"Nor I you, my dear," he murmurs, softly kissing the nearest patch of skin he could reach; once the moment seems to be safe enough to break, he smirks, tracing Watson's collarbones now with his fingertips.

"But just in case you should tire of me on occasion, I did get you some other presents." He kisses Watson's skin again, pressing closer. "I do hope you do not want me to return them."

This is a very bad idea, laying around like this. This is precisely the sort of thing he should not be encouraging because this is how he has met his end before -- well, not precisely like this, but with careless slip-ups of intelligence. What holds him back, and what holds him back still, is a fierce determination that there is nothing wrong with them and they should be able to lay about however they like -- even if that's naked on the floor of their sitting room. Though perhaps other people wouldn't find William Blake's example as a suitable pathway to follow.