"Nina," Geralt tried to scold, but mostly gave a chuff of low laughter as he rushed them through the autumn crowds on the way to her place.

She had a good grip on his hips, a very good grip such that he was very focused on just how strong and soft her thighs were, and on the memory of how they felt under his bare palms, just before she climaxed. It was not, maybe, a thought befitting of a gentleman. Fortunately, Geralt was a witcher.

"Not afraid I might drop you?"

He rubbed their cheeks together, laughing again at the rasp of his beard against her ear. They would be there soon.