There's nothing like being handled by a masseuse's grip. An assasin's? Zevran's, he settles on mentally, contenting himself with moving with his hand, accommodating the pull and feeling a little of that overused achiness fuzz at the edges and melt with that tender, certain direction.

"Unfortunately a good point." He acquiesces as gracefully as he's really likely to - he's no great seducer when he's this worn-down, but defeats don't really hit too hard, either. "I imagine I'll be in good shape by tonight. Or - you know, whenever then-or-later you're up for it."