"You certainly are," she murmurs, removing her fingers from his hair so she can stroke them over his face instead, trailing her calloused fingertips along the ridge of his brow and down the side of his face until she can rasp her nails over the stubble that's cropped up along his jaw, the stubble that left her thighs pinked-up and sensitive.

"I'm going to make you do that again before we go," she informs him imperiously, already plotting out how many more times she can feasibly sneak away from her duties to fuck the witcher before she absolutely must return to her real life and he to his. At least once more, she thinks. Maybe twice, if she's lucky.