Oh, he intends to laugh. Not cruelly, not some balking, haughty offense at being called a goose of all things— but it is such a fragile, delightful thing gifted in the most unexpected way. The story, the poem, the wistful wondering complete with that wolffish grin. So yes, his own smile widens sharply, flashing the edges of his fangs in what should be the start of a laugh—

and instead slips out as something of an overly breathy moan, his body twisting. Still warm, still feverishly warm.

“Oh— that’s unfair.” said with far too much contentment, mind. His spine arching, fingers curling as surely as his toes. “You can’t just tell me a story like that and expect me- to—“

To what, exactly? What was he going to say? Oh, forget it. He’s rutting into that hand now, thank you very much.