Why not

“Sure, why not?” Geralt said. “Besides, haven’t seen you fight yet.”

“Great!” Theora smiled. “Well, I’m all packed. I’m pretty sure there’s a boat going out on the evening tide, so you might want to hurry up.”

Geralt muttered quietly to himself, but nodded. “Fine.”

He spent the rest of the afternoon saying his goodbyes to Cerys and Hjalmar, avoiding Triss for as long as possible. Eventually, though, she cornered him in the Great Hall with a cold fury in her green eyes. “Have you been avoiding me, Geralt?” she asked.

“Sorry, Triss. I didn’t want to make it hard,” he muttered.

“Geralt, I’m not a dumb little girl. I know this was just a fling, so don’t lie to me,” Triss said. “Now, I think you owe me an apology.” As soon as he opened his mouth to apologize again, she put a finger on his lips, and a small smile played across her face. “A private apology.”

Taking him by the hand, she led him to a small broom closet and shut the door behind them. Illuminated only by a small ray of light streaming through a crack in the door, Geralt watched her clothes vanish in a pink glow, and she turned around and pressed her ass into his crotch. He quickly unbuckled his belt and dropped his trousers to around his ankles. Triss reached down and caressed his hardening cock, then slowly guided him into her moist pussy.

Their last encounter was far less romantic and intimate than their others had been, but it was just as passionate, which was impressive considering it was among a collection of cleaning supplies.

“Mm,” Triss sighed, extremely satisfied, as cum leaked down the inside of her thigh. “Now that was an apology.”

“I forgot who was apologizing,” Geralt said, pulling his trousers up and fastening his belt.

Triss laughed and waved her hand, and suddenly the cum was gone and she was fully clothed, her hair once again fixed into her usual twin buns. “So did I,” she smiled, opening the door, then jumped in surprise.

Theora stood there, right outside the door with her arms crossed and a smirk on her lips. “That sounded like a proper goodbye,” the witcher said cheerfully. “You ready?” she asked Geralt.

“What the hell!” Triss said.

“What?” Geralt asked. “How long have you been there?”

“Not that long,” Theora shrugged, with a twinkle dancing in her amber eyes.

“Do you have any respect for privacy?” Triss huffed.

“Nope. Come on, the boat’s gonna leave without us,” Theora said.

There was a sudden flash of light and a bang, and an orange portal opened next to Theora. “Oxenfurt, right?” Triss said, her hand raised.

“Triss, you know I hate portals,” Geralt said. Before he even finished his sentence, Theora had dived through the portal with a grin on her face, and disappeared. “Dammit.”

“She seems fun,” Triss said sarcastically. Then she turned to Geralt and kissed him on the cheek. “You’d better get after her.”

“Dammit,” he repeated. “See you around, Triss.”

“Goodbye, Geralt.”

He took a deep breath, loathing the feeling he knew was coming, and stepped into the portal.

Geralt stumbled on the cobbled street and leaned against the nearest fencepost, fighting the urge to vomit. The smell of puke reached his nostrils and bile rose in his throat, but he managed to suppress it as he glanced over and saw Theora, similarly doubled-over but spewing her guts out into someone’s flower pot.

“Ugh,” she groaned. “That was ploughing horrible.”

“Yeah,” he agreed. “Why did you do that?”

She shrugged weakly. “I thought it was a good idea at the time. I didn’t realize that portals were so digusting.”

“Not that,” Geralt said. “Ambushing us outside the cupboard.”

Theora straightened up slowly, swaying a little. “Pretty much the same answer – I thought it was a good idea at the time. Plus, even when you’re in an open relationship, it’s better not to push your luck. Especially if you keep ploughing the same woman.”

“Thanks for the advice,” Geralt said dryly.

“Hey, just trying to help,” she shrugged. “Where’s the nearest tavern? I need a drink.”

“So do I,” Geralt muttered under his breath, before leading her in silence to the Alchemy. On the way there, Theora kept looking around, taking in the architecture of the city. “You haven’t been here before, have you?”

“Nope. It’s a pretty city,” she said.

The Alchemy was slowly beginning to fill with workers and students from Oxenfurt Academy when they entered. With their swords and witcher gear, they stuck out like a sore thumb, and many curious pairs of eyes looked them over.

Stjepan, the innkeeper, smiled as he recognised Geralt. “Witcher! What can I get you? And your, uh, heavily-armed companion.”

“Stout for me,” he said.

“Kaedwenian, coming right up. And you, miss?” Stjepan asked as he started pouring out a beer.

“Can I have a lager, please?” Theora asked, and Stjepan nodded. The two witchers put a few crowns on the bartop, and Stjepan scooped them into his palm after handing over their drinks.

“Oh, and witcher! Let me know if you want a rematch,” the bartender said. “I want that card back.”

“Will do,” Geralt said.

They sat down at a table. “What rematch was he talking about?” Theora asked, taking a big swig from her mug.

“Beat him in a game of gwent a while back.”

“Ah,” she nodded, visibly trying not to roll her eyes.

They talked and drank for a while, and soon enough the irritation Geralt had felt towards the brunette had been drowned in ****. The conversation barely strayed out of the realm of small talk, apart from a brief tangent into relationships, which didn’t last very long.

At some point, Geralt noticed her eyes start to drift around the bar, as if looking for something. Soon after, she kept taking occasional glances at the same part of the tavern; the fourth time she did, he followed her gaze to a group of students sitting by the window. One of the students, a skinny, dark-haired boy, was looking towards them, but quickly averted his eyes as soon as he saw Geralt’s gaze on him.

“You know him?” he asked.

Theora shook her head as if to clear it. “What? Who?”

“That boy.”

“No. I told you, I’ve never been here before,” she said. “What do you think, though? I think he’s kinda cute.” A smirk played across her lips.

Geralt let out a soft laugh. “You’re thinking about bedding him. Does this usually happen when you’re drunk?” he asked.

Her amber eyes twinkled. “Probably. Anyway, you didn’t answer my question.”

Geralt glanced over at the boy. He looked around 19, maybe 20, and his black hair was carefully slicked back. Despite being somewhat skinny, there was an air of authority around him, and he seemed to be commanding the conversation at his table. Geralt wasn't into men, but he supposed that he could, objectively, be considered attractive.