Geralt hadn't thought it was possible for Jaskier to smell better than he already does, but he says Jask a warm thrum of arousal creeps in among the floral notes, and it's spicy and welcoming and he very badly wants to know what the bard will smell like when he has him on his back in bed. And the only thing that he could think of that would be better than Jaskier spread out underneath him like a feast and scent heavy with lust would be if he was all of that and smelled like Geralt, too. A claim rubbed into his skin, even if it's one that only other witchers would be able to read.

The bard's thumb traces over his lips, and Geralt kisses that, too.

"Composing?" he asks in the moments before Jaskier's lips crash back into his, and then there's no time for words. Not when there are fingers digging into his hair, pushing Geralt's head wherever he wants it, the delicious scrape of teeth over his lower lip. He deepens the kiss when Jaskier allows it, chases his tongue and the heat of his mouth and wants more. He wants, he wants.

Geralt steps forward, pushing Jaskier back until his legs hit the desk again, then slips his hands down to the bard's thighs to lift him onto its surface. He stands between Jaskier's legs and kisses along his jaw, over to his ear, and rumbles Jask into it, his voice rough.

"Talk to me."

Then he drags his teeth over the bolt of his jaw, moves down to the tender skin of his neck. Jaskier's doublets always have such high fucking collars, even if most of the time he was around Geralt and not in polite company, he wore them undone with his entire chemise showing, like a backwater tart. Geralt never paid attention to it, never cared about the detail's of Jaskier's foppish fashion. But he taught a class today, like a proper lecturer, and Geralt has to tug at the little buttons on the garment with an impatient growl to reveal more skin.

"So many fucking buttons."

He's half tempted to rip the thing open and to hell with all the buttons.