Falling flat should be a reasonable excuse for his breath catching, too, in addition to the blushing. For not being able to move right away. But when he does move it's up onto his elbows, nearer Zevran's face, managing a smirk and an air of challenge. Blushing, yes. Virgin, no.

"And I said I couldn't dance," he says, pauses for a second to choose an appropriate retaliatory pet name--meatball is given brief consideration--"dearest."

For whatever game Zevran is playing. It's above Alistair's head, but he can try to keep up. He twists sideways and out from beneath Zevran, and he's still mottled red everywhere his skin is visible--because of the crowd's tittering, arguably, except he gives them a bow, with a performer's wide-sweeping flourish, like a classroom of snickering students just before he's dragged off to sit very still on his knees and meditate on the sanctity of the Chant. It's Zevran he doesn't look at.