Gods, it's only a little light fondling.

[ Again, he's done far worse in taverns. Running his fingers over Iorveth's chest is downright prudish, really. ]

—But, [ he adds, melodramatic, ] if you insist.

[ He withdraws his hand, swinging his legs over so his feet are once again flat on the ground, scooting his chair back to its original position. A polite few inches stand between them now, and he crosses his arms, leaning back in his chair. ]

I'll keep my hands to myself. I wouldn't want to be improper.