The trim lines of his waist let her hook her ankles and they dig lightly into his lower back. Her smile has not yet waned. And being able to sink in the new waves of attention she will fall asleep grinning like a brainless fool. Closer, deeper and his sense of timing renews the ebbing feeling of pleasure and ache in her cunt. Yennefer's cries are sharper. In case there is a doubt or wonder that this is the method Jaskier should take, she has a tight grip on his bare back.

She could claw him up like a wildcat. So perhaps she is not so brainless to be inconsiderate. Her heels will undoubtedly bruise, digging into him, urging his ride. The bedding is soft and the best she can offer is to roll back her own hips to bring them to his own. The leather and the neglected black cock jumble and rub against him. A tease between all the skin to skin contact.

All air from her lungs is being used to sound her pleasure. She hopes in it is the sentiments of before. He's so good to her. Such a motion. Such a tempo. Surely not all bards are talented. Yet how could she ever think to bed another after the Jaskier? Their bodies a wonderful, near violent clash and the kisses so very sweet.

A poor and dutiful maid working the in knocks at the door gently. "Everything good in there, miss?"

Maybe, just maybe she could put magical sound restrictions. But then she would remove herself from the mischief of moaning a response. An "oh dear me" and "right then" come from the other side of the door. The awareness or perhaps the shame with Jaskier's committed to rhythm and that perfect cock of his own sends Yennefer once more. She clutches him tightly and presses her face into his neck. Apologies to his ears, his skin for what it is worth. Nothing good comes without a price.