Jaskier blathers on about his... seduction, or whatever it is that he does when he's trying to charm some courtly woman into his bed. Something about foreplay and tension and magic, he stops paying attention once he starts talking about chases. It doesn't really matter, anyway, because Jaskier is distracted by a serving girl carrying desserts, and the bard can't resist a selection of sweet things.

"Hm."

Jaskier is fulfilled and content. That's good-- Jaskier ought to get his fill of delicacies and dainty things while he's here at Oxenfurt, because he won't be getting them at Kaer Morhen. And it's... pleasing, to have Jaskier pressed against him, warm and happy and still running high on his successful performance.

Plus, the noises that Jaskier makes when he eats those tarts aren't fit for polite company but, gods, does he like to hear them. He might like to hear more of them, later.

"I'm not one of your tavern wenches, Jask."

Jaskier offers Geralt a piece of that tart like he would offer some dainty morsel to... another kind of tart, one that certainly isn't a brick shithouse of a witcher. He gives Jaskier a look that's both dry and amused, and goes to pick up his tankard of ale rather than take the pastry.

"I prefer to drink." The whispers have started up again, and Geralt tries to ignore it. He still hears them, of course, and they're saying things about how sweet the White Wolf is with his bard, and the witcher can practically see his reputation getting ruined even more. "I've heard so much about your talents, and after all these years, I have to say that I was expecting more."