Geralt didn't, he wouldn't have. His tongue kept moving against her, experienced, untiring. His breath was hot, deep, impossibly even. He worked her until he could feel her nearing an edge, feel the muscles in her thighs tense and shake.

And then he slowed, gentled, until she fell back from the edge. But only once. Any more, and she would become too sensitive, he might risk making her overstimulated, sore.

He urged Nina on again with a soft noise of encouragement, his hands moving up and down the sides of her torso in long, gentle strokes, assured and eager to hear her tumble over.