[ Nothing underneath the shirt, only his tight trousers and his new boots left. Iorveth shrugs the soft fabric off of his torso and tosses it onto the nearest stool, releasing Astarion from his loose embrace to do so. ]

Have I. [ Fallen, he means, as he moves to undo the decorative belt around his waist (he hardly needs it; the pants are form-fitting enough that he doesn't need anything to keep it up). ] I think it more a matter of being able to trust that you actually want me, now.

[ More confident, in other words, that Astarion currently possesses enough self-respect to refuse any encounters that he doesn't truly want. Iorveth grunts as he pushes his pants below his hips, revealing the tattoo on his thigh in increments. ]

You would have despised being touched by me, back then.