As her finger trails and dabs color across his cheeks, his third eyelid sort of just... activates over the eye closest to the paint job. Sorry; he's a lizard. He can't help it.

"Anyone should think that," he asserts like it's an obvious fact, his own voice dipping into a huskier low to match. Getting touched, even a little, makes his flesh tingle and his nerves spark. He's not used to it. But he's not in a state to want to decline it, either. Weirdly enough, he wants more and doesn't care to question himself too much — the caution ever-present in the back of his brain is hushed, rather content to take things as they come without minding the future all that much. "But it would be remiss of me to stop at your cheeks when all of your features contribute charm to the whole."