'It matters little. Winter is coming. Humanity will not triumph.'
Sandor looked mildly concerned at her conviction. 'You are assured?'
'This is a wierwood bed. I'm a Stark.'
'I'd rather you a Clegane.' She smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes.
'Names will be of little importance soon enough. Let us just be happy before we rise again, eternally roaming the earth with bright blue eyes and no memories to comfort us.'
'Your eyes couldn't be any more blue.' She snorted, most unladylike, but it broke her from the spell of melancholy.
Sansa rose, going to his side and relishing the seemingly instinctual way his arm wrapped around her waist and pulled her closer to him. The gesture was now as automatic as the drawing of his sword from its sheath.
She tilted her head up to him. Years ago she had stopped needing his hand on her chin to make the gesture. Her eyes searched his, pleading and desperate, but finding only concern and warmth in his.
'When they come, Sandor, don't fight them. Please. Don't fight them. It's hopeless. Just hold my hand. Hold me. Let us go peacefully, knowing the other is there.'
She felt the tension in his body as she spoke. He did not like to hear of this, the impending end of the world. It was a confusing sentiment for her to understand; surely every time he had walked into battle he knew very well it was the toss of a coin as to whether he would walk away or not.
She should comfort him. The thought made her smile, that she would need to comfort the man she considered the warrior incarnate, over the extinction of humanity.
There was one way she knew to comfort him best and so she moved, pressing her body flush against his, the solid muscle against her soft flesh. She would never tire of the feeling and planned on experiencing it as often as possible in the time they had remaining.
Sandor's hand moved to her nape, holding her in place as his lips found hers, demanding and unyielding. When she felt his tongue brush against hers she moaned into his mouth, her lower body melting.
Ramsay had fucked her for his pleasure. Littlefinger for power. Harry for his duty. Only Sandor had ever done so for her own pleasure. It was as if each movement he made was carefully calculated, designed to evoke maximum pleasure. She hoped she made him feel even half good as he made her feel.
Sandor's hand moved from her nape, his splayed fingers grazing the skin of her neck, the skin of her chest that her peasant dress exposed. She felt the weight of his other hand against her rear, and signed in delight all over again when she realised he was pressing her close to him and grinding his hips against her, using her body to relieve some of the frustration centred in his breeches.
He made her feel beautiful and desired, things she had thought impossible after all she had been through.
She was snapped from her thoughts as Sandor's teeth firmly bit her lip, pulling on it as he withdrew. Sansa's protests were whimpered, turning into a groan of frustrated satisfaction as Sandor bent, his mouth closing over her clothed breast. The heat and pressure felt good, but nowhere near as good as she knew it would feel without the burden of fabric. Sansa was not embarrassed of how wanton she was when she arched her back, thrusting her breasts into his face and moaning loudly. Even taking his wrist and placing his palm on the breast his teeth were not pulling at did not cause her to blush. Sandor obliged, with a smirk. He looked up, into her eyes as his fingers located her erect nipple, a small bump beneath the cheap fabric. His finger lightly stroked back and forth across the bump, slowly, steadily, while his mouth enclosed around the now wet patch of fabric and sucked roughly.
Sansa's neck was stretched, her head tilted towards the ceiling as she enjoyed his ministrations, her loose hair cascading down her back, almost touching her buttocks.
Sansa's hands fumbled blindly until they found the back of his tunic. She pulled the scratchy fabric up, tangling it around his face and arms until he released her breasts and stood to allow her to remove it entirely.
The number of times she had seen his torso did not diminish the awe she felt upon seeing it. He was muscled and defined, covered in sliver slashes and dark hair. He was the very essence of masculinity and strength. She enjoyed it immensely.
Her eyes became heavy lidded as they traced across his huge biceps, broad shoulders, his chest, abdomen with the trail of hair leading down into his breeches. Even his neck caused her feelings of desire. She leaned forward and licked it, tracing her tongue from the base of his throat to the stub of his ruined ear. It caused a great rumbling laugh that she felt vibrate through his chest.
She was suddenly desperate to feel his warm skin against her own and clawed at her dress to get it off, thankful for the simple clasps rather than ornate fastenings of her dresses in kings landing.
She heard a tearing and felt a the cool air against her skin, nipples tightening against the cold. Confused, Sansa looked up to find Sandor with a delicious smirk on his face and a knife in his hand. She was equal parts irritated and turned on when she realised he had cut her out of her dress. Her desire won out and she launched herself at him, the heat of his skin warming and soothing her as her lips warred against his. Again he took hold of her hips and rubbed his hardness against her body while his tongue slid against hers, and her pebbled nipples dug into his naked chest.
She didn't know how long they stayed like that, it felt like forever but it would never be long enough. Eventually Sandor growled, pulled his mouth from her lips to her neck and moved her until her back hit the cold stone of the wall.
This time when he bent down his tongue brushed again the bare skin of her nipple. She groaned, long and low, in satisfaction.
One of her hands came to his hair, tangling in the dark lengths, fingernails rhythmically scratching against his scalp.
Sandor's tongue, surprisingly soft, and wet and warm bathed her nipple. Sansa's eyes were closed in delight, her breathing deep. Greedily Sandor sucked the pink flesh into his mouth and she cried out in pleasure. Almost reluctantly, he freed it to the cool air and she felt his beard scratch across her chest and stomach as he moved to the other one, giving it the same attention.
Sansa could feel herself, wet and swollen and throbbing. She needed relief. Without being consciously aware of it, her free hand slipped across her body and slid inside of her undergarments. Her index finger slid easily against the little pleasure pearl and she hissed. Her hips removed back and forth, rubbing herself against her finger.
Suddenly both her nipples were left cold, wet and tingling in the cool air. Selfishly she moaned a protest before opening her eyes, finding Sandor's attention wrought on the movement of her hips against her fingers.
'Fuck, Sansa.' His voice was hoarse.
A blush travelled from her neck to her cheeks as she realised her had not seen her do this before. Slowly, as if not to scare her, he eased the only remaining fabric down her body and crouched to the floor.
'Show me.'
She was embarrassed but it did not take much convincing for her to start moving her hips. She ground herself onto her fingers, coating them in her arousal as Sandor watched, crouched down on the floor as she stood above him. He was leaning his face against her left hip, and she could feel his hot, moist breath puff across her skin. He was very still, his attention rapt.
Sansa soon forgot her embarrassment and moved in the rhythm she knew would work, feeling the tension tighten in her muscles. Her body moved more quickly, moans increasing as she could feel herself almost reaching that magical place.
She suddenly felt a pressure against her wrist, feeling it being moved away. She could have screamed in frustration, she was so so close to peaking. A warmness enveloped her fingers and she looked down in time to see Sandor sucking the arousal from her finger tips.
The moan that escaped her mouth was pure, carnal pleasure. She had never seen anything as desirable as the look in Sandor's eyes as he held her gaze and sucked her fingers clean. His gaze made her body turn liquid and she wondered how she was still standing.
There was a pressure on her hip, the lifting of her leg and the scratch of beard against her sensitive inner thigh. Then, the exquisite feeling of Sandor's hot, wet tongue against her.
He teased her. His long tongue lapping against her woman's place, long licks, with each one he applied a little more pressure until finally, finally, his tongue had parted her folds and moved languidly from her entrance to her pearl. When his tongue circled her there she hissed, she might have even growled, and she felt herself become even wetter, only to have Sandor clean it away with the next swipe of his tongue. He moaned and she wondered if it was possible for her to peak from his enjoyment of this act alone.
Sandor shifted, raising her other thigh over his shoulder so that her feet were both lifted to the floor, her long, smooth legs dangling over his shoulders and her body pinned between his tongue and the wall. She looked down her body and saw the pink flash of his tongue as he moved and circled it against her. Her eyes caught his and the intensity they held made her heart swell.
'Oh!'
His tongue moved and her entire body jolted in sweet pleasure, her arms stretched out, palms flat against the wall. Sandor's eyes narrowed and she felt his tongue glide over the same spot, causing the same reaction in her. He done so again and again, the movement of his tongue becoming quicker and harder.
Sansa's moans fell in time with the movement of his tongue, incoherent exclamations being called out as he drove her ever closer to falling apart entirely. She felt his hand on her bottom, pulling her even closer, her leg trembling against his strong shoulder. Her hands dove into his hair, pulling his long strands and holding him in place as she peaked, the glorious sensation centring before exploding and traveling across her body.
She slumped, still trapped between Sandor's tongue and the wall. She was half worried he would start pleasing her again and she didn't think she was ready for that. Heavy lidded she looked down at him, smiling lazily as she removed one leg from his shoulder and realised he was stroking himself. The sight mesmerised her and she watched, one leg still draped over his thigh, his cheek pressed against and blowing hot, ragged puffs of air across it as he bought himself to completion.
He feasted on her body as if it was his last night on this earth.