Jaskier reaches out and takes his wrist, the one holding a damn knife that has a slice of apple sitting on its blade; Geralt tilts his head a little at him, a curious gesture, and lets him move his arm. He wrinkles his nose at the odd, anxious smell that he can detect coming from the bard, until the knife is at his lips and Geralt is keeping his hand very still. His hand is steady.

The bard takes the apple slice from the knife, and Geralt watches the movement of his lips, his mouth, the brief flash of white teeth, with all of the sharp focus that he watches an approaching monster. He likes the shape of Jaskier's mouth, he decides-- soft, pink lips, the little rough patch near one corner where he'd bitten it, breath sweet with the scent of pear and apple. A hint of ale underneath that.

He lets the bard's hand guide him in, gets a bite of the fruit between his lips-- sweet on his tongue, sweeter when he chases Jaskier's lips and tastes pear, too. Geralt drops the knife and the apple, letting them fall to the floor and freeing his hands to grab at Jaskier, one going to his back and the other to his thigh. There's only so much that he can touch while the bard is sitting across his legs; there's so much more than he could do in a bed. They have two, it so happens, and that's fine-- that means they can get one of them as messy as they please and there's still a spare.

Geralt picks him up, hefting him like he hardly weighed anything at all, and brings him over to one of the beds. He doesn't toss him onto it quite as vigorously as he did at Oxenfurt, if only because this mattress isn't nearly as plush as that one, but Jaskier looks just as nice spread out on a shitty mattress as a good one.

No one knows that he's a witcher here, though. No one's going to go knocking at his door, begging him to slay a beast.

"If you want to save that doublet, you'd better take it off now."