He leans back into her, drinks her down like a man dying of thirst and his hands leave her hips to help with the buttons of his shirt, to shed his doublet and help her efforts to undress him. He doesn't move quickly, but he doesn't linger long or fumble as his fingers move over the buttons.
Once his shirt hangs open against his chest, still tucked into the trousers that rise to his waist, Jaskier's hands return to her. He settles them low on her ribs, and his fingertips glance over the shapes of her, the planes of her, as they move to her back and find the laces that hold the gown closed.
He doesn't think hard on her offer to care for him--he isn't certain what that means and he doesn't dare to hope. He would give her anything she asked, in this or any moment hereafter.
"Anything, move me as you like, sweetling, and I shall do my best for you," Jaskier promises and his lips find her chin and then the soft flesh of her throat. He kisses down her neck, dragging lips and tongue and drawing the tender flesh into his mouth as his lips hover over her pulse. She tastes of fine perfume, of mineral makeup, and like the very edge of air after a lightning strike. That must be magic.
His fingers work swiftly, as they had with his shirt, and the laces of her gown loosen beneath them. They will have to move to free themselves from the fabric that pools around them but, at the moment, he is none too eager to pull away.
no subject
Once his shirt hangs open against his chest, still tucked into the trousers that rise to his waist, Jaskier's hands return to her. He settles them low on her ribs, and his fingertips glance over the shapes of her, the planes of her, as they move to her back and find the laces that hold the gown closed.
He doesn't think hard on her offer to care for him--he isn't certain what that means and he doesn't dare to hope. He would give her anything she asked, in this or any moment hereafter.
"Anything, move me as you like, sweetling, and I shall do my best for you," Jaskier promises and his lips find her chin and then the soft flesh of her throat. He kisses down her neck, dragging lips and tongue and drawing the tender flesh into his mouth as his lips hover over her pulse. She tastes of fine perfume, of mineral makeup, and like the very edge of air after a lightning strike. That must be magic.
His fingers work swiftly, as they had with his shirt, and the laces of her gown loosen beneath them. They will have to move to free themselves from the fabric that pools around them but, at the moment, he is none too eager to pull away.