"If I may." Not that he's asking, really: it's more of a fair warning when he takes her hand and traces fingers, traces the near-invisible lines of her palm. "Not so much wool as silk, madonnina." Finishing his inspection, he lightly kisses her knuckles, then nearly chokes on his tongue at her a propos suggestion.
He evenly meets her eyes. "Delighted, Vittoria mia. Shall we."