He can't help it; he laughs aloud, startled (and a little delighted) by her declaration. They both know it's not actually true, objectively speaking. If someone could take top honors in terms of looks, he's likely not a pale, scarred, near-sighted thing who spent a few weeks too many in a crypt.

What it really means is something else, something he values far greater than any notion of objective truth. This is how much I love you, she's saying, so much that I look at your face, in all its pinched sour-looking glory, and I don't care that you're not even the most handsome de Rolo.

"I think we need to have your eyes checked," he says warmly, a low noise escaping him as her breast grazes softly against his shaft. Her attention is certainly having some effect, even if it's slower than he'd like; her tongue at his hipbone, lining out the seam of his leg, was particularly inspiring. "Or perhaps see if you've sustained a concussion."

Have you hit your head recently, Vex? He reaches out to touch her cheek, all affection.