Each angle of the wolf chained 'round Geralt's neck served as a road map for idle fingers to... Somewhere. With all the contentedness of a feline after its feast, Radana laid atop the witcher, yet languid eyes had yet to budge from his face. "I wonder... Just where might you be without this...?" Doubtful that he'd part with it, but perhaps sticky fingers could dream, no?
He smiles in spite of himself. Indeed, she has that effect on him.
Far too ordinary, now, the position in which they lie: Radana has, for as long as the White Wolf can remember, been none too shy with her touch, and while she idles with the chain around his neck and studies him with eyes just as inhuman as his own, Geralt for many moments does not look back. No stubbornness to the gesture. He does not huff like a petulant cat and raise his chin, feign some form of ignorance to her attention simply to prove a point. Rather, just as simply, the witcher has learned the instant he meets molten gold, he is near powerless to look away.
So he must first accept the consequences. And it is after a low rumble in his throat that he finally turns his head just so, pins her lidded stare with a passive look almost masking that he is now ensnared.
“Reckon I’d still be here,” he answers, pursuing her phrasing in as literal of a manner as he can—and something playful flickers swiftly through his eyes. “Trapped beneath a vampire who assumes she owns just about anything she sets her eyes on.” Did that include himself? He’d not have to say. “Before you ask, no.”
Geralt does not, however, stop her from having her fun. “Finer medallions would better suit you, besides.”
