Alistair chuckles, barely audible. Like Cullen said: he's a quick study with the proper motivation.

(It takes so much restraint not to say that aloud.)

He helps him yank off his shirt, dropping it atop the pile of armor on his desk; in short order, Alistair's own shirt joins it. As he kisses him again, more fervent, his hands venture lower to work at Cullen's trousers.

All the self-deprecating jokes about not being able to keep his hands off Cullen aside -- Maker, it's nice to finally give into this need.