"You shouldn't be in here," Petyr observed, staring at his unexpected intruder over a glass of bourbon. Far from the first glass of the night and likely not the last.

Sansa's mouth quirked, a mocking half-smile, as she closed the door behind her. "What will you do? Tell my parents?"

There was still fresh bitterness in her voice, but only the slightest hint of trepidation. He could feel her steeling her spine, closing him out as effectively as she knew how, even from across the room. She'd had practice at that. Lysa found a lengthy mourning period to be distasteful.

Raucous laughter rang out from the other end of the house, over the steady din of music and chattering voices. He'd insisted his den be as far from the parlor as possible to avoid the noise but it was clearly not far enough. Lysa called it a "man-cave" and the term made his lip curl. But she could call it what she liked as long as she stayed out.

He imagined his wife must be quite soused, herself, by now. He could only hope she would be long passed out before he had to make his way to their shared bed. He would take her thunderous snores over her pawing caresses any night.

"She send you to find me?" He sipped from his glass again, savoring the smooth hint of caramel. It was good quality bourbon. It had better be. Cost more than a month's rent on his first flat.

Sansa shook her head, crossing to the liquor cabinet and opening it. "I doubt she's even noticed I left. She was busy bragging about Robyn's latest artistic masterpiece." She tilted her head, contemplating the selection of bottles. One hip cocked out, her hand resting on it. Petyr shamelessly admired the way her dress skimmed her backside.

"Manage to stay inside the lines this time, did he?" Petyr jested, rising from his seat and strolling toward his niece.

Sansa granted him a brief grin over one shoulder for his efforts. It warmed him nearly as much as the bourbon had.

It had been more struggle that usual to keep his eyes from straying to her all through dinner. The dress she'd chosen had to be an intentional affront to Lysa. Simple, elegant and perfectly fitted to her svelte figure. The neckline was nothing indecent but the plunging back and chill of the air conditioning left him in no doubt of what little lay beneath.

She'd caught him looking and only sat up straighter, rolling her shoulders in an unsubtle display. He'd have laughed if he hadn't found himself needing to artfully arrange the linen napkin over his lap. Lysa, her hand on his knee, had come dangerously close to ruining the moment until she'd gotten distracted by a conversation on the benefits of home-schooling.

"Nothing better for a child's curious mind! Too late for her, of course," Lysa had gestured crudely toward Sansa with her fork, "nearly fully grown already when we took her in. But I suppose my sister did what she could with a houseful of them…"

Lysa's friends made sympathetic noises, flashing Sansa the occasionally doleful look, cooing over the tragedy that had befallen their family the year before. The subject changed again quickly, as Lysa was always loathe to dwell on "such unpleasantness," as she called it.

Only Petyr noticed how Sansa stiffened, or how her plate went untouched the rest of the evening.

Earlier that day, he'd made his excuses to escape the minute the meal ended, claiming work to attend that simply could not be avoided. Lysa had made a fuss but he'd sweetened her with a lingering kiss and a promise of a private, romantic dinner later in the week.

Now, an hour after he'd retreated to his den, Sansa had come along. The only interruption to his solitude that he could possibly have found welcome. She was still studying his liquor, affecting a practiced eye. Her exposed back was to him, muscles tense under pale, unblemished skin. She seemed unperturbed by his approach, though he made no attempt at stealth.

"What's your pleasure, sweetling?" He pitched his voice low, blatantly suggestive. They'd been dancing this dance for months, now. Lately, she'd let him push just a little further.

Last week, he'd picked her up from school while Lysa took Robyn to an arranged playdate. His hand had wandered from the gear shift to her knee, drifting upward along the inside of her thigh. Neither spoke a word as he stroked the soft skin there, grazing her knickers and feeling the heat that radiated from her core. Unfortunately, the drive had ended all too soon, despite his attempts to hit every light. The maid in the foyer gave him a funny look as a pink-faced Sansa ran straight to her room, shutting the door.

This was the first time they'd been alone since that day.

"Hmm, can you make a… Lemon Drop?" She looked back over that shoulder again, an adorable attempt to be coy.

Petyr chuckled, assuming she'd heard of the drink on TV without having the slightest idea how one was made. His cabinet was clearly not stocked for mixed drinks. "Afraid I'm fresh out of triple sec. Would a vodka cranberry do?"

She tossed her head with a shrug. "Yeah, that's fine."

One hand coming to the small of her back, he reached past her to grab the vodka. "Ah, I appear to be out of cranberry juice, too. Pity. Vodka rocks?" He turned to look at her, their faces now very close. She must have removed her heels before coming to find him and they stood eye to eye with her flat footed.

Her breath gusted across his face, blue eyes darting from his eyes to his mouth and then back. She smelled of a floral perfume and toothpaste. So, this was not an unplanned encounter, perhaps. A jolt of purely masculine pride ran through him at the notion. Idle flirting aside, he'd never been given a clearer sign that his careful tactics were not in vain.

"Yeah," she said at last, turning toward him to lean one hip against the counter below the cabinet. "Vodka's fine."

He drew a few cubes from the dwindling supply in the ice bucket that he'd filled earlier and plopped them into a glass, pouring two fingers of vodka over them.

Sansa grabbed the glass from the corner and drank deeply, flinching far less than he'd have expected. He wondered where she'd had her first drink. Perhaps with friends from school, raiding daddy's liquor during a sleepover. He could almost picture her in jim-jams, whispering secrets and sloshing booze over the rim of a plastic cup. He couldn't decide if he liked that image better than the seductive little silk number she wore at present.

What he'd like most of all was to see it on his floor.

"Thanks." Sansa raised her glass, lipstick now marking the rim.

He retrieved his from where he'd set it on the far end of the counter and clinked it against hers. "You looked like you needed it."

Her gaze dropped, mouth pursing. "She's still being horrid."

"I know."

"You said it would get better. If I just gave it time…" The words felt accusatory but her voice was soft. She took another drink and pressed her lips together. "It won't get better, though, will it? She'll always look at me and see my mother."

Petyr frowned, disliking this turn in conversation. "Sansa…"

Her eyes met his quite suddenly. "Is that what you see, too? Am I the poor man's Catelyn Tully? Is that what I am to you?"

"No," he said truthfully, grip on his glass tightening. Not anymore, he amended silently.

He'd be lying if he claimed this mad attraction hadn't begun with the girl's resemblance to his childhood love. In the time he'd known her, the time since he married into her family for entirely financial reasons, he'd watched Sansa blossom into a rather remarkable young woman in her own right. Clever, resilient, and stronger than she had yet to discover.

Sansa did not seem convinced. "Then what am I to you?"

He raised an eyebrow, stepping closer and plucking the glass from her hands. Setting both glasses down, he braced both of his arms on either side of her. Sansa's lips parted as she allowed herself to be crowded against the countertop, her throat working soundlessly.

"What am I to you?" he parroted the question back, insinuating one knee between her slightly parted legs.

A stubborn jut of the chin. "I asked you first, Uncle."

He sneered at the title, clearly intended to rankle him. "Just Petyr will do, sweetling." He pressed his thigh closer to the apex of her legs and Sansa drew a sharp breath. Leaning in, he nosed along her neck, feeling her shiver, pert little breasts pushing against his chest. "Why did you come here tonight?"

She exhaled rapidly, little puffs of breath beside his ear. "A lot of reasons."

He kissed along the edge of her jaw and felt her hands on his biceps, gripping but not pushing him away. His trousers were rapidly getting tighter when he finally claimed her mouth, easing his lips over hers. She was still but her mouth was warm and responsive.

"Was this one of them?" he murmured, pulling back just enough to speak.

She made a sound of agreement before closing the gap and kissing him again.

She parted her lips with no prompting, tilting her head to deepen the kiss. He tasted her mouth thoroughly, one hand trailing up and down her spine, leaving gooseflesh in its wake. His other hand snaked between them to palm her breast. She pushed into his hand and he plucked at her nipple through the fabric as she writhed and hummed her satisfaction.

He ground his hips against hers, pressing hard where he knew she'd be craving pressure. She whimpered into his mouth, shamelessly riding his thigh. He wondered idly if there'd be a damp patch on her lovely dress, later. He brought the hand on her back around to one hip, guiding her frenzied movements. Her nails dug into his arms and her thighs began to shake and clench. He swallowed her cry as she came, his cock throbbing insistently, nearly ready to join her.

She leaned against his chest, head on his shoulder, as she came down. He could feel her heart hammering, her breath coming in pants. He stroked her back languidly, unhurriedly, as though he was not aching for his own release.

"Are you alright?" he asked, after a moment.

Sansa nodded mutely against his shoulder.

"Good." He reluctantly separated from her, adjusting himself. She eyed him with a sated, sleepy little smile, a little unsteady on her feet. Perhaps not the time to demand reciprocation. Wouldn't want to frighten her off when they'd already gone so far. He would take himself in hand as soon as she left.

"Go on to bed, now. If Lysa asks tomorrow, you can claim a headache."

Sansa nodded again, her arms dropping limply to her sides.

Framing her face with both hands, he kissed her forehead. "Sleep well, Sansa."

"Good night… Petyr."