Jaskier settles back and stares up at her with no small amount of adoration, eyes roving the skin he now has permission to touch, to taste. Her fingers find him through the blue silk of his smalls and he hums comfortably, almost wistfully, and the sound is carried off on a sigh. She settles over him, their legs intertwined, and oh but she is eager and willing--his heart jumps delightedly and his hands find her bare waist.
He leans up, bends his head to capture her lips again as his hands roam. As he feels the same curves he had only just mapped through her dress--the heat of her, the softness of her skin, is immeasurably superior to the gown she had been wearing. He pulls her lip between his teeth, just gently tugging as his own lips curl into a shy smile.
Jaskier shifts the leg she is balanced atop and, in that same breath, slides a hand down to that thigh to urge it forward. To hitch her up so that she is pressed entirely against that thigh, so that the sharpness of his hip rests before her, an easy plane to grind against if she should choose it. His hand lingers on her thigh, on the back of her knee, and he hums again when he lets her lip go.
"I cannot imagine you have ever wanted for anything in bed, but if you have, speak it and I will make it so." His voice is a whisper, tender and soft in the bare space between their mouths. This is easy for him, comfortable, a way he can forget the bruising of his heart and soul--he has always reveled in granting others pleasure, either through song or deed, and he has become so terribly fond of her.
no subject
He leans up, bends his head to capture her lips again as his hands roam. As he feels the same curves he had only just mapped through her dress--the heat of her, the softness of her skin, is immeasurably superior to the gown she had been wearing. He pulls her lip between his teeth, just gently tugging as his own lips curl into a shy smile.
Jaskier shifts the leg she is balanced atop and, in that same breath, slides a hand down to that thigh to urge it forward. To hitch her up so that she is pressed entirely against that thigh, so that the sharpness of his hip rests before her, an easy plane to grind against if she should choose it. His hand lingers on her thigh, on the back of her knee, and he hums again when he lets her lip go.
"I cannot imagine you have ever wanted for anything in bed, but if you have, speak it and I will make it so." His voice is a whisper, tender and soft in the bare space between their mouths. This is easy for him, comfortable, a way he can forget the bruising of his heart and soul--he has always reveled in granting others pleasure, either through song or deed, and he has become so terribly fond of her.