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There were whole worlds of pleasure Aziraphale knew nothing about. The idea of introducing Aziraphale to so much new temptation and delight had Crowley hard and aching already. And the idea of making Aziraphale lose control, of unraveling him at the seams until he spilled out into Crowley’s hands, made his mouth water. He swallowed. "Please. Let me show you."
Crowley reels out of the Globe like a drunk. Every time he sees Aziraphale it's the same: Crowley loves him, Crowley wants him, Crowley goes off for a miserable wank afterward. Futile, infuriating. He doesn't feel miserable today. The lust is terrifying in its enormity, yes, but there's something else. Aziraphale looked at him like he was willing to be pleased. Like Crowley had pleased him.
Aziraphale does not want to stamp out demonic thoughts tonight. He felt wicked from the moment he alighted in Paris, dressed in his finest, and understood the gravity of his erreur. Crowley turned up to rescue him like a hero in a fairy story, and Aziraphale simply could not keep his wickedness to himself. He flirted with Crowley, shamelessly. And it felt good. By which he meant, deliciously wrong.