Jaskier's scent is sweet and warm and so very inviting, all the more so because Geralt knows that it's for him. Jaskier always smells vaguely like arousal, like he is perpetually eyeing some pretty thing that he wants to take to bed. Geralt had gotten used to it and just attributed it to the bard's naturally promiscuous nature, just resigned himself to the fact that, so long as he was traveling with Jaskier, he would have to live with the smell of his salacity. Part of him is beginning to wonder if Jaskier always smelled this way around him because he was around him.

"Hmm."

Geralt rumbles again, his eyes tracking the movement of his mouth, his lips, his throat as he eats his little tarts. Jaskier eats delicately, a remnant of his high-born breeding, Geralt assumes, and must have learned over the years how to make it look attractive. Like it's a little piece of performance art, both a demonstration and a promise. There is naked desire in his eyes, and Geralt can't remember a time when anyone else had looked at him with that kind of focus and purpose. Like he is something not just worth wanting, but also worth keeping.

The witcher leans in a little, so that he can lower his voice. No need to give the people around them even more fodder for gossip.

"Sometimes, in moments of weakness," he replies, "I've thought about how I might make your voice crack."

Jaskier has an impressive vocal range, after all-- sometimes, when he and bard had parted ways and there had been no whores to take the edge off, he'd wondered what he would have to do to make the bard's voice jump octaves, if he could make even that highly-trained throat pitchy with the correct application of witcher stamina.