His expression doesn't shift, he doesn't even postulate over his answer, not as her lips press against his. He follows her lead and the chasteness of their last kisses is replaced by this one--slow and gentle and tender. She tastes as much of that cherry drink as he must, but the burn of it is faded and only that sweet lingering flavor remains. Her lips are impossibly soft and welcoming and, oh, he is not a strong man.

It takes only a few moments, kissing and tasting her, smoothing his tongue over lip and tongue alike, before he is entranced with it. When he must finally part to breathe he does so with a sound of reluctance but, at once, is able to answer her question.

"Everything," he says simply, as though it were not a question. To him, it is not. Now that he has begun to know her, to know the shape of her smile and the taste of her lips and how her clever teasing dances behind her eyes, he wants nothing less for her than whatever she wants. Whatever she desires should be hers. Unfortunately, romantic as he is, Jaskier can give her very little.

He can give her this, though, if it is what she wants from him. He will give this gladly, as he always has.

"What do you want right now?" he asks her, breathes out against her lips, and finds his hands roaming, smoothing the soft fabric of her dress across her hips, her thighs, then back up along her sides.