Giving into a kiss like that was like being caught in an undertow, it was like drowning. It filled him up, stole his breath, and left something inside him burning in its wake. Killian was pliant beneath the body above him (and how well-sculpted it was...), his thighs hugging ribs, squeezing in a grip just as possessive.
The hook stayed on, clicked into the brace on his arm - and eventually he'd take it off around Garrett, but it usually took him a lot of time to want to do that; his hook was his identity, it was his other hand for all intents and purposes. Not to mention, despite the swagger and the confidence, there was somewhat of a flicker of self-consciousness about being potentially considered crippled. But his good hand went between them, seeking out heat, hardness, let's see that staff of yours, Hawke. Curse modern-day trousers.
"No," he responded finally, with a smirk. "I doubt three rooms would be satisfactory. You can have me though. Anything you want."