"Yeah. You've made yourself at home, obviously. Suppose I'd just be a third wheel." Geralt couldn't-- and didn't want to-- keep the nastiness from his voice and couldn't Jaskier-- or didn't he want to?-- put on some bloody trousers? It was hard (fuck) to keep his eyes away from that thing; it seemed to take up all the space in the room. "Give me a minute." Even with Jaskier's cock chasing him about, he refused to yield so easily.

Keeping his shoulder to the bard, Geralt pulled the leather straps of his hip pouch free of its buckles, thigh and waist, crouching down next to the saddlebags with the whole piece in hand. "I don't need the pitcher," he growled as he plucked free the potions from their holsters. His opposite hand made a feeble attempt to scrape his hair up off the back of his neck just to let it fall again. The heat was absurd. "I'll use the trough, since a bath seems beyond us tonight."