Temple to temple she dances with him, caught up in the spell they're weaving, disconnected from everyone and everything. The voices of her better angels whisper, 'Decadent. Indulgent. Selfish.' She ignores them.

"Your scent alone makes my mouth water," she confesses. "Your voice wrecks my concentration. You make me forget myself," there's a lick of self-deprecating amusement there.

She drops her head and nips at the side of his throat, another wordless plea muffled against his skin.