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The salt-and-ozone tang of her skin is still thick on Geralt’s tongue when Yennefer asks him if he’s sleeping with Jaskier.
She doesn’t put it quite so delicately, but it’s what she means, and it feels as though he has been stuck with a pin that slides between his ribs and lodges in his heart.
Geralt is silent for a long moment, absorbing the weight of the question, before he offers a very calm, very measured, “No.”
She scoffs. It’s not the reaction he had anticipated—Geralt expects possessiveness from her, always—so he draws a deep breath and looks to where she is curled against his side, because this is surely some kind of trap. Yennefer is smirking, teasing her fingers through the hair of his chest, and there is a kind of shrewdness to her gaze that makes Geralt’s jaw lock.
“No?” she repeats, and her tongue shapes the word in such a way that there is no doubting her knowledge of his desire.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Oh, please.” With a roll of her eyes, Yennefer untangles herself from his body. She climbs out of bed and stretches, arms reaching high above her head; the way the candlelight catches on the slope of her back, the swell of her hips, makes Geralt’s breath hitch despite himself. “I should think I know you well enough by now to tell when there is something you want. I see the way you look at him. The lingering touches. It’s as though he’s a splinter you just can’t prise out. And it’s painfully obvious that the bard is in love with you. So what’s the problem?”
Geralt watches as she plucks her robe from the dresser and slips it on. He considers for a moment what it is Yennefer wants to hear, what will put an end to this conversation before she can delve any deeper into things like feelings and desires, but Yennefer is as inscrutable as ever, and Geralt doesn’t know where this is going. She is too adept at undoing him, at slipping beneath his defences and rooting out his emotions.
“Jaskier is like that with everyone,” he says neutrally. Yennefer turns to look at him.
“He has never said a kind thing to me in his life.”
“Everyone, except you,” Geralt amends.
Yennefer, thankfully, ignores this. She ties the tapes around her waist and sweeps her hair out from beneath the furred collar. Perching on the stool in front of her vanity, she picks up a brush and a little pot of waxy red lipstick and leans close to the mirror to reapply what she had smeared across Geralt’s mouth only moments earlier. “If you’re refraining on my account,” she says, somehow able to speak and paint her kiss-swollen lips at the same time, “don’t bother. I don’t mind if you fuck him.”
“You don’t—” Geralt stops himself. This is definitely a trap.
Yennefer hums in agreement.
“I don’t. Maybe, if he’s any good, I might let you both fuck me.” She pauses for effect, so Geralt’s sharp inhale punctuates the silence. He can practically hear the smirk in her tone. “One in front, one behind? You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
And he can see it, vividly: their legs slotted together, pressing up into wet warmth, feeling each other through Yennefer’s body as she tosses her back her head. Geralt’s own body is beginning to stir again at the image—the way Jaskier’s face would crumple in bliss; the noises Yennefer would make.
Fuck.
Instead of replying, because Geralt doesn’t trust himself even to open his mouth, he rolls over and stares fixedly at the grain of the wall. It’s answer enough; Yennefer’s laughter tinkles like glass.