He rubbed the top of her foot gently, keeping it in place against him, radiating warmth. He lingered in finishing his cake, as if he wasn't watching the way her breasts shifted when she moved, the softness of her stomach, the shift of her thighs under her acarf. She looked like a Tevinter dancer. Once, Krem had learned to dance with scarves. He would not have looked nearly so soft and graceful.

When he'd finally finished his cake and wine, he gently pushed the plate aside, then let up his hand from her foot. He crooked his finger at her a little, calling her toward him.