It's an invitation picked up, tucked away, with all the self-satisfied intention of someone (with plenty of imagination) who'll be glad to exploit it at a later date. His answer is an agreeable sound hummed against her throat, or maybe that's in response to the pleasant tickle of her nails against his skin, through his hair.

Both, most likely. The next rake of her nails has him resting his head back to look at her, studying her face, the near sleepy expression that's slowly waking back up. A brighter smile at the prospect of properly disrobing, and his hands slide down to tuck beneath her waistband again, touching just to touch rather than restarting anything immediately.

"I'd like to know many of your intentions are salvageable," he says. "It's the least I could do."