He smiled. Behind it was a mixture of mischief, sweetness and desire. He never tired of Freyja, even if she was sometimes far more overt than he preferred to be, but in truth, that was part of her charm. His hand lowered to reach for her hand and clasping it in his own, lifted it so that his lips could press to the back of her hand.
“Shall we,” he said as he flipped her hand over and bussed his lips against the inside of her wrist, “venture to find ourselves some paint.?” Gently and sweetly, his lips moved down across her palm. “And perhaps somewhere to prepare my canvas?”
They could probably go somewhere else. It was far more proper to go somewhere more private where he could compose sonnets upon her flesh, whether in honey or by tongue alone...