Disclaimer: Firefly is still and always will be Joss Whedon's.

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The flickering candlelight in the room made the air seem thick and hazy. Incense swirled around the lovers, tickling their senses, giving each a feeling of lightheaded passion. The scent of lavender and eucalyptus mingled with the scent of the lovers' bodies, with each of their individual scents. Silk hangings around the opulent bed they lay in hid them from the eyes of the effigies and portraits placed around the room. It was warm, like Dante's proverbial inferno, the heat clinging to the couples’ skin as it weighed in the air surrounding them. It was an atmosphere of love, of desire, passion and lust.

A silver chalice engraved with the symbols of fruition and fertility stood on the carved cherry wood table at the bedside, brimming with ice; clear, pure, silver and cold. Small droplets of condensation formed on the sides of the chalice and slowly slipped over the curvature, down to the stem, spreading out around the bottom, adding a glistening sheen to the wood of the table.

Simon kissed Inara deeply, his tongue tracing her lips, tangling with her tongue, massaging it, caressing. His hands roamed over her body, her sides, stroking, tickling. He heard a gasp from the companion as his lips left hers to brush over her cheek, over the curve of her jaw, the line of her neck. He stopped at the nape of her neck to suckle at the delicate flesh of her throat, leaving his mark. He continued lower down her body, teeth and tongue working their magic, bringing more nerve endings to life with each and every brush.

Inara was a goddess and Simon would treat her as such, coaxing her with careless whispers into relaxing, into letting him do all of the work. Her purr of approval reached his ears and increased his frenzy to make her writhe and moan a thousand-fold. Simon's kisses reached her breasts and he paused to pay attention to Inara's nipples, peaked from his ministration