"Both?" He answered, biting his tongue between his front teeth, and pulling her closer against him before he could sweep his arm under her knees and lift her up. He hadn't always been strong enough to do this, in some stories he'd been far too small, or young, or weak, which really sucked for someone who clearly remembered carrying a wounded Little John through half the damn forest.
He kissed her in his arms, because it seemed like a waste not to, and carried her through to her room of low red couches and cushions. "Shame my legs don't look as good as yours in heels," he said. "Or we could move like this all the time."