[ Astarion tilts his head like a curious dog. He's heard the word 'love' in relation to himself before, of course, and he's said it plenty of times, but everyone involved knew that it was only farce. Lonely people liked it when he pretended to love them, and impulsive people would say just about anything when someone with two hundred years of experience was pleasuring them. He's never heard it outside of the context of sex and seduction, though, removed from the concept of 'lust'. Only when Cazador was in one of his rages, ranting about how Astarion was an unlovable worm no one but him could ever care for.

He almost feels a little defensive, like he wants to snap at Iorveth and tell him not to say things he doesn't mean again. Iorveth wouldn't play with his feelings the way he'd played with his victims', he knows, but it's hard not to feel like the other shoe is going to drop any second. Happiness is so precarious. ]

—Yes, [ he replies belatedly, realizing he'd been lost in thought. Now that's a rarity. ] Rogues are more fun. [ With a wiggle of his fingers: ] Better with our hands.

[ He clasps his hands behind his back, then, watching Iorveth. ]

Aren't you going to say how you'd fly into a jealous rage if I ever let another sate my depraved, carnal desires?