Geralt's head fell back. He let out a quiet sigh of deepest relief. Nina's hands were warm and soft on his prick, her touch was kind but eager. The smile on her face reminded him of no one, and that, too, made him enjoy the touch all the more.

"Nina, please."

His hands serched for purchase, and found it, one in the blankets, one on the nearby log he'd sat on.

Geralt's nails dug in deeply, fingers pressing into the old wood with a strange strength reserved usually for landing sword-blows against fleders and forktails.