Crowley laughs, genuinely amused by Aziraphale's playing the shy ingenue. As if he weren't 6,000 years old and a man (well, man-shaped entity) of the world. But, per the angel's request, not that he'd been planning to do otherwise, he does not stop. He tightens the looped coils around Aziraphale, not so much as to hurt, just enough that it'll feel like a firm embrace. He enjoys the slightly itchy slide of Azirphale's tweed jacket under his still-wet scales, his tangibly heavier breathing, and, hoping to make the angel perhaps squeak, insinuates the remaining length of his tail between his legs.

'Could do worse than inssssinuate,' he points out, the hiss now not entirely intentional. He hadn't bothered to manifest genitals in this form, but that doesn't mean he can't feel arousal. 'What is it, nossstalgia? The two of us way back at the beginning, me as the ssserpent and you with your flaming sword, all heavenly righteousssnesss and too many dimensions to look at. Or later than that? All those myths about nagas in India, you know? That was me. Or a lot of 'em were, anyway. While you were busy getting ssssmitey in the Fertile Crescent.'

Behind his dark glasses, his eyes go hazy for a moment or two, distracted by thoughts of Aziraphale's smitiness. Possibly from a demon it showed a distinct lack of self-preservation, but he'd always found Aziraphale ridiculously attractive like that. Snapping out of it a moment later, he forcefully returns the focus to Aziraphale, pressing his tail up against the crotch of his hideous tartan trousers.