It hits her all of a sudden; as if someone has pointed somewhere at the core of her and ignited a Fireball inside her. All it takes is to catch that trace and lick, even in the periphery, and she finds it hard to swallow.

She drops her gaze quickly, her heartbeat racing in her throat, in her ears. Clears her throat, twists her fingers together. "Yes, well - that's true." She has no idea what she's even agreeing to. Some sort of typical Astarion suggestive entendre, no doubt.

(She would not waste him.)

"I might have one more - top you up?" she asks, already moving to the chest to pick the bottle up, to pour herself one more cup with a slightly shaky pulse. Weave have it, Hermione, get a hold of yourself. You're a grown woman, not a teenager with a crush.