Disclaimer: I do not own A Song of Ice and Fire, it belongs to George R.R. Martin. However, if he refuses to play with his characters, I am obliged to take them out for the occasional spin.
Author's Note: This is the second fic in my one-word prompt series. Be warned, this fic features scenes of a sexual nature between an older man and a younger woman. I need a "That's my Fetish" .gif stat!
P.S. This is fic is AU and basically a PWP.
"How old are you?" he gasped as he thrust into her.
"Eigh―Eighteen!"
Her reply was stuttered, and he gave her another harsh thrust. Thank the gods, he thinks.
This thing between them is wrong, it's indecent, immoral, and oh gods so fucking good. He lifted her hips higher; the angle denied her autonomy of movement while granting him an unimpeded view of her body. Her chest was flushed, her nipples stiff and aching, her red hair was spread across his pillow in a bloody wave.
He could feel her orgasm closing in, her walls fluttered around his cock, and he could not stop the shudder that ran through his body. She cried out as he thumbed her clit, circling it roughly before pinching it. She was glorious as she came, a fiery inferno that seared his flesh.
She gasped out his name, drew it out, wrapped her lips and tongue around it, and the sound was so lush, so sensual, that the pounding of his hips increased for a moment before he released himself into her willing body. He dropped onto her, completely exhausted. He felt her hands running through his hair, her voice murmuring in his ear.
He muttered under his breath, "Eighteen."
She turned to look him in the eye, "Is it wrong?"
"I just took a barely-legal Sansa Stark into my bed. Yes, I'd say that it was wrong."
She looked indignant for a moment, but then a slow smile crept across her lips, "I didn't think I would find myself in the bed of Tywin Lannister at eighteen, but I think I'd like to be here again."
The overwhelming desire to say yes to her suggestion shocked him, and his throat closed on the harsh words standing ready to be delivered. He saw her flush, turn shy and look away, "Unless you―unless you don't want to?"
Already, he can feel his cock hardening. "Does it feel like I don't want you, girl?"
He gave her a shallow thrust and she squeaked. "I want you in my bed again, right now, and for the foreseeable future. Does that sound reasonable to you, Miss Stark?"
She nodded, straining against him, moving her hips feverishly trying to get to that perfect angle.
"Good, now, be a good girl and wrap your hands around the bars in the headboard. I want you to keep them there until I say otherwise. Can you do that for me, Miss Stark?" He punctuated his question with another thrust, followed by a slow grind. He watched as her hands shot up to the headboard, her knuckles whitening as she gripped the bars.
Sansa's breasts arched up enticingly and he leaned down to give one of her perfect nipples a sharp bite. Her cunt tightened almost unbearably in response, but her hands remained on the bars.
Perfect, she is perfection wrapped in flesh.
His thoughts were becoming jumbled and incoherent as he attempted to imprint his body upon hers. What was left of his rationality railed against the danger of the situation, but it was drowned out by the feeling of his cock in her cunt, her nipples against his chest, and her breath gasping into his mouth.
Perfection, in all of its splendid agony and corruption.