His body is young, still strong. Chances are years will not wither him for quite sometime. Blood rushes and sings under his skin. Another beautiful and original composition unique to Jaskier. Yennefer wants to spend time acquainting herself with the ways of him, how he breathes and leans, sighs and shivers. Kisses vary so much now. Deeper, more robust and searching. She hasn't found a displeasing motion.

Pulling him to lay over the soft linen and furs--Temeria and it's half seasons as they call them, one can never be too careful--she bids his trousers goodnight with a last shove. Small clothes of men are not the most becoming of sights though again, Jaskier has a taste for flare and her fingers search for him over the fabric. A pleased hum follows. Half or full mast, still pleasing to touch and she wants to be in his lap once more. This time she chooses to straddle his thigh and push for them to both lay back. The fabric between her thighs is already damp and now he too can feel it by contact.

Yennefer's body has not aged beyond twenty. Crafted by the Sculptor and her own vision of beauty and power. The delight of it a gift as much as a frustration. Right now she is glad to be a pleasing image for him. Her breasts are pert and press to the hard, flat plane of his chest. He would do whatever she asked, no doubt in her head.