[Ianchus had wanted to stay that way, his face against Jezebel's chest, Jezebel's hand in his own hair, but he knows better. Don't move too fast.

Instead he sits back, leaning back on his arms, cocking a half-smile up at Jezebel. There's a pleased flush in his cheeks, though the exertion of the evening is finally hitting him.]

I suppose it's part of my charm.

[It's hard for him to hide how pleased he sounds at the words. If he were prone to shyness, he would likely be flustered.]