He makes a garbled little sound, full of mingled surprise and delight and excitement and, quite frankly, simply the need to get under that short, short skirts of hers. "I am sure they do," he smiles. "Look to you, Vittoria. Hands rarely lie." As for that, his palms are softer than ever, possibly, whereas one still can see scars on the backs of his hands. His hand twists with hers as she rises.
"After you, madonnina," holding the door. "Shall I hail a taxi? It's not far. But perhaps you're cold." Dressed like this, in nothing. Che bella, those girlish legs. Like a foal.