It is all the invitation he needs, and he steps in on soft, tufted paws. His tail swishes and he gives a much quieter meow. When she pets him he pushes his head against her hand, purring so loudly that he occasionally squeaks. This is definitely a kitty who's used to people. He gives her finger a lick with his sandpapery little tongue and then drops to the floor. He makes his way to the bed, his tail up, the fur at the end so long that it hangs down and makes it look as though it's bent at the tip. Then he stops and looks up at the bed before leaping smoothly up onto it. And all the while he purrs and purrs and purrs.

Inwardly, in his sapient mind that sits behind the cat mind and watches, he debates when he wants to turn back into a man--the wrong time would be far too alarming. He doesn't want to frighten her unduly. Quite apart from that making blood taste strange, he... rather likes her. He'd much rather give pleasure than fear in cases like these. He thinks and ponders, his paws kneading the bedsheets.