Author's Note:

It's possible (possible, but not guaranteed) that this story will be taking a brief hiatus until after the holidays. Why? I'm participating in a San/San gift exchange and I need to devote some time to the piece I'm writing for that. So, you'll definitely see *something* from me between now and New Year's, though it may not be chapter 26. Just thought I'd give you a heads up instead of disappearing for a few (more) weeks. That said, I truly appreciate the enthusiasm shown for Seven More. Your comments are my lemon cakes. :-) I think about this fic all the time so it's entirely possible I'll shirk my RL responsibilitiesfind time to work on the next chapter sooner rather than later. Just wanted to let you know. In the meantime, I hope you'll enjoy this chapter. Happy Thanksgiving and Hanukkah! - SB :-)

Sansa didn't know what to do with herself. She paced back and forth, wringing her hands. Did I do something wrong? Was I . . . A long list of undesirable descriptors ran through her mind. Wanton. Pushy. Too eager. Not eager enough. Just bad at cheeks blazed with embarrassment. She was so mortified that something in her conduct could have put him off that she didn't want to be seen. She hid in her room, restless at not knowing what Sandor thought of her. We'll talk about it, she kept telling herself. Sansa felt fairly certain he wouldn't abandon her but in the privacy of his room it had been easy to pretend that their actions wouldn't ripple out past the door. She'd given him her maidenhead. A gift she could only give once. Sansa was breathless over the enormity of what she'd done. They'd done. She'd wanted to do it, of course, but had he? He'd . . . gone through with it but had he wanted to or had he simply given her what he thought she wanted? Her face blazed anew. She'd been so obvious but, even so, she couldn't quite feel wrong for wanting to have that experience with him. She stopped, her mind flooded with images and sensations. His chest above her, the feel of his hips between her inner thighs, the way he'd grabbed her elbows and lifted her off of him when . . . Sansa became aware of tears on her cheeks and wiped them away. Was it my reaction that drove him away? She was too crushed even to resume her pacing. She sank into a chair as her jaw began to shake. When the first sob escaped her throat, she gave herself over to it and bawled until her stomach hurt. How had she made such a mess of everything? She'd envisioned her first time as being romantic and sweet and . . . not the end of what should have been a beginning. Sansa tried to reassure herself that Sandor still cared about her. But what if he doesn't want me like that anymore, now that he knows I'm . . . And the list of undesirable descriptors ran through her head again.

In the end, Sansa arrived early to the great hall. For better or for worse, she wanted to know her fate. The agony of ignorance was too much to bear. To her disappointment, Sandor wasn't there. Her eyes searched him out every moment and her fretfulness increased as men who were not him filled the hall. Her spirits sank even lower as the food was served. Surely the inspection party would have made every effort not to miss the meal. Sansa worked hard to keep her disappointment from showing but knew she was failing at it miserably. She attempted to make conversation with Arya but her attention was so scattered that eventually Arya got tired of repeating herself and talked to Bran exclusively.

Suddenly, the doors of the hall opened and the men who'd inspected the defenses came in to calls from friends and orders for more food. Sansa stared, her heart racing as she waited for Sandor to enter. The men filtered to various tables but Sandor did not appear. Sansa sank back in her chair, wretched. As soon as she could politely manage it, she fled the great hall.

Alone in her room, tears streaking her cheeks again, countless excuses rejected, she could not persuade herself that he was doing anything other than avoiding her.

"Did you and Clegane have a fight?" Arya asked the next day as they broke their fast.

"No. Why?"

"Because he's out in the yard yelling at everyone."

Sansa's eyes shifted to the side guiltily. If only he'd talk to me. Now that she'd had time to calm down, she was certain things couldn't be as bleak as she'd feared. If she was in any way lacking, humiliating as it was to consider, surely he could teach her. It was frustrating her and making her a little angry, truth be told, to be ignored. She decided to seek him out but he was seen riding in a froth toward Wintertown and didn't return the next day. The third day he came back but stalked around in a black mood and was generally avoided by everyone. He stared openly at Sansa during meals but any time she tried to return his gaze, he looked away.

Sansa had not been in bed long, resolving that this nonsense would end the next day if she had to ride to Wintertown or the Wall or wherever herself, when someone knocked on her door.

"Sansa?" It was Arya.

Sansa got out of bed and threw on a robe. She opened her door and ushered her sister into the room. "What is it?"

"Clegane wants to talk to you."

Sansa's brow creased. "So why doesn't he just come talk to me?"

"Because he doesn't know he wants to."

"What do you mean?"

"He's down in the great hall drinking all our wine. He's going to get himself in trouble. Father's already mad because he took himself off to Wintertown without permission."

"Did you talk to him?"

"I told him to stop being a baby and come talk to you."

Sansa drew in a sharp breath. "And what did he say?"

"He told me to bugger off and mind my own business."

"And then you came up here?"

"No, I told him he was only going to make things worse by avoiding you."

"Arya . . ."

"What? It's true."

Sansa pressed her lips together, thinking. "Did he seem angry?"

"Well, he wasn't very nice to me."

"I meant with me. Did he seem angry with me?"

"No. He's pathetic with you," she said with a roll of her eyes.

Sansa favored her sister with an admonishing look but remained quiet. Part of her felt badly that Sandor was upset but another part of her knew she'd done nothing wrong; at least not during the past three days. She didn't wish to prolong the tension between them but, despite resolving earlier to find him, she felt it should fall to him to reestablish contact. She'd not chase after him. Not when he'd made it clear he didn't want to talk to her. "How did you leave things with him?"

"I told Nymeria not to let him leave the hall."

Sansa's door swung open and Sandor ducked into her room, Nymeria at his heels. "Too bad your little pet likes me, she-wolf."

"Nymeria!" Arya chided.

Nymeria looked at her happily and gave a chipper bark.

"Bad wolf," Arya said, frowning.

Nymeria barked again and trotted out of the room, Arya following her.

Sandor stood in the doorway for a moment, gazing at Sansa and looking spent, before pushing the door shut. "Little bird . . ."

"You left me!" Her face grew hot and tears pricked the backs of her eyes. She'd planned to be calm when they spoke and here she was, blurting out her hurt feelings already.

"I didn't leave you. I just went to Wintertown."

"Why?"

He glowered down at her. The corner of his mouth twitched.

"Why?" she insisted. "And don't sing me some song about the joys of horseback riding."

"I had to get away," he answered stiffly.

Sansa forced the tears not to spill out of her eyes by sheer will alone. She collected herself for a moment before saying in a voice far calmer than she felt, "From me?"

"Sansa . . ." He looked deeply irritated. "The other day . . . that wasn't what I wanted."

It was as though he'd punched a hole right through her. She gaped at him, feeling like everything inside her was on the verge of spilling out.

"For you, I mean. I meant for it to be better." He looked away with a scowl.

"Better?"

He turned back and grabbed hold of her forearms, bending so his nose was practically touching hers. "I've wanted you for so long. Have thought about us for so long. It should have been like a song. Like you would have wanted. Not . . ." He tossed his hand out in a frustrated gesture.

"I did want it. You thought it was bad?"

He closed his eyes for a second. "No - that's not -"

"You don't want to do it again?"

For the briefest moment, surprise lit his grey eyes. "No, I want to. You know I want to. I didn't think you would."

Relief flooded her. A smile threatened to break out across her face.

"You thought I wouldn't want to?" He sounded dumbfounded.

Sansa felt the blood rush into her cheeks. "I thought . . . you were disappointed," she mumbled.

Sandor looked at her like he couldn't comprehend what she was saying. "Disappointed?"

Sansa had not realized how hard it would be to say some of these things but she forced the words out, shame scorching her as she explained. "You might have thought I was wanton."

"Wanton?"

Sansa exhaled raggedly in exasperation and wished he'd stop repeating her last words. "Yes, because I . . . was . . ." Oh gods, don't make me say it!

"You were everything I ever wanted - believe that - but I hurt you and -" He stopped speaking and glared at the wall. "I hurt you!" Now he turned his angry gaze to the floor and glared at the stone like he wanted to make it bleed.

"I -"

"Don't tell me it didn't hurt, girl. That I didn't hurt you."

"Well -" She couldn't deny it. She'd been so surprised by the sharpness of the pain that it had never occurred to her to conceal it.

"Well."

"I'm sorry -"

"No. Don't say you're sorry. You have nothing to be sorry about. I could have made it better. Could have tried to hurt you less. Made sure you were ready or . . ." He shook his head, searching for words.

"Or you could have talked to me instead of leaving me to wonder what I did to offend you."

Sandor's jaw fell open and his head pulled back. "Offend me? Sansa . . . " He stepped toward her and knelt down on one knee, drawing her on to his thigh. His arms encircled her and he rested his forehead against her shoulder, his face hidden. "If I had known you'd wanted to . . ." He took a breath. "Sansa, if you'd had a weapon that day, you could have killed me ten times over before I'd even thought to reach for my sword."

"It was something of a surprise for me, too," she murmured, wrapping her arms around him. It felt so good to be held by him that for a moment she just let herself enjoy it. "Why didn't you come talk to me?"

Sansa felt his warm breath on her arm as he exhaled. "What could I have said that would have changed anything?"

Gently, Sansa replied, "Well, anything would have been better than wondering if you meant to put me aside."

Sandor looked up at her, his brows drawn together in a pained expression. "Is that what you think of me?"

"I didn't know what to think so I suppose I thought the worst." Now that he had returned to her, it seemed silly that she'd ever thought he wouldn't.

Sandor shifted and Sansa stood up. He rose and pulled her close, resting his chin against the top of her head. She breathed in the woodsy, masculine, and, currently, alcohol-laced scent of him. After a long moment, he mumbled, "Let me make it up to you," before adding in a brittle voice, "if you'll have me."

"There's nothing to -"

"There is. You gave me your maiden's gift and I deserted you for three days." He sounded disgusted with himself. "I want you to know it can be better. That I can . . . love you without hurting you."

Sansa's heart skittered in her chest. He hadn't said he loved her but . . . he nearly had.

"What are your plans for the next few days?"

Sansa told him her schedule.

Sandor nodded, looking grave. "Will you come to my room? I'll let you know when after Cassel decides the shifts."

Sansa fought to keep an enormous grin from overtaking her face. Butterflies swooped around in her stomach. "Yes," she said.

Sandor still looked grim but he nodded, determined. "This time, I'll do things right."

The next several days saw Sansa and Sandor fall back into their routine of arriving in the great hall together in the morning and playing Cyvasse together on the nights Sandor wasn't assigned a post. Sansa was obligated to spend time with the sons of her father's bannermen but, whenever possible, she had Sandor at her side. He didn't ask about her outings with the young men but Sansa always took his arm with a feeling of relief and he seemed to notice and be satisfied. For her part, knowing that another opportunity to lay with him was coming, but not knowing exactly when, made her giddy. It was a constant struggle to appear modest and not dazzlingly happy in Sandor's company but, even with her best efforts, Sansa felt she was continually beaming.

Therefore, it was like a splash of cold water when, one morning, her mother commented, "I thought we might be rid of him," as she eyed Sandor, who was seated at a lower table.

Sansa frowned. "Why would you think that?"

"You know he deserted his post again and went to Wintertown for a night."

"He came back. I believe he talked to Father about it and Father has forgiven him."

"Yes, it appears he has."

"And you? You won't forgive him?" Sansa knew that, over the years, other young men-at-arms had sometimes misbehaved but they'd never earned the commentary of Lady Catelyn.

"Duty is important, Sansa. We can't just run off because something isn't to our liking."

"He's done as much as our other men-at-arms. Surely you can allow that to be said for him."

Her mother didn't look pleased but she replied, "I'll admit I'm surprised. He's not quite as rough as I remember him being when he was here with the Lannisters."

"He feels he's treated well here."

"As well he might, with the favor you and your father show him. I hear he's been given senior guard duties now."

"He's a respected fighter and he's led men before. You're determined to think him a brute."

With a look, her mother answered, "On the contrary, Sansa, every time I've observed you together, he's been rather gentle with you. You seem to inspire a measure of gallantry in him." Her tone suggested this was not desirable. "Others have commented to me that they, too, are surprised by his calmer demeanor, though they've been kind enough not to mention how liberal you are with your attention to him."

Sansa ignored that last part. "Mother, why don't you get to know him? We could talk together over a meal."

"The Lady of Winterfell doesn't dine with turncloak warriors."

"Perhaps not but she does dine with her daughter."

"Maybe you'd prefer to spend your time with Daniel Umber."

"I have. Just yesterday we went riding together." Daniel was tall and muscular like his father the Greatjon, but he had none of his sire's spark and verve and Sansa found him dull in every way. He answered her questions readily enough but left the burden of conversation to Sansa and, after a while, she'd tired of soliciting his thoughts and opinions when he did not ask about hers. After she stopped leading the conversation, he commented that Sansa was as pretty as his father had said she would be. Sansa thanked him for his kindness but recognized the comment for what it was; an inducement for her to pick up the thread of conversation again. Had he asked her opinion on something, it might have worked, but, instead, the meaningless compliment only served to make Sansa miss Sandor's directness. Still, she couldn't be a poor hostess. Rather than asking Daniel more about himself, she took to pointing out various features of the countryside and inquiring about similarities between Winterfell and Last Hearth. They chatted indifferently after that but, since Sansa's heart was elsewhere, she bore it easily enough.

"What about Benfred Tallhart?" her mother asked.

Sansa refrained from making a face. He had chosen to be direct.

"You spend a lot of time with the Hound," he'd said.

"I do," Sansa had replied. She saw no need to justify her actions.

"He's not sworn to your house."

"He's not sworn to any house."

"My father finds it very strange . . .," he said, looking at her expectantly.

"I suppose it is. Would your father be more at ease if I asked Sandor Clegane to become my sworn shield?"

Benfred picked up on her challenge immediately and was irked. He had nothing to say about it, though, and the rest of their time together was spent in sullenness on his part and in boredom on hers. He'd not sought her out since and she didn't miss him.

"Benfred didn't enjoy my company any more than I enjoyed his."

Lady Catelyn would not be deterred. "Cley Cerwyn is a nice young man. Polite. Reasonable."

"He is. I like him very much."

Catelyn seemed relieved. "Will you be spending more time with him?"

"We're going for a walk tomorrow."

Her mother kept her delight in check. "I'm pleased to hear it."

Cley had beautiful blue eyes that saved him from being otherwise plain. His ready smile, sense of humor, kindness, and intelligence were all in his favor. His personality had been a surprise. Sansa remembered him as being quiet and shy when he'd come to Winterfell before and he was so often in the company of her brothers that she didn't know him well. Cley was easy company now and it wasn't long before Sansa learned of his attachment to another. She understood that he'd been encouraged to spend time with her just as she'd been encouraged to spend time with him. It was a relief to them both to discover their mutual romantic disinterest. With that expectation rendered irrelevant, they both relaxed and had spent a pleasant afternoon together.

"I would like it very much if you would get to know Sandor better, though."

Her mother exhaled.

"I've done as you asked. I've spent time with our bannermen's sons, though, truly, I can't see why Father would offer any of them my hand. They're already sworn to us."

"Their faithful service -"

"We're grateful for their faithful service of course, but they serve us because they were born to it. They do it without thinking. If they lived somewhere else, they'd be sworn to another house."

Lady Catelyn drew herself up straight. "Sansa! That is unworthy. You're a daughter of Winterfell –"

"I know but, Mother, haven't you ever thought about it? People call Sandor a turncloak and for what? Because he chose to serve us? Doesn't choice make a bond stronger?"

Her mother frowned. "He's made himself a sellsword."

"No, he hasn't. He won the tourney held in Father's honor when we first went to King's Landing. He has plenty of gold. Besides, if that was all he wanted, who has more gold than the Lannisters?"

"Then why is he here?" She narrowed her eyes and looked at Sansa as though expecting an admission.

"Because he wants to be, and people, our people, despised him for it at first."

"He had a duty to the Lannisters. He was honor-bound to serve them and what did he do? He stole away in the night – I'm grateful he brought you home, Sansa, never doubt that – but he's proven himself untrustworthy."

Sansa was disappointed in her mother and it hurt deeply. She reached over and took her mother's hand. Gently, she said, "You say you're grateful but you won't speak to him. You won't acknowledge the service he's rendered to our family and our house."

"Sansa, a house is only as strong as the loyalty of the people who serve it. One action -"

"He never chose to serve the Lannisters. He was born to it because his grandfather was the kennelmaster at Casterly Rock and saved Lord Tytos from a lion. Sandor was born into his allegiance the same way our bannermen are born into service to Winterfell."

Lady Catelyn tipped her head and gave Sansa an annoyed look from under her brow. "Be that as it may, your father may choose to wed you to a northern house."

"I could have been queen, once. You supported my match with Joffrey even before Father did, and now you're suggesting I make myself acceptable to the sons of noble but minor houses. Surely my hand is still an enticement and worthy of consideration by the great houses. An alliance outside of the north would be of greater value to us."

"If you believe that to be so then you must also understand how pointless it would be to encourage Clegane," Catelyn said in clipped tones.

"No more pointless than encouraging Daniel, Benfred, Cley, and the rest, or are you hoping they'll prove a distraction?"

Her mother gave her a shrewd look. "Are you telling me you prefer Clegane to these others?"

"I enjoy his company more than theirs, yes, and he has earned my regard. Will you at least meet with him?"

"Singling him out with an invitation would be a mark of favor and damaging to your father and to you."

"Then I'll call on you myself. It wouldn't seem any more amiss than usual for him to escort me."

"No -"

"Mother, he returned your husband and your daughters to you. What more must he do to deserve your thanks?"

Lady Catelyn seemed to know her daughter wouldn't relent. "A brief meeting." She held up a warning finger. "And he's not to take it as approval."

Sansa left the great hall unsettled by her conversation with her mother but satisfied that she had at last agreed to speak with Sandor. She wondered how Sandor would take the news and made her way to the yard to see if he was there. From an exterior corridor, Sansa could see him and Jory hacking away at each other. Ser Rodrick called the moves being demonstrated for the younger men-at-arms. After directing Jory to take what would have been a disabling shot at Sandor's shoulder, they were given leave to rest while the others practiced. Sandor pulled off his helm and paused for a moment when he saw Sansa watching him. He gulped from the skin Harry handed to him and then said a few words to his squire. Harry's eyes found Sansa and he turned and ducked inside.

"Lady Sansa?" Harry said as he emerged from the stairwell.

Sansa smiled at him. She'd kept something of an eye on him since they'd come to Winterfell and she was pleased to see him getting along with the other squires. He looked healthy and perhaps even a little more sure of himself. "Harry, it's nice to see you. How are you?"

"Very well, m'lady, and you?" He blushed furiously.

"I'm well, thank you."

Harry smiled. "Hound sent me."

Sansa nodded in prompting fashion.

"Hound said I'm to tell you Cayn and Mollen are leading patrols tonight. Porther, Desmond, Tomard, and Alyn will be on the walls." He seemed apologetic that the message was strange and unlikely to be of interest to Lady Sansa.

Sansa's brain did some quick calculating and her heart skipped a beat. There were six senior men-at-arms in charge of each watch. He must have switched his shift! "Thank you, Harry. Please tell Sandor I'd like him to escort me to my family's solar soon. I'll let him know when."

Harry seemed even more perplexed by that but nodded and said, "I will, m'lady."

That evening, Sansa felt bubbly and lightheaded as she sat at her place in the great hall. Sandor had met her eye almost immediately and she'd given a discreet nod and smiled, at which he looked down, a smile spreading over his own face. Then he'd eaten quickly and left. Sansa knew the shifts changed an hour after the evening meal. Anyone who didn't know better would think him simply getting ready to report.

Sansa could barely sit still, so intense was the fluttering in her stomach. After the meal, she dashed to her room and scrubbed her teeth, trying not to let questions like Will it hurt this time? and What should I do to make it better? send her into a panic. Sansa made herself stop and take a few deep breaths. So many concerns threatened to overwhelm her that she resorted to cutting off each thought before it could fully form. He cares about me and I care about him and this isn't wrong, this isn't wrong, she repeated over and over. She attempted to look as normal as possible as she made her way down the stairs and through the corridors. It was a relief when she reached Sandor's room without encountering anyone who might question her.

Sansa opened his door even as she was knocking. Sandor was leaning toward his mirror, wearing only his breeches, half his face covered in lather. The air in the room was surprisingly fresh. At first she thought he had the windows open but then she noticed boughs of pine in the fireplace and bundles of fresh herbs tucked here and there around the room. A few candles had been lit.

"You're shaving? I thought you liked your beard."

He answered without looking away from the glass. "If I don't, your thighs will be rubbed raw."

A tingle went through Sansa's body and centered in her woman's place. She watched as he tipped his head up and drew the blade from the base of his throat up under his chin.

"I can do that for you, if you like," she said, approaching. His chest was dotted with drips of water and little dabs of soapy foam.

Sandor swiped his fingertips over his cheek to spread the lather around. "You'll get soap on your gown."

Sansa turned around. "Then take it off me." She sounded braver than she felt but they both knew why she was there.

Sandor gave half a laugh and put down the blade. He dried his hands and then worked her laces loose. Sansa stepped out of the gown and draped it over one of the chests under the window. She was left in only a thin slip, cinched under her bust so as to provide an appealing lift to her breasts. When she turned back around, Sandor's eyes ranged over her. He reached out and squeezed her upper arm, his thumb brushing over her skin for a moment.

"Sit down so I can reach you," Sansa suggested, feeling awkward.

Sandor sat on the stool in front of his wash basin and handed her the blade. "Not many women I'd let take cold steel to my throat."

Sansa smiled. Before she lost her nerve, she hitched up her slip, straddled his lap, and sat down, registering his look of surprised gratification that was no more than a slightly raised eyebrow and the smallest of smiles.

"Look up."

Sandor did and she gently and carefully drew the blade over his neck. She turned, squeezing her legs around him, and swished the razor in the water in the basin and wiped it off on a cloth. Sandor rested his hands on her waist and looked satisfied. Shhhhick went the blade over his skin. Shhhick, swish, shhhick, swish. Sansa was careful near his scars and gentle over his lip. Sandor lowered his eyes to her breasts and a warm look of pleasure suffused his face. "Look up," she instructed again with a laugh, loving his open appreciation of her body.

"I can't see you when I look up. Besides, I like the way the water runs over your teats."

Sansa looked down in time to see a drop of water slide over the curve of her breast before being absorbed into the neckline of her slip. She looked back up and Sandor leaned in and kissed her. He pulled away with a heated gaze and a low moan. With one hand behind her back, Sandor leaned forward and grabbed a cloth, hastily wiping the last of the water and soap from his face. He threw the cloth aside, wrapped his arms around her, and bent forward, low, nearly laying her flat, nestling his face in her cleavage and peppering her skin with soft kisses. Sansa clung to him to keep from falling, her arms and legs wrapped tight around his torso. She laughed as his kisses tickled her and, after a moment, he sat up and slid his hands under her hips, gripping them as he stood and carried her to his bed.

Sansa couldn't keep from grinning as Sandor laid her down. He slid a finger under the strap of her slip and edged it off her shoulder, trailing his lips after it. He worked her slip off, sweeping an appreciative gaze over her body. He rested one knee on the bed as he peeled away her smallclothes. He brought his large hands to her shoulders and gave them a squeeze before dragging them over her breasts, belly, hip bones, and thighs. "Little bird . . .," he murmured.

"Take your breeches off," Sansa requested in not much more than a whisper.

He leaned down and kissed her. "Take them off for me."

She smiled and summoned her courage. "I want to watch you." A blush immediately flooded her cheeks.

Sandor paused and looked unsure for a moment but then moved off the bed. He towered over her, prone as she was, and held her eye as he began to undo his laces. The muscles in his forearms twisted this way and that as he worked the leather cord loose. His chest became even broader as he brought his hands to his sides and gripped the waist of his breeches. Sansa's eye slid along the smooth, hard muscles of his arms to the inviting curve of his hip. His abdomen flexed as he bent just slightly to pull his clothing off, his hair falling over his shoulders. Each muscle in his stomach briefly stood in relief as he rolled up again. Sandor's eyes met hers. His gaze was cool, his actions perfunctory. Sansa was aware her mouth was open and her breathing was clipped. The sheer size of him, the power evident in the cut of his biceps and triceps, the sharply-defined, powerful quadriceps capped by the legs of his smallclothes, was overwhelming. To know that the intensity of all this strength, power, and energy was to be brought to bear upon her pressed the air from her lungs.

"These, too?" he asked, tugging at the waist of his smallclothes.

Sansa gave a weak nod, her eyes already dropping to his waist. Her view was blocked by the top of his head as he bent over to strip himself bare, but when he rose . . . The elongation of him seemed to go on and on. He shook his long hair back, the ends grazing the middle of his upper arms. His chin was slightly raised and Sansa's eye roamed over his throat before slipping down the indentation in the center of his massive chest and tapered abdomen. She closed her eyes for just a moment before looking at his manhood. Thick and full, ridged and taut, it curved up toward his lower belly. Sandor's huge hand took hold of the base of it and stroked upward, his wrist curving as his palm slid over the head. Her woman's place clenched and Sansa curled her toes and shifted her legs on the bed as she looked into Sandor's face. The animalistic desire there made her sink into the bedding.

"Little bird . . .," he said in a quiet rasp.

Sansa could only watch as he approached. He eased himself onto the bed. His hair just brushed her skin as he made his way over her. Looking into her eyes, he lowered his head for a kiss, tracing his tongue in a circle over her lips. He drew her arms above her head and lightly rubbed his fingertips over her palms as his tongue probed her mouth. Then he pushed himself up, his arms like a vault, the breadth of his chest a broad plateau in the arch he made above her, each muscle in his arms evident in support. Sansa brought her hands to the backs of his shoulders as her gaze swept down his torso and over his tight stomach. His manhood was lost in shadow but she could feel it like a shimmering wave of heat just inches above her. She forced her eyes back to Sandor's. His were heavy with want.

The muscles in his back glided under his skin as he lowered himself down, his neck bending so his lips could sip softly at hers. Sansa tipped her head back and arched her spine slightly just until her nipples grazed the hair on his chest. She closed her eyes. Her skin craved contact with his. Everything in her was poised for his touch and a dull ache was beginning to throb between her legs. She gripped his sides, her eyes fluttering open. "Sandor," she breathed.

She might have whimpered had his response been anything other than,

"Are you ready?"