A kiss is just as good as him taking the brooch; it's soft and gentle at first, tender in that particular way that Jaskier has that makes his chest tighten up and pulls a low, broken sound out of his throat. Jaskier already wrecks him with just a kiss-- there's no telling how much he might ruin him with more. Then there's teeth on his lips and that noise goes from broken to growling, arousal jolting through his guts. He gets a hand on the bard's hip, gripping him through layers of fabric, aching for skin.

He pulls away far too quickly for Geralt's liking, and the witcher chases his lips, one last quick press before he starts talking. It's too long to be without, though, not when just that relatively tame kiss set a fire under his skin. The only cure for it is the bard's hands on him-- his body, calling for him. A poetic way of saying that he wants Jaskier under him and screaming his name.

A wink and a few coy words gives him all the permission that he needs.

"I'll pin this to you in the morning," he says, setting the brooch on the desk. He'd put it on him now, but there's a lot of fabric between him and Jaskier's skin and so many buttons, and Geralt has very little patience. He kisses him again, getting his arms around the bard and pulling him in, then ducks his head against his neck and breathes. He smells sweet again, honey and happiness, and Geralt bites the pulse point on Jaskier's throat where the smell is strongest.

"How fond are you of this doublet?"

Geralt thinks it might be the worst thing he's ever seen on Jaskier. Hardly flattering at all, it would be practically a favor to get it off of him.