-4-
Sansa Stark is not entirely as unfazed by the prospect of being taken by this giant of a man as she acts to be. The last time she has been in this position has been extremely painful, in fact, each and every time she has been with a man has been just that. Ramsay has abused and brutalised her physically and mentally in so many ways, that for the longest time she has been certain she will never overcome her fear, never will let a man near her again.
And maybe she never would have, if not for the reappearance of Sandor Clegane.
It had not happened at once. Catching sight of him arriving at Winterfell with Jon and Daenerys and the great army of Dothraki and Unsullied had come as a shock. Both, Arya and Brienne had told her he was dead and she had almost felt relieved at news of his death. One less witness to her ordeal and humiliations.
Seeing him so unexpectantly had opened a gate to those old memories she had fought so hard to bury deep, but with sudden clarity she realised that he was the only decent man she had met during her time at King's Landing and ever since, really.
As Lady of the keep she had been pretty much occupied with the arrival of such a large host of people and dealing with this new Queen that her brother had brought home. A queen he had given up his title as King in the North for. A queen Sansa did not trust in the least. But over the days that followed she had found time to carefully question everybody she thought had knowledge of how he had fared since deserting the Kingsguard. No one had been a richer source of information than her little sister, whom she grilled until she finally got the whole story. After that she found herself searching for him among the crowds in the courtyard and the great hall and though he must have been aware of her, too, he never acknowledged or sought her out. That gave her time to come to terms with the fact that she wanted to be near him, that he was the one man she could allow to be close to her.
It had taken an army of wights, an undead dragon and near death to act on her feelings but here they are, at her own instigation, close as can be and things are going a lot better than she had reason to believe.
Nevertheless Sansa braces herself for the inevitable pain that is about to come when he will claim her body, but she is about to find out that the Hound is anything but predictable.
Sandor Clegane is not a monster, nor is he an idiot. He is fully aware of what the girl has been through. She is hiding it well, but he can smell fear. He is also aware of her resolve not to be ruled by it and he admires her courage. In any way he has her where he wants her, underneath him and at his mercy and he'll be damned if he is not going to take some more advantage of the situation.
He starts by caressing the velvety skin at her throat, where he can see the vein rapidly jumping to the beating of her heart. No, she is not calm, and she ought not to be, not with him in her bed.
Next he pays homage to the lush half globes no one would suspect to find under her customary tightly corseted dresses. He dares to nip at the pink tips and is instantly rewarded with visible success. The girl's breathing becomes more laboured as he continues his journey to her belly button.
Her waist is so slim, he can encircle it easily with his hands and he does so. After that it seems only natural to cup her firm buttocks and lift her pelvis a few inches from the bed while he settles his upper body between her thighs.
Now he can see the prize. He can smell it, too and it makes him dizzy. If he had not yet been convinced that she really does want him, here is proof.
His eyes dart to her face and he finds her propped up on her elbows, staring at him in bewilderment but she does not protest.
Nothing is to be gained by hesitating now so he winks at her and dives right in. She yelps when his tongue flicks over the tiny button between her legs and now she scrambles to move away, but he grasps her hips and holds her in place. The next lick turns the yelp into a sigh, the sighs become moans and the moans soon give way to helpless whimpering. She bucks and writhes under his mouth but he is not alarmed, she is not trying to get away anymore. If anything she strains to get closer, give him more access. Truth is, she is as close as she can get. If her clawing at the sheets is any indication, she is ready to jump over the edge. Only moments later she does.
Her sighs and moans and whimpering accumulate into one long cry of release. Her legs close, trapping his head between them but Sandor does not mind. He feasts on her flesh and her juices and gets drunk on her scent.
In hindsight it is a very good thing that Sansa has send the guard outside away; who'd have thought that the little bird can sing like that!
Even so, the Hound half awaits for someone to rush through the door and demand his head for defiling the Lady of the castle. But no booted feet come running down the corridor, no clanging of swords, no shouts can be heard. The only sound is made by Sansa's ragged breaths as she slowly comes back from wherever he has taken her. And he has not even taken her yet! Alas, the moment is imminent and he quickly deals with the breeches he still is wearing.
He comes out of them fully erect, his dick throbbing almost painfully, but he waits, prolonging the sweet anticipation because her eyes are still shut and he wants to look into them when at long last he enters her.
Carefully positioning himself, supporting his body on arms strong as columns left and right of her, he is like the hunter, motionless but alert, preparing for the move to kill.
Her eyelids flutter and open, grey gems focus on the bearded face glaring down. There is no warning. It only takes one powerful thrust and he is inside of her.
Sansa gasps, her eyes widen with the shock of him becoming a part of her but there is no fear now, only wonder, and she does not close them as he begins to move boldly. He cannot hold back any longer and as he is moving faster Sansa needs to hold on to something or she will be driven into the headboard. But there is nothing except him. So she makes use of his arms and wraps her legs around his back, opening herself even more for him until he shudders and with a deep groan slams into her one last time before resting his forhead on her chest.
She cradles this big dark head in her arms and the Hound permits himself to be held like that while catching his breath. Not too long, because he is afraid she will suffocate under his weight, but when he moves to pull out she digs her heels in. Literally, since her legs are still entwined behind his back.
„Not yet," she pleads softly.
There it is again, that expression of utter disbelieve that has already made her heart leap, earlier when she had taken his hand in the great hall.
He thinks on it for a second and finds that he can indulge her, but rolls to the side so they lie facing each other, the rough, hulky man and the graceful, delicate lady. Her left leg is still dangling over his right side as if to make sure he does not break away suddenly.
Sansa feels that it is crucial he stays a part of her for this aftermath. They will have to talk at some point and she has no idea what to say to a man after sharing what they just did. She is equally convinced that Sandor would prefer to bring some distance between them but she can't deal with any biting comments just now. She hopes he will be less inclined to bite verbally if he remains where he is.
Truth be told, the Hound is in no hurry to say anything or go anywhere. He is quite content with the incredible turn this evening has taken, even though he is not entirely sure he is not dreaming.
The redhaired beauty fits neatly under his armpit and he is glad he had a good wash this morning. Sansa's braid has come undone and the big man grabs a good portion of it, drapes it over her shoulder. The fiery colour belies her usual coolness and composure. Now that he has had a taste of the temperament that simmers under the white alabaster skin, he wonders whether he can coax her into truly unleashing her passion.
Presently she absentmindedly combs the fingers of her left hand through his chesthair and seems fairly detached from the here and now. Sandor frowns. "I hope you are not checking me for fleas."
The combing fingers freeze to a halt. She bends her head a little, shoulders shaking. What the...? He lets go of the silky strands, his hand shoots to her chin instead, forcing her to look up. To his amazement she is laughing!
"What? Now you think I am funny?" He tries to master a menacing expression but judging by her continued smile he is failing miserably. "Yes," she admits and places both her hands flat on his massive chest, "actually you are many things I never expected you to be."
He raises his undamaged eyebrow. "And you are not just saying that because I can easily break your jaw?" Sansa shakes her head as far as she can under the circumstances. He loosens the grip on her chin and slides his hand lower, to her throat, squeezing just enough to make breath audible. The smile has vanished but her eyes display no trace of panic, her body does not tense.
Satisfied he releases her neck but not her gaze. "Why me," he asks the question that has been nagging him, "when every nobleman or prince or king in Westeros would be more fitting and willing to bed you?"
"Kings and princes and nobles, they have all betrayed or hurt or disappointed me in one way or another. You never did." In a daring gesture of intimacy Sansa lays a gentle hand on the ravished side of his face. "You are a good man and I trust you more than any. I can't think of a better reason." She pauses, inhales deeply but is not finished.
"Men are to me what fire is to you: an evil I have to deal with out of necessity, but I hate them and I despise them and they fill me with dread. That is no way to live. I need to overcome this fear."
During her speech Sandor has begun to rock his hips ever so slowly. Not out of indifference to her words but because what she is saying has made him hard again and he wants her to know it.
"You are doing fine, little bird", he reassures her in a voice so low it's barely a hum, "you are doing just fine."
"Will you stop calling me that already", she accosts him and playfully slaps his shoulder. "Call me by my name!"
Sandor Clegane seizes her arms and rolls onto his back, taking her with him so she ends up sitting on top of him, neatly held in place by his erection. "Make me!"
The Hound can be playfull, too.
