasionally struck staccato notes, she made no move to reach for him again. He hummed his appreciation against her flesh and framed her waist with his hands, stroked his thumb along the band of her skirt before he sent one beneath it to cup between her legs.
Her panties, wet with her arousal, were a shield barely worth mentioning as he pressed a finger against her slit, rubbed through the soft lace until her hips began to move, strove to match his rhythm. He pulled it away then and sat back, slid the damp digit over his own lips, then pressed it past hers. She latched on eagerly, caught his finger between her teeth and laved it with her tongue until he imagined not a trace her her fluids remained on it. His breathing was sharp and stuttering when he finally retrieved it and crushed his mouth over hers.
There was no finesse in the kiss, nothing but heat and want and more, and when they finally rose from it, Cullen found that his hands were under her skirt again, seemingly of their own volition, gripping her butt and hauling her against his aching cock. Her hips rolled against his and he nearly rose off the bench with his eagerness to feel her heat where he wanted it most.
The panties that had been a tease before were cruelty now, and he closed his hands around the fabric at her hip. "Forgive me," he murmured, hot against her jaw, then yanked, tearing the thin fabric with a purl of sound that would haunt his erotic dreams for months. She inhaled sharply and he repeated it at her other hip, then dragged the ruined undergarment away, dropped it to join its forgotten brethren.
Now there was nothing to keep his finger from pressing between her moist folds, nothing to keep it from brushing through the slick to flick against her clit or circle her entrance. The muscles there fluttered under his touch, clenched and released when he slid the tip of his finger within her, and it was a blessing, it was torture, it was an entanglement he would never escape, whether he died tomorrow or lived another thousand years. He leaned forward, closed his teeth on her shoulder as he worked his finger into her, and it was perhaps a good thing he had; she bucked hard enough to nearly unseat herself, then ground on his hand, took as much as he could give. She exhaled shakily when he added a second finger, moaned when he added a third, and sobbed when he slid them all from her. Her expression, when he lifted his head enough to see it, was almost petulant, eased only when he brushed his lips over her forehead, her chin, the tip of her nose, her eyelids.
"No condoms," she said softly, and it took him a moment to parse her words, to extract the meaning from what seemed to be unrelated syllables. Before he'd fully grasped it, she'd moved, pushed away from the keyboard with dissonant notes that seemed to echo far longer than should be possible in his ears. She curled her fingers tightly around his biceps—for leverage, he realized a moment later as she squirmed, a delicious slither that brought his cock against her heat. She gave him a look through her lashes that was nearly as hot as she shifted her hands to his knees. He could feel her thighs tense as her toes found purchase on the floor, and a moment later all thought fled as her hips rolled and his cock slipped between her slick folds.
It wasn't as perfect as spreading her open and losing himself within her, but as she rolled her hips again, found a steady rhythm over him, he found it didn't matter. It was hot and wet and so, so good and he could feel the strength in her lithe thighs at his sides, her fingers as they kneaded his knees, the clutch of her flesh as he got with the program and thrust up against her. Each time the head of his cock bumped over her clit, she whimpered, and the sound made what had been good all but unbearable. He wanted to see it, to watch his cock as it slid between her folds, slicked with a mix of her arousal and his own. He wanted to see how her thighs trembled with the strain, the contrast between their skin—his soft gold to her rosy cream. He wanted to see her come apart, to see his own release mark her, paint his claim across her skin.
Instead, his hands found her backside again and dragged her closer yet, so close there was barely any room between them to move within. He thrust against her once, twice, and it was suddenly enough, too much. The world receded to a spot of white as he came so hard his teeth ached with it, only dimly aware of it when she threw herself forward to wrap her arms around his shoulders and pressed her face against his throat as she shuddered and quaked.
It was a long moment before he realized his throat was wet, and he blinked open eyes he didn't remember closing to find Evie looking back at him, tear tracks marking her cheeks. He touched one lightly, and even that barest brush of contact was enough to tighten his chest and drive the breath from his lungs.
Maker, he loved her.
He kissed the streak, flicked his tongue against her skin to taste the faint salt, then, unable to help himself, kissed her parted lips. She sighed softly into the kiss, chased the contact when he made to pull away, though neither made any move to deepen the light touch. When at last she withdrew, her lips were curved with a smile that left him breathless all over again.
You're beautiful, he meant to say. Or, perhaps, I love you. I need you. You're the best thing that's ever happened to me and I can't imagine my life without you anymore.
Instead, he blurted, "Marry me."
Evie's eyes widened with shock—hardly unexpected, as he'd surprised himself. He closed his eyes and breathed a groan, dropped his forehead against her shoulder. He half-expected her to shove him away, but instead she carded her hands through his hair and chuckled softly.
"No, Cullen," she said gently, and it shouldn't have stung as much as it did—he hadn't realized how serious he was until she turned him down. The stroke of her fingers through his hair soothed the worst of it, though, as did the soft kiss she pressed into it. "But... you can ask me again, later."
He nodded slightly without lifting his head, then reached blindly behind her to catch and lower the keyboard cover. "We should probably go," he said, though he made no move to displace her, and she made no move to remove herself. "It's getting late."
"It is," she agreed, and pressed another kiss into his hair. "I'll let you walk me home." Another kiss, followed by the tickle of her fingers along his jaw. "You could come in, have some coffee. Watch a movie. Maybe stay the night; I'd hate for you to get lost, trying to find your way back in the dark."
Warmth flooded him. He wrapped his arms around Evie's waist, squeezed tightly. "You don't drink coffee," he said, then turned his head to kiss Evie's throat. "What movie did you have in mind?"
"Something classic," she said, and stroked her hand over his shoulder, pressed just hard enough to remind him of the scratches there and send a shudder through his exhausted body. "Maybe something from Isabela the Pirate Queen."
Cullen laughed and lifted his head at last, kissed the playful lift at the corner of her mouth. "I'm never going to live that down, am I."
It wasn't a question, and she only smiled before she finally eased herself from his lap. They should have looked silly—her in nothing but a rumpled skirt and flats, him with his dick still hanging out of his pants—but he wanted to burn the image into his memory because, silly or otherwise, this was what happy looked like, in a way that he'd never experienced before. As he tucked himself back into his briefs and zipped his fly, as he retrieved his shirt and shrugged it on, left it open and slung his belt over his shoulder, watched Evie as she slid her blouse back on and folded her bra and ruined panties over her arm, all he could think was that this was exactly what he'd never known he wanted, exactly what he'd never known he needed, and that it was the kind of happy he could get used to.
