The breaded pork chops were dry, the mashed potatoes lumpy and the string beans over-boiled. Still, Sandor ate diligently while Sansa pushed her food around dispiritedly on her plate.
"It's not very good, is it? I'm sorry, Sandor: I truly thought I could cook for us," she apologized. "I guess I should have practiced first instead of just watching Hodor-"
"It's fine, girl," he replied automatically as he sawed through the chop with his knife. "I'm not so picky; and if you don't believe me then I'll tell you stories of what we ate on Okinawa; and how years ago I ate from garbage cans."
She put down her fork and gave him her full attention now.
"Garbage cans?" she gasped. "But- but- Sandor…where you truly so poor?"
He glanced up from his plate to see her looking distressed for him.
"I was," he rasped shortly. "Been on my own since I was twelve. Ate what I could, when I could. Rode the rails for a time. Did odd jobs 'cause that's all there was. Even begged once," he winced even as he sneered. "Never again: couldn't stand the pity, or the looks it got me."
"Because of…I mean, it was because of your scars," she asked haltingly.
"It was, partly," he shoveled in a mouthful of lumpy mashed potato and swallowed. "Thank Christ I grew big and strong and could work hard. Dug ditches, did roadwork and building; mostly New Deal projects," Sandor knew the wealthy loathed FDR but old man Stark had been his own man so there was no telling what his children thought. "No one messed with me either," he continued. "Learned to keep my mouth shut and my eyes straight ahead and to trust nobody." In truth he had learned to do so living with Gregor; not that it had been enough to curtail his brother's violence but it had worked in his favor out in the world on his own, especially with rough, older men.
Sans dropped her eyes to her uneaten plate. "Oh…I'm sorry, Sandor," she whispered. "No wonder you despised me so much," she remarked softly.
Sandor scoffed shortly. "What the hell do you mean, girl?"
She looked levelly at him. "On Hawaii: you despised me, at first anyway; and now I understand why. No wonder you thought me stupid. All I wanted were happy times and pretty things. Oh, I knew times were hard for some people: my father made sure we knew; but those were just stories on the radio, or pictures in LIFE magazine," she shook her head as though clearing it, "nothing to do with me or my life then. I sometimes think I must have got what I deserved-"
Sandor dropped his knife and reached for her hand, not gently.
"What did I tell you, girl?" he rasped harshly. "It weren't your fault; and people don't get what they get because they deserve it. Look at your Harry, or your landlady, or your brothers: the one who died and the one who got crippled. You think they got what they deserved?"
She shook her head vigorously now. "No."
"Good." He picked up his knife again and finished the last of his pork chop. "I won't stand to see food wasted," he admonished her as he indicated her plate. "You finish that or put it in the icebox; don't let me catch you throwing it away."
"Yes, Sandor," she nodded with humility. She began to clear their plates and fill the sink to wash up.
Despise her, he thought now, might be he had a little: the way she averted her gaze from him while being so exquisitely polite in every other way. His burned face and brusque manner had marred her pretty world, her hopeful ideas and expectations. She'd taken to Cersei and her boy straight away: they certainly fit the bill for pretty with their blonde hair and green eyes but they turned out to be about the ugliest thing that could have happened to her…until this Tormund shit got his meaty hands on her. But that hadn't meant she deserved any of it.
Even Gregor hadn't got what he deserved, at least not as much as Sandor thought he did. During the war, his older brother had worked as a guard at a Japanese Internment camp in New Mexico. Coming home late one night, he had been shot on the front porch of their family home by a local man whose sister Gregor had raped…or so it was said. The shotgun blasts had torn through his torso, leaving a gaping hole in his side. Still, it had taken him long hours to die: hours of screaming agony despite morphine because, like Goering, Gregor was addicted to morphine and could tolerate huge doses because of his enormous size. The man who shot him got life; some thought he should have got a medal.
All this Sandor had learned weeks afterward when authorities had finally tracked him down at Marine boot camp. Next-of-kin, they called him; and what did he want done with the body?
"Burn him," Sandor had snarled and hung up the phone.
"Burning?" Sansa turned away from the sink to look at him and sniffed the air concernedly. "Is something burning?"
He realized he had spoken out loud. "Might be someone in the hallway with a cigarette," he said dismissively.
She watched her now as she turned back to the sink to wash dishes and scrub pots. He let his gaze wander slowly up from her stocking feet and shapely legs to her round ass under the bottle-green dress. She had tied a dishcloth around her slender waist like an apron while she worked and it only emphasized her shapely figure. He pictured her firm round breasts beneath her clothes, rubbing against the silky slip she wore. Odd that a once-prim-and-proper girl never wore a brassiere but she had said she needed to buy clothes second-hand so maybe she could not afford one; or maybe it was the Marine bastard's taste. Not that he gave a fuck- Sandor snorted a short laugh through his nose now because he'd give countless fucks to feel the weight of her breasts in his hands and the hardness of her nipples through thin fabric. When she finished the dishes and reached up to the shelf that held the coffee tin, he was primed to pull up her skirt up and take her at the sink.
He cleared his throat. "Leave that," he rasped as she opened the tin.
She blinked in surprise. "Sandor, I can make coffee properly," she assured him.
"Don't need any," he rasped. "Come here." He held out his hand to her.
She smiled a little and walked to him. He took her hand in his and pulled the makeshift apron she wore from her waist with the other hand and then drew her into his lap. He leaned close and smelled her neck and hair.
"You smell like a pork chop," he jeered and she giggled.
"I'll shower," she murmured and rose from his lap. Sandor held her hand until the last moment and let her go. When he heard the water, he rose to follow, shedding his clothes as he did.
She was humming in the shower, soaping her wet body and running her hands over her curves as she rinsed it away. She stopped when she saw him; and she looked up at him with eyes that seemed to turn a deeper blue. Her lip trembled.
"What took you so long?" she asked huskily.
He snatched the soap from her and set it in the soap dish before stepping under the shower and pulling her to him. He kissed her deeply and hungrily as his hands followed the same shapely curves she had washed for him. Sansa reached up and pressed herself into him as the water ran over them. Sandor broke their kiss suddenly.
"Ready?" he growled.
When she nodded wordlessly, he ran his hands down her back to cup her bottom and lift her. She wrapped her legs around his hips and panted as he grasped his cock and guided it to enter her and she gasped as he lowered her onto his aching hardness.
"Oh," she breathed out hot breath over his neck and raised her face to kiss him again. She bit his lower lip and dragged it through her teeth. When he kissed her again he slipped his tongue in her mouth and she sucked on it deeply as he raised and lowered her on the length of his throbbing shaft. He began to feel the same overwhelming frenzy he had felt the first time in the back seat of his Buick so he pressed her against the tile and, bracing his feet apart, bucked his hips to thrust into her harder. Sansa let her head fall back and moaned.
"Yes," she cried breathlessly. "Yes, Sandor!"
He grunted and groaned as he came inside her, bracing himself against the wall until he caught his breath. Sansa hung limp against him, her head on his shoulder, until she slowly let her legs slide off his hips and set her feet back down.
"At least I have practice at some things…" she murmured ruefully.
"None of that talk, girl," he admonished firmly.
He had only one towel and so dried her and then himself before wrapping it around low around his waist. He handed her his robe but she smiled seductively and turned to the bedroom without it. Sandor shook his head at her and followed.
She was sitting in the middle of the bed now, naked with beads of water dripping down from her damp hair. On her head she wore her purple hat.
"Do you like it better now?" she teased him.
He laughed out loud at her playfulness, his rough hoarse laugh; and then grew serious.
"You're beautiful," he told her solemnly.
She blinked and lowered her eyes, suddenly shy. "Thank you, Sandor," she whispered.
He came and sat next to her and reached to pluck off her hat. "You're beautiful…but I can help myself," he reminded her. "You don't owe me anything just because I want you, and because I want to help you," he reached to caress her face with the back of his fingers and she grasped his hand and held it to her cheek and closed her eyes.
"I know, Sandor, but…that makes me want you more." She spoke without opening her eyes and so he put his arms around her and held her close. He bent to kiss the top of her head.
"Will you lie back, Sandor?" she whispered now. "Please."
He shifted to the centre of the bed and put his head down on the pillow and watched her. She reached first to outline his mouth with her fingertips and then bend forward to kiss him, her sweet breath mingling with his as she brushed her lips against his and nibbled gently. She kissed his forehead, eyelids and cheeks, giving loving attention to his burn scars. She kissed his neck and shoulders as she drew her fingertips down his chest over his matt of hair and circling over his nipples. Her fingers trailed over his belly and her lips followed and she gave flicks of her wet tongue on his skin. Finally she kissed and tongued his engorged cock as she circled her hands inside his thighs.
"What are you doing to me, girl?" he rasped hoarsely.
She sat up and straddled him now. "You said you liked watching me ride best…I'm going to ride you, Sandor," she breathed in her husky whisper, "and show you how much I want you."
She rubbed his hardness between her hands before angling him towards her and settling on him slowly. He hissed as he felt her heat envelop him and she began to ride him languidly, her eyes locked on his even as they grew heavy with lust.
"So beautiful," he rasped again.
"So good," she replied softly. "It's so good with you, Sandor. I feel so…oh!"
She let her head fall back and she began to rock her hips now, almost grinding into him. Her back arched and she flushed red down to her breasts. Sandor sat up and wrapped one arm around her waist to help her move. He brought the other to her breast, lifting and squeezing gently and rubbing his thumb back and forth over the taut nipple.
Christ, she's good, he thought wildly now; no other woman had given him so much, so well, so eagerly, and she was really only a girl. It's wrong; it's got to be wrong: why don't I stop her? Why don't I stop myself?
Instead he bend and licked her soft neck before latching on with his mouth, sucking on her skin and holding her tightly to him with his strong arm as he gently pulled on her nipple with his thumb and finger. Sansa bucked and jerked her hips uncontrollably now.
"Sandor," she called softly, "Sandor, I can feel it all through me… Ah!" She cried out sharply and arched in his arms even as he pulled her down over him from his grip on her shoulders. He came just as she did, in powerful spurts and a great spasm of release that made him groan through clenched teeth.
"Fuck me, you're the best," he gasped before he could check himself.
Sansa put her hands on the sides of his face and made him look at her.
"Do you mean it, Sandor?" she asked desperately as her eyes searched deeply in his.
He looked back at her, wary of her neediness and uncertain of her true meaning.
"Come with me, Sandor," she pleaded now before he could answer; her eyes were full of happiness and hope. "Come with me to Oregon, or- or any place else you want. I'll learn to cook, I can clean; and I'll love you, Sandor: just like you like it-"
Sandor's mind reeled then. Harder, Tor, she had cried, just like you like it.
He pulled away from her suddenly and she sucked in her breath.
"Sandor?" she ventured shakily. He could see the hurt and vulnerability in her eyes but could not bring himself to comfort her now.
He shook his head. "It won't work, girl," he told her bluntly. "You- you should go to your family. Forget Oregon; I only meant it to be temporary until you came to your senses-"
"But- but Sandor…don't you want us to be together?" she was beginning to sniffle. She was holding her hands clutched together before her, like she was praying.
He reached now to take her face, Christ Almighty, that beautiful face, in his big hands and spoke firmly and clearly: "You have family who love you, girl. Do you know what that's worth? Do you? It's worth a damn sight more than what we're doing here," his voice cracked. "Those boys…you're their sister, maybe their only sister now. They need you; and you need them."
"But I'm not that girl anymore, Sandor: you know that," she tried to reason with him.
"'Course you're not, girl: it's been years and there's been a war and you've lost your parents and oldest brother and maybe your little sister. Do you think how you are now is so far from how you would have become: you with your love of everything beautiful, your lively nature and love of horseback riding and beaches and soft silks? You've a passionate nature, girl; might be you came into too soon but it's the real you deep down and you know it," he almost growled in his throat. "There's no faking what you feel; and what you make me feel," he ran his hands up her arms to her soft shoulders, making her shiver.
She dropped her head and he saw tears drift slowly down her cheeks in the dimness.
"You think I need a lot of money; and want pretty things," she whispered dully, "but I don't need those anymore; I need you, Sandor. Why won't you believe me?" Her voice squeaked and he felt her tremble with suppressed sobs.
He pulled her into his arms now. "Hush now, girl: tears don't so no good, remember? Christ, look at you, you're so young. You don't know what you're giving up. Listen to me now," he took a deep breath. "I lost my family, all of them, including my own sister: the sweetest girl who ever lived…until you. There was no love and tenderness of even safety without them," he stopped himself from telling her the whole terrible truth, "and so I went out on my own. I've had no one since, not really. Go home, little bird: let your brothers know you, they'll be better for it and so will you."
"I want to be the love and tenderness in your world, Sandor," she told him tremulously. "We're good for each other, and we'll be safe together, I know we will. You won't hurt me."
He sighed. "No, little bird, I won't hurt you," he spoke resignedly. "But I'm not wrong either. Promise me you'll think about it," he held her wrist in his grip and squeezed tightly.
She gazed at him levelly, even as her lips still quivered from sadness and unshed tears. "I promise I will, Sandor…if you promise to think about it as well. You see, I don't think I'm wrong either."