Astarion had never been a religious man. How could he be, after everything? He had watched the gods sit idle while his sister went missing, while his family carved failure into his skin with their words, while he wandered blind with grief and fury. He had begged more than once. For clarity. For meaning. And every time, he was met with silence. So, he had stopped asking and sworn off every spiritual notion. But this felt different. Because here he was—on his knees—not for mercy or answers, but for her. His fingers perused over the lace between her thighs, now completely soaked, her arousal seeping through the fabric as he breathed her in—gods, she smelled like everything he’d ever wanted to taste. He proceeded to slide her panties down with the same deifying care, discarding them next to the table. Then he kissed her again—on the inside of her thigh, then higher and higher. “Please,” she pleaded, unsure if it was to him or the heavens. His mouth hovered just above her core as he looked up. His scarlet eyes, now broad and dark with hunger, searched her face and wordlessly, asking for permission. She gave the tiniest nod; her lips parted, her chest rising and falling in rhythm with the storm outside.

Neither of them had time to grasp the lability of the moment—the way the atmosphere had instantly flipped from awkward tension to acute adrenaline. One second, they were just sitting there and drowning in unspoken confessions, and the next, given the cramped space, she was twisting in her seat with startling agility and straddling him.  "Pretend we're making out," she whispered. Astarion moved without thought, his hands obeying the command with surprising familiarity, gliding over the small of her back in long, languid caresses. This was supposed to be a charade, a counterfeit display of intimacy, but damn it, his body and its traitorous instincts were making a fool of him right now. His fingers splayed wider, charting out the delicate curve of her waist, pressing just enough to make it seem real, to sell the lie, but not sufficient to quell the kindle building in his chest. She was so close—closer than ever before, and every inch of her was pressed against him. Her breath caught in her throat as her fingertips danced across the skin on the back of his neck. Don’t think about it. Don’t think about it. But how could she not? The texture of his hair under her fingertips was inviting, soft curls that prickled as she scraped her nails gently over his scalp. Gods, he has such nice hair. His intoxicating scent was a blend of jasmine from the hotel soap, that rich cologne, and something darker that was distinctly him—it made her want to lean in . His pulse thundered, its frantic pace revealing his desire. She was dangerously near, the tantalizing warmth of her mouth only inches from his own, and hells; he could feel the gentle rhythm of her chest as it brushed against him. Each breath she took caused her breasts to press lightly against him, making his mind to spin into oblivion. She travelled her hand to his cheek, fingers tracing along his rugged jawline, feeling the fervency of his skin.—a touch meant to be all for show but felt terrifyingly intimate instead. This shouldn't feel so right, she thought.

Heat blooms in his eyes, and in her body. Unfurling, orchid-like, inside her. And she asks, “So, is this technically legal now?” Astarion gropes her ass through supple leather, before reaching for the zipper of her skirt. “Technically speaking, nothing explicitly forbids me from… consorting with, members of my jury…” “Oh, really?” Strix raises her eyebrows, peering down, while he crouches to slide her skirt off over her legs. She assumes the operative word there is ‘explicitly’. Astarion looks up with a grin, leaving a delicate kiss on the inside of her thigh. Letting his hands glide back up to her ass, as he rights himself. “Though some might interpret such activities to be at odds with the impartial and diligent performance of my judicial duties,” he says, taking up handfuls of flesh with an mmm… “Is that so?” She feels a surge of pressure between her legs, and Astarion smiles wider.  “Indeed.” He tilts his head to kiss her. Just a teasing kiss, though—the instant she tries to use a little tongue, he withdraws, trapping her lower lip between his teeth. Letting it roll out from between them, with a leisurely finesse. “An issue of impartiality and fairness, perhaps,” he continues, tightening his grip on her backside. 

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