He exhales a small, giddy laugh. "I love you," he whispers.

Alistair draws his wandering focus to the feel of Cullen's body heat; Cullen's hand; Cullen's breath against his cheek. He pictures everything Cullen said to him earlier. A crowded office; Cullen on his knees; Alistair holding off as long as he can, still trying to conduct business, before giving in to the feel of Cullen's mouth with utmost abandon.

All because Alistair simply asked.

"I think," he breathes, a bit shakily, a few moments later, "I think we can get the oil."

Take that, Orlesian ale.