Well, Alistair was having some trouble finding that damned vial anyway.

He laughs, even shakier, and grips the headboard so tight his fingers blanch. "Cullen, Maker," he gasps; he drives harder, a little more erratic now. "Yes, yes -- "

That's the last coherent word he manages to shape. It isn't long at all before his back arches taut, every touch and sound and sight burning a white-hot line of ecstasy down his spine, and he spills into Cullen with a shuddering moan.