His own face is flushed now, not from the cold; his irises are a ring of blue around pupils swollen wide. As the hem of her dress rucks up he can feel wetness spreading against the fabric of his trousers, and oh God, for a split second he's tempted to miracle them back home so he can tear her clothes off.

But only a second. Only a breath, before he kisses her fingertips, flicks his tongue against them, soft and ticklish.

His smile is wicked.

"Thousands of years," he breathes, "of reading dirty books and thinking dirtier thoughts about you. You're a terrible influence, Crowley. Making me want to fuck you with my fingers and tongue till you fall apart, suck your clit until all you can say is my name. Shameless."