He curses, rough hands white knuckled clutching at her blankets. Encouraged by the way she clings to him, he drives into her again and again and again. Until the royal bed creaks in protest and even the witcher's breathing turns ragged.

His hips jerk forward, buried to the hilt when he finally comes. Pressing his face into the crook of her neck to fill every one of those senses with her and her alone.