"I'm not denying that!" he insisted, with a laugh at her retaliation. And he wasn't, but his thoughts were equally filthy. Which was probably a bit strange, filthy thoughts over literary analysis, but it was what it was. A beautiful woman talking books to him so passionately was a definite turn on.
He found himself just leaning into her touches, completely lost in the conversation with her. Again, the outside world didn't matter at all. He smiled, nodding with her analysis, clearly interested in her every word, her every thought. "Mm, more of an anti-romantic novel," he mused, taking a sip of whiskey.
"And it's clear which kind were more interesting," he nodded, the word interesting seeming to come out a lot more dirty than he had intended it to be.
He laughed at her assessment of his teenage years, and shook his head. "God, no, this was the conservative Midwest, I couldn't have got near a girl without a chaperone," he told her. "My teenage years..." he mused, trying to think of anything he could even tell her, it was all exceptionally dull. "Nothing exciting. My father took me hunting and fishing, and my mother was constantly disappointed in my lack of musical ability, and I guess I was in a few sports teams, and did stuff with the school newspaper," he told her.
"Um, but by the time I finished high school, it was the war, so I was just a teenager when I went to Europe, and-" he skipped over the gory details of his first few weeks there, no one wanted to hear about him picking up mutilated body parts, "-I was wounded a few weeks later, and spent the rest of my teenage years lying in hospital, reading hundreds of books. And maybe flirting with nurses," he added on the end, with a chuckle.