His eyes roll. They are still conversing, still dancing, and so by default, Blake has him for at least one more dance. It is, as Blake correctly identifies, all horseshit, but in a way that doesn't bother Geralt. The dance doesn't matter, the celebration doesn't matter; Blake could've set himself up in the middle of a barren dessert with nary a bush in sight, and Geralt would likely have—at some point—come to find his friend.

He lets Blake lead this time. Because he can, and he wishes to.

"How easily do you think you can satisfy me?"

The layers are peeling back now, but only insofar as Geralt has allowed. The more time they've spent together, the more Blake might've noticed that Geralt has the occasional tendency towards nonsense—that there is, perhaps, a reason he gets along so well with personalities nearly opposite his own.