I spoil you already. [Is the distrait response of a noble heir who's been unseated by the worrying at his ear; not so dazed as much as dazzled by the sentiment that guides those fingers already, the nail in the coffin for where the pupils of his eyes shift (flickering erratically), is that all-consuming softness where rough knuckles glide across his skin— buzzing through his nervous system like white noise.

Because normally he'd have something in mind already when it comes to coy responses, or even clever ones, no matter how sincere. Something to give tenderness a brace before its gentle foyer meets its basement with a thoughtless whimper, or a mood-killing fumble of his words.

But he knows, even with the thickness of alcohol on their breath, rolling in the air between them (his fingertips still tucked in places he can't see and his bare skin sticking to expensive leather), Fenris doesn't care about all that. Let his fumble be a fumble. Let his ear twitch until it snaps flat against his white curls with a shudder.

It's the truth, if nothing else.]

Where else [he starts again, tugging on thick cloth just to get his bearings while his knees dig hard against the console,] would you find yourself getting to fuck a lordling in a car worth twice as much as the average household income?