"Mmm," Geralt murmured, which might have been about the apple pie, and might have been about what he had beneath him. Her mouth was warm and wet against the pulse in his neck, her fingers were long and artful. They were soft, when they slid across his skin, marking the ridges of scar tissue.

He shivered, very softly. It was a contrast, the way her touch felt against different parts of his chest and belly. There were places which had healed to be particularly sensitive, and places where he could barely tell her fingers passed at all but for the pressure. He was accustomed to it, it didn't rob him of any pleasure.

"I'll have to bring you some apples to work with."

He bent down to press his face between the soft mounds of her breasts beneath the dress, resting it there against the fabric, taking in the warmth and smell of her.

With a roll of his shoulders, he shrugged out of the unbuttoned shirt. Geralt let it fall to the floor beside the sofa.