(It's absolutely a pen knife.)

His hand fisted in her clothes and pinning her to the desk doesn't relent, though it's clear now he knows her face and is fully aware of the heel at the back of his knee. It's a strong grip, arm all sinew and corded muscle ungiving even in the face of her laughter. But the knife edge has tilted up at least. By only the barest degree, but it's not kissing her throat anymore and that must count for something because what the fuck kind of answer is that meant to be in the middle of the night? And after he's ripped her off the stern ledge and put a knife nearly in her--

"At this hour?" Snapped out, boggled.

But he releases her, though there's no missing that the knife remains bared and well in hand even as he extricates himself from the loop of her leg. For fuck's sake. He rounds the table, leaving her to collect herself as he strikes a match to light the lamp hanging from the hook overhead. As if it weren't clear already, in the resultant wobbling light it's obvious she's woken him. His shirt's all undone, long hem loose about him, and he's barefoot.

"Is there something wrong with the morning?" He shakes out the smoking match, killing the ember.