Mal has noticed that ever since he and Inara started…whatever they had started, she’s stopped wearing three things: makeup, perfume and underwear he can’t remove with his teeth. While the latter is just for practicality’s sake, he’s curious about the lack of warpaint and scent. He’s just as likely to chalk it up to her not needing such fancies to get his attention, but she’d not said a word about it.

He ponders on this as he sits at her vanity, waiting for her to finish up in the shower. There is an array of various jars, bottles and vials neatly lined up in a row in front of the mirror. Mal absently picks them up, one by one and looks at the label. Foundation. Powder. Moisturizer.

The sorts of things he’d expect. He reaches the end of the line and, tucked away so it is almost completely hidden, is a small dark brown bottle with a black lid. Clearly some sort of perfume oil.

Now Mal is more than a little acquainted with how Inara smells. Not because of any fancy smellies, but just how she – the woman – smells. She smells of smoked black tea with honey. He likes smoked black tea with honey. A lot.

So this bottle has him even more curious. What sort of scent would need to be hidden away like that? Was it one that a client asked for special? That she got as a gift?

He squints at the tan label on the bottle. In the dim light of the shuttle, he can make out only one word: Perversion.

Huh. Mal has just killed an entire litter of innocent baby kittens with his curiosity.

He cocks his head to listen if Inara is likely to be done soon in the shower. Nope, water’s still running, mingled with her pretty singing. He likes that she sings in the shower.

He carefully unscrews the bottle, lifts it to his nose and…

Sex floods his head. Not to mention his cock. And not just straight-up missionary either. No, sir, this is sex of the middle-of-the-night-half-dressed-against-a-bulkhead sort. Or possibly of the bent-over-the-catwalk-railing variety. Mal has become intimately acquainted with both sorts ove