[It is similar to that spell, though there's something different about it being an actual extension of Winter himself -- and given the circumstances, far more intimate. Astarion twirls his finger with the tendril wrapped around it, a little playful in action and the tone of his reply.]

Compared to the inky black of the night, even a vampire feels like he runs warm.

[But he says it fondly, a little delighted. There really is something elevating about this singular moment, and though he cannot pinpoint exactly what, he wouldn't trade it for anything, either.]

Well. I take it you'll be putting it away, though, for the rest of this. [The little tendril he means. Without giving the warlock time to retort, he splays his free palm against his chest and gives him a little push towards the bed.

If that takes him down, too, given he still has Winter's arms looped around him, then so be it.]