It was ironic, then, that his words could slither and slide like the body of a snake, when the creature itself and the sentiment it held was so deeply intertwined with their fates. Loki was bound to his wife by a force much stronger than marital vows. She was perfect for him, was perhaps perfect herself, and in the greediest of manners, he liked to keep her to himself. To harbor her in a safe place, hide her away in the corner of his psyche and pull her back out whenever he needed a pick-me-up.
But despite his thoughts, despite his manner and actions, Loki was quite the attention lover whenever the need arose. He was more gentle with his conquests, more soft - as soft as he could get - with the strangers he slept with, because he knew he could get away with far more where Sigyn was concerned. She was the only one who could tolerate him. The only one - and here he laughed, for the thought was both intriguing and despairing, had he a mind to dwell on it for long - who cared.
Her words struck him fast and hard, running straight through his veins and heating up his already boiling blood. His fingers inched upwards, burying in her hair, stroking in the sweetest of manners before he gripped her harshly and jerked her head to the side, forcefully baring her neck to his scathing gaze.
"Right answer."
His lips were on her pulse point, then, as he pushed closer, wedging a knee between her legs. To Hel with witnesses - he would ravage her then and there, on her counter top, if he so pleased.