He offered a small and thin smile, the kind of measured approval that was about the best she managed to get (except, perhaps, when his defenses were down in the throes of sex, or for fleeting moments when she was particularly sweet or charming.) There was amusement in his eyes and on his lips, but he barely turned to look at her as he answered. "Odd that you cite your old life as the one that had you locked into suffering for expectations, and not your current, real life. I should say I expect far more of you than your father ever did, if you ever mean to earn anything akin to respect. Perhaps, then, it's that you'd sooner be beaten and bound than locked into drab social functions with politicking women?" There was a more noticeable glimmer of mirth in his eyes at that final suggestion...<br/><br/>His hand slithered out across the back of the sofa, hooking around her shoulders and pulling her light weight against his side. It dropped down once she was wedged in place and slid instead under her arm, to cup and grasp one of her tits, giving it a familiar squeeze to test the weight and resistance of it. He seemed content to idly toy with the fleshy mound while they talked, and his attention remained on her, expectant of some sort of answer. While the brandy he continued to sip from with his other hand was perhaps in part to blame for his outspoken mood, it was also a potential excuse for him to switch just as fast.<div class="messageTextEndMarker"> </div>