"True, true," he acknowledges and sighs, relaxing into her soft touch and the smell of honeysuckle. He sighs, airily and indulges, his eyes following her as best he can while she maneuvers behind him.

"I have never been one to languish in propriety," he admits, "and surely I cannot be expected to do so when around someone as enchanting as you."

Was that a pun? It was. Go to word jail, Jaskier.

He smiles as her hands glide and smooth and, as hey hit his waist he has a truly stupid idea. He should not, really, because they are not in love, no matter how adoring his glances, and this shall surely break the comfortable ease between them--but he cannot help but prod at his own happiness. It is the only way to know if it is real.

His cheeks burn just so as he looks back at her.

"Your hands are so much softer than my own, love, and I fear I will be sore enough already. Would you clean the oil that lingers still?" Oh, but that was asked with such delicacy and care, like a fine crystal flute balanced precariously on the edge of a table. So rarely did he have lovers who would do the mundane for him--