Chapter Summary: Jon doesn't know what he was expecting Sansa's room to look like, but it wasn't this.

Chapter Thirty-Five: Jon

When Sansa opens her bedroom door and leans against the door, Jon freezes up. He doesn't know what he has been expecting, when she invited him up, but it wasn't this. He hasn't been inside Sansa's room since she shared with Arya—an awkward arrangement with the seven year age gap, which their mother hoped would increase affection rather than diminish it. Back then Sansa's side was all pink bows and stuffed animals piled so high it didn't look like there was any room to sleep. Jon remembers the yellow vinyl line down the middle of the room that her little sister was not allowed to cross; he spent all his time on Arya's side. That was years ago before Sansa moved to the room opposite her father's office, the need for teen privacy having won out over Catelyn's grand plan. Still a first for Jon though.

This room, which Jon has never had access to, is a woman's room. Everything is ice blue and creamy white with not a touch of pink in sight. Jon probably would have lost his nerve if the place was still piled high with stuffed animals. It would have reminded him too much of the past everyone expects to inform what they are to each other now.

Looking over her shoulder at the room lit only by a fireplace, the crystal chandelier overhead turned off, he's filled with a different kind of uncertainty. This isn't the kind of place he could ever afford to give her. Everything about this room is as elegant as anything Catelyn Stark would pick out—complete with a vase of towering flowers, the crowning touch to any room Catelyn decorates. Meanwhile, Sansa's been hanging out in the basement with him.

More like making out whenever they can snag some temporary privacy. Mostly in the middle of the night. Sleep has been his nemesis since he left the service. Nightmares make him want to stretch his waking hours way past what's normal, but exhaustion triggers episodes. A rather unpleasant catch-22. Since their first kiss, he doesn't need sleep. Just Sansa. More and more of her.

Creative solutions for where they can find a moment are the brainchild of attraction's hyper focus. The back of Ned's limo, her crowded office after a brief tour of the magazine's offices and a well timed lunch break for her friend Mya, the back row of that nearly empty movie theater she dragged him to in New Jersey at ten in the morning, even an elevator ride here at home is good for a kiss and increasingly desperate fumbling.

Never her room though. No one is really welcome here except maybe Jeyne. It's Sansa's sanctuary.

Sansa grabs his hand. "Hey," she says all soft and inviting. "Coming in, birthday boy?"

"It's not my birthday yet."

"Close enough. Only an hour left before you're officially an old man," she says, tugging him through the doorway.

"Old man, huh?"

She might be serious. Did he think twenty-eight was ancient at her age?

"Don't worry. I'll care for you in your senility." That's one of the better offers he's gotten lately. Certainly more appealing than Theon's offer to find him birthday ass if he promised not to knock anyone out again. "As long as you keep your looks."

"Watch it," he says, looping his free arm around her middle and hauling her back into his chest.

She's a little too bubbly. Nervousness probably jitters right under her twitching shoulders and bright chatter. It cost her something to tell him what she wanted tonight. She's brave but shy in certain regards.

Touching her is better than any anti-anxiety med they've tried him out on at the VA. It's an immediate release, when she sags into him with a sigh. Like the air rushing out of an unknotted balloon. It doesn't last long enough though. He barely has time to kiss the crown of her head before she shimmies out his grip. She's blinking too fast and her chest rises and falls visibly beneath her robe, when she stretches their arms out between them with fingers knit together. Her lips part, her tongue skims along the edge of her teeth. She's a bundle of nerves. Hopefully anticipation too, otherwise Jon won't let this night they've planned happen.

"I thought we could look at the snow from the balcony. You know, it could be romantic."

"Outside?"

"Or just through the door."

"Sure."

It won't be the first time he's enjoyed a view with Sansa. Back in college, when neither of them had much use for the other, he spent more than one evening at the lake sitting on the dock, beer in hand, watching the sun go down with her. There was no romantic agenda—that was furthest thing from his mind—but he liked the time to think. Sometimes she sang along to pop songs with her earbuds in. Not his kind of music. Still pretty. He thought about it on occasion, when he was lonely in Afghanistan.

"You want me to take my shoes off?" he asks, looking down at his Chucks, even as she pulls him over the fluffy white rug the extends almost to the edge of her room.

It looks like a rug you're not supposed to walk on with dirty sneakers, but everything about the way he's dressed seems wrong. The ambiance she's got going on here couldn't be achieved in his room. Which is probably why she suggested via a text with a bunch of emoticons he didn't know how to interpret that he come up. It's not just the room. She's placed herself in this scene with some obvious care. She's not wearing the type of pjs she comes down to breakfast in. What Jon can see under the untied robe is a short little one piece thing, baby blue, and edged in lace. If she took that robe off, she'd have about as much on as she did this past summer in Michigan, when they sat on the shoreline eating popsicles with the family and he tried very hard not to stare at her in her blue and white polka dot swimsuit.

Was he supposed to come similarly attired? Is there a male equivalent to this? His flannel pants would have required quick thinking if anyone caught him on his way to her room dressed for bed. Then again, no one would ever think to find him here. Street clothes wouldn't have made the scenario less questionable should Ned have decided to come up to his office and found Jon outside Sansa's room, counting to ten in his head before he scratched at her door.

Sansa is the one who suggested they sneak around. Except, she framed it in a way that made it sound like a wise choice rather than an illicit one. Catelyn was less than pleased about what Jon did at the Night's Watch. The negative press and the bad example it set for the kids fixed her mouth this hard line anytime he walked into a room. Then she found out about Joffrey. They'd all probably like to pop Joffrey in the mouth again if given a chance. Even so, Sansa thinks this isn't the time to tell her parents about them.

We'll wait until this business blows over, and then we'll tell them about us.

Jon's unconvinced it will blow over. He's not wholly certain Sansa believes it either. He suspects she's putting on a bit of a show, pretending everything is going to be fine, when she knows life rarely issues free passes. Or maybe she's just caught up in the same buzz that's been coloring Jon's every decision since she first kissed him.

After the reporter called and asked her mother a lot of uncomfortable questions about the fight at the Night's Watch, he spent most of the day hiding out in the basement. It gave him time to think about what a dumb move hitting Joff was. And how the press would seize upon this business between him and Sansa like sharks with blood in the water. It would probably be safer to try to go back to the way things were before the kiss.

All solid reasons to back off, but he didn't argue with Sansa, when she crept down the stairs at one in the morning, sat cross-legged on his bed, and suggested that they keep their relationship a secret. Ned and Cat were probably upstairs arguing about what to do with him, but he was too caught up in the fact that she was operating on the assumption that they were in a relationship. Add to that the press of her thigh against his own and he wasn't going to voice any of concerns about springing the news on her parents after the fact. When he'd woken up that morning, a part of him had been convinced Sansa would regret what happened between them. When she immediately started talking about us, he would have agreed to anything. Hell, he would have done anything to kiss her again.

He's wanted her for months, thought about her to the point of distraction, and now every nerve ending rewards him with that electric pulse any time she touches him. It's hard to care about anything else.

"Whatever makes you comfortable," she says, but she doesn't stop leading him towards her bathroom right over her pristine rug.

A pair of French doors lead out to the iron railing balcony in her bathroom, following the same arrangement as her parents' room one floor below. There's something unexpectedly intimate about crossing the threshold. There shouldn't be anything sexy about a bathroom. There's nothing titillating about his. Somehow hers manages to be. This is where she slips off her clothes and soaks in the giant tub up to her neck in bubbles.

"Why do people make such a fuss about snowstorms?" she asks, stopping before the door, the fingertips of her left hand touching the pane of glass.

"Power outages, car accidents, general inconvenience."

"Okay, Commander Gloomy. You don't really feel that way, do you?"

"No." As the blizzard sunk the city in snow and Jon watched from the living room window, all he could think about was how much Sansa would like it. "Michigan wouldn't be my favorite place if I did. But I also don't have a job I need to be at."

Without a job, he couldn't even afford an apartment the size of this bathroom. The marble alone would cost a fortune. He absolutely can't afford her. Even healthy he's not going to make this kind of money. He's not a Stark or a Lannister or a fucking Baratheon.

Joffrey could have given her a bathroom like this and a big elegant bedroom. Not much else though.

"It's so pretty and peaceful."

It would be even more peaceful if they were staring out on a Michigan snow. But they're not.

"Let's go out," she says, her hand toying with the brass knob.

He cocks his head to the side waiting to see if she's merely teasing. "No?"

"Why not?" she asks, looking up at him in the dark of the room.

Her eyes glint with an eagerness that he feels too, but not for going outside in a t-shirt.

"It's freezing out and you're…" he says, his gaze shifting to the slope of her breasts in the soft looking knit she's wearing. And those long bare legs, every inch of pale skin begging to be touched. Whatever it is she's wearing probably doesn't even qualify as shorts, and he's really trying not to jump all over her.

"I'm what, Jon?" she asks with a little smile, as she turns into him.

With hooded eyes, he watches her hand skate over his arm to the edge of the sleeve of his t-shirt. One short, glossy pink nail draws figures against the skin. It feels like she might be spelling something out or just teasing him with each whispery flick of her nail, making the hair on his arms prickle.

"You going to tell me?" she asks, spanning his leg with hers.

One of those bare feet that has no business outside perches atop his sneaker, as her knee bumps his, insinuating itself between his legs. His heart pounds, his hands flex, and he has to swallow to wet his dry mouth, as his hands find her hips. He brings her firmly against his thigh, all her soft places depressing against his chest, his hip, his thigh.

"God, you're soft," he says, thumbs curving over the round of her hips.

"Cashmere."

"Not what I meant. Although I like it," he says, inclining his head to nudge the neck of her robe away with his nose. It exposes that fine bone at her neck he'd like to lick all the way to the thin strap of her pajamas. The robe slips free of her shoulders, and she lets it fall to the floor with a shrug. "I like this too," he says, tracing the lacy arch of her pajama bottom.

Ygritte always just got naked. He thought that was awesome. Sansa has a different tact. Different and equally lovely.

Hands framing his face with fingertips cool from the window, she pulls him in until their noses touch and she's all wide eyes and inviting mouth. "I hoped you'd like it."

The thought of her planning what to wear, thinking about what he might like is beyond sexy. It's gratifying to know he wasn't the only one thinking about this night well in advance.

He threads his fingers in the thick hair at the back of her head, letting his eyes close, as his mouth finds hers. Familiarity with the taste of her, the give of her lips, and the gentle stroke of her tongue against his has only made this better. If anything, it's almost too good. With each kiss there's less nose bumping and clicking of teeth, but more need for spine tightening restraint. Her hands have been sneaking under his shirt for weeks, and he still sucks in a breath as the flat of her hand covers the jumpy muscles in his abdomen.

She murmurs his name against his neck, and there's the tug low in his belly. The one that makes him feel like he can never have her close enough. He wraps an arm around her back and hitches her leg up over his hip. It throws her slightly off balance, but that only means he has to hold her tighter. Even through his denim he can feel how hot she is. The thirst for more, deeper, closer intensifies with every whimper he draws from her, kissing his way along her jaw to the spot she likes right below her ear. She squirms against him, twisting against his thigh until he palms her ass and rocks her into him in time with her quick little pants.

"Good?" he asks, taking her earlobe between his teeth.

"God, yes."

Little blasphemer, he thinks with a grin.

Arching against him, she fumbles with the fly of his jeans. Just the bumping of those fingers trapped between their bodies makes his heart pound in his ears. Even in the relative privacy of his room, the only clothing removed has been his t-shirt. Since this began, it's been a lot of very high school over the clothes action. Keeping his clothes on helped him keep his cool. Somewhat. Because if he would have pushed up one of her skirts and hooked a finger in her panties before tonight, he would have begged to lick her, fuck her, anything to make her feel good.

It's a long time coming after a year of x-rated fantasies he worked overtime not to indulge, but he can't mess this up. He never really thought about forever with a girl before, but this is different. He's different; so is she. Sansa's been dreaming of white picket fences, a yappy dog, 2.5 kids, and a Ken doll husband since she was a kid herself. she ought to have what she wants, and while he's hardly molded plastic, he's piecing himself back together as best he can. Because she wouldn't have kissed him if she didn't imagine him carrying out the trash and changing light bulbs.

He kisses the corner of her proud smirk, when she runs her hand over the front of him. What she doesn't know is that he's been in a state of semi arousal all damn day.

"Did you bring a condom?"

"Yeah."

Five of them. Which seemed like overkill. Presumptuous too. So he stuffed all but one in the drawer of his bedside table before heading up to her room. He got all the way to the first floor and jogged back down the stairs to grab them again. First adding two more to his pocket. Then another two. Whatever. He's prepared for whatever she has in mind. Like a good boy scout.

He's only got one reservation left and keeping that in mind with her palming the ridge of his erection through his tight jeans is no mean feat.

People are going to react to them being a couple. There's no magical good timing that can change that. By keeping it a secret, they're only delaying the inevitable. Despite Sansa's cheerful assertions of how happy they'll be for them, Jon knows how the family will respond. He's pictured Ned throttling him and then tossing him out on the street, when he finally finds out. Arya will be furious. The boys will be confused. He doesn't even want to imagine Catelyn's reaction. Jon feels guilty about this lie by omission. But not guilty enough to stop.

And no, he can't give her the life she's accustomed to, but he knows how to treat to her. He didn't have a father, but he's had the best role model in that regard.

The only thing holding him back is her need to please. She wanted it to be tonight. On your birthday, she said with more untranslatable emojis.

Resting his brow against hers, he breathes in, letting his chest expand with purposeful slowness—a counselor approved action to clear his head. It doesn't much work, since all he can smell is the sweet warmth of her skin and shampoo.

"Jon?"

"Yeah. Sorry," he says with a thick swallow. His intention is not to freak her out. He only wants to offer her an out if she needs one. "Just because it's my birthday, I don't want you to feel like…"

"It's not your birthday yet," she says, popping the button on his jeans.

He grabs her wrist, stopping her progress. "It's almost my birthday."

"Almost," she says, plucking at the elastic of his boxer briefs with an outstretched finger. "But until midnight, this has nothing to do with your birthday."

He brushes his thumb over the ridge of tendons in her wrist. "What's it about?"

"Us." It's dark, but he can see the flush that spreads over her face.

"You want to?" She nods, and her pupils are fat and glossy, as she shifts against his thigh. "Me too."

He hoists her up, because sex in the bathroom is not in the operational plan. She's got a bathroom counter a mile wide and a great big mirror that could be a real turn on. But it's been too long since Jon had sex. He doesn't trust himself not to make a mess of this without the benefits of a bed. She deserves a bed.

"I'm going to need more than an hour," he says, as she wraps those long legs around his waist and he carries her the few feet from her bathroom to her bed. "Probably end up being birthday sex anyway."

She grins back at him, her eyetooth dimpling her lip before she buries her face in his neck.

He almost trips over the rug before he settles on the edge of the bed. It makes him wish for a light. Or two or three. Not only for maneuverability: seeing everything would be very sexy. But there's definitely something to the warm orange light of the fire playing off her breasts, when she kneels over him and wiggles her shoulders until the straps of her pajamas fall away.

He's definitely staring, when her fingers bunch in the sides of his shirt and she commands rather firmly, "Off."

In one swift motion he grabs the back of his shirt and pulls it over his head, tossing it off to the side, so he can lean back in. He doesn't want to stare. He wants to touch. He kisses at her pulse, where it thrums as he cups her breast, testing the weight of her. They're soft, downy like a peach, and fit perfectly in his hand. Fucking perfect, he thinks tracing one rosy nipple.

"You're gorgeous," he says, lips replacing fingers.

By the time he's left one pebbled and glistening with saliva, she's pulling hard at his hair and her nails have scratched a path up his back. Jon feels a bit like he's losing his mind, as he takes the other in his mouth and thrusts up against her with too much thick fabric between them. He wants to feel her hot and wet against him. Wants to be inside of her. The thought of it has his breath coming ragged and his fingers digging into the give of her ass.

Then her hand is at his fly again, knuckles brushing against the flat of his stomach, and he has to lift her up and off, so this doesn't end before he's managed to get his jeans off. To remove his sneakers and jeans as quickly as possible results in something of an unmanly struggle, which ends with him hopping on one foot, while she watches with her legs pulled up to her chest and a finger caught between her teeth.

"Enjoying the view?" he asks, trying to pull a narrow leg over his heel.

Ygritte would have told him he looked ridiculous—and he does—but there's an almost dreamy quality to Sansa's stare that makes him want to laugh.

"Yes, actually," she says, scooting back to the middle of her bed.

Her toes, curling in a point, are the same pink as her fingernails. There's not one part of her he doesn't find sexy as hell, pink toes included.

"Not so bad for an old man?" he asks with a grunt, as he finally kicks free of the second leg.

"Are you fishing for compliments, Jon?"

He reaches for one delicate ankle, and she extends her leg as much as he pulls it down. "Absolutely. If I can get one."

"You wouldn't have so much trouble getting those jeans off if you bought them a size larger."

"That's not a compliment."

"No, but it would save us some time next time," she says.

The promise of next time is way better than a compliment, so he vows to be better prepared to disrobe next time.

That's not the only preparation needed. Condoms. He retrieves one from the back pocket of his discarded jeans and tosses the gold foil packet on the bed next to where the weight of her body dips the mattress down.

"Might save your dignity too," she says, as her extended leg turns out, opening up a tempting view of inner thigh.

He kisses the inside slope of her ankle. "Too late."

It's a kiss that's supposed to trail up her curved calf and rounded thigh, but she stops him, planting her foot squarely on his chest. "Boxers too." She pulls the finger from her mouth to point. "While you're at it," she adds at half her usual volume.

It feels rather like a strip show, though there's no art to the way Jon yanks his shorts off and then stands there with her eyes fixed on him. Everything about her pretzeled posture speaks of insecurity, but his standing there for her appraisal puts him in her power. He's fine with that. He would awkwardly stand here all night if it made her more comfortable. But only a few seconds tick by, noted by the porcelain clock over the mantel, before her eyes flick back up to meet his gaze. She holds it, as she leans back and her hips rise off the bed.

He knew she wasn't wearing panties—could feel it, when his hand gripped her ass—but, when she shucks off her pajamas and she's naked before him, it's something else entirely. His imagination is not this good. Doesn't have to be anymore.

He commits the vision of her—partially curled in on herself, one arm over her breasts and red hair fanning out around her head—to memory, as he crawls over her. Bracing himself on one forearm, he follows the dip of her waist with his hand, as pale as all the rest of her. This is why he shaved after dinner. He learned his lesson after giving her a red chin one night.

"You're the prettiest thing I've ever seen."

"You keep saying that," she says, wrapping a curl behind his ear around her finger.

"'s true. Lots of other things too."

"Tell me later," she says, tugging him down for a kiss.

And he will, but right now every thought blinks out as her body meets his with nothing between them. "Christ," he whispers, rubbing himself against her. It's obscene how good it feels. He wants her to feel just as good. Better.

He circles her hip bone with his index finger. "Can I touch you?"

Her answer is the slight parting of her legs.

He says it again, "Christ," as her feet tangle with his and she pulls his head back down to her breast.

Getting his jeans off was anything but smooth, but he's better at this with his hands and mouth on her, pulling her apart. He's even halfway successful at blocking out the hot latch of her mouth on his neck and her hand wrapped around his dick, stroking up and over the tip of him. Successful enough that he can focus on the slick heat of her and not fall back on the bed, while she works him to orgasm.

She's always so controlled and careful. Not now, as he finds the right pressure that makes the rhythm of her hand falter.

"We have to be quiet," she says on a sharp inhale prompted by the drag of his teeth over a peaked nipple.

Or maybe it's his blunt finger sliding inside her.

Her warning might be as much a reminder to herself as him, for as loud as she groans as her back arches off the bed and her heel slips, losing purchase against the comforter.

"Trying, honey," he promises. Only because his life probably depends on it.

Making her writhe and pant with two fingers curled inside her and his thumb drawing wet circles over her clit moves to the top of Jon's favorite things. Until she starts to whisper against his ear, hot and breathy, "Please."

"Tell me," he urges.

She blindly pats her hand beside them and comes up with the condom pinched between her fingers. "Here."

Jon rolls onto his back, snagging the condom from her. It occurs to him as he tears into it that you're not supposed to do it with your teeth, but it escapes his urgency unscathed. "Will you get on top?" he asks, pinching the tip of it as he rolls it down over himself.

She hums in the positive and moves to straddle his thighs. He lies there for a moment, her looking down at him with her hands cupping her breasts, him twitching against the dampness of her inner thigh. His hands settle on her thighs and he draws them up slowly towards her apex.

She bends down for a kiss. Everything over the past few minutes has been increasingly frantic, but not this kiss. Time spins out like spun sugar for this kiss. It's slow and sweet. Manages to be that way even when her arm slides between them to bring the head of him between her folds, where the hot slickness of her sends a jolt to his spine.

She rocks over him, shallow movements that draw him in deeper a fraction at a time. Making his fingers tauten against her flesh and his mind count each soft puff of her breath against his lips. By the time he's buried inside of her, the tension in his gut is coiled so tight, he can barely ask, "Okay?"

"S'good," she says with a roll of her hips that brings their pelvises together in a long rub.

He grits his teeth. Theon once said he sang "Take Me Out to the Ballgame" in his head to keep from getting off too soon. Jon prefers the alphabet—backwards.

He doesn't get past Q before he tells her, "Fuck, you feel amazing."

He wants to thrust up into her, wants to toss her on her back and lick between her thighs to see how good she tastes, wants to sit her upright over him and watch himself disappear inside of her, while her breasts bounce. But he lets her set her pace, an agonizingly slow one, and holds her as close to his chest as she seems to want. She clings to him—the fingers of one hand scratching at the base of his scalp, the other using his shoulder for leverage, and he lets his hands wander, learning the feel of her the way he couldn't before.

And when her soft keening turns into a deeper sound of frustration, he touches her, where she's slippery with arousal. With each sweep, his finger brushes where they're joined, until her rocking stutters to a stop and her nails bite into him. Her fine brows knit together, her mouth goes slack, and good God she comes hard around him.

Watching the last shuddering grip of her orgasm play on her face, he lets himself give in to the need to move, thrusting into her as he spouts the kind of compliments he never expected to pay her. Everything focuses in on that one spot, and with the pressure building to the point of inevitability, he gathers her hair in his fist to get at her mouth for a sloppy kiss. It's an intense burst that curls his toes and makes his eyes screw shut, a slightly out of body experience or the feeling of being more than just one body, as he pulses inside the condom.

Then blissful numbness.

Contented exhaustion weighs him down into the mattress as much as the pressure of her body over his with her head cradled on his chest. He breathes out into her dampened hair, vaguely aware of the stroke of her hand against his side.

Clarity drifts down on him.

There's a thin sheen of sweat on both of them, and despite the flickering fire, he can feel goose bumps along her arms, as he maps her body in lazy exploration. They could fall asleep like this with him slipping out of her, but that wouldn't be the best idea.

"I've got to get rid of this thing," he says, reaching between them to hold on to the condom as he pulls out.

His legs swing over the side of the bed, as he knots off and then tosses the condom in the painted trash bin beside her bedside table. With his back turned, he can still hear her rearranging herself on the bed, can picture her too. He runs his hands through his hair, stretches both arms over his head, and then flops back alongside her. He's going to sleep better than he has in ages. Shame they'll need to set an alarm, so he can sneak back down before anyone else is awake.

"Come here," he says, lifting up an arm to welcome her back into his embrace, where she fits with such ease.

She hums, tucking herself in close.

"Hey," he says, fingertips running lightly over the bumps in her spine. "Good?"

"Mmm...yes." She runs the tip of her nose over him. The gesture makes him smile. "Happy. You?"

"I love you." He says it quickly without giving himself a chance to over think it or talk himself out of confessing it.

She lifts her head to press a kiss to the underside of her chin. "I love you too."

As easy as that. "I've been almost saying it for weeks." He wishes he had now. "Thought it might be too much."

"No, it's perfect."

She's perfect, and he swears it's not the hormones making him think that. He knows her too well for that.

"It's the way it should be, right?" she asks, walking her fingers down him until she reaches his navel.

He twitches as if they didn't just finish having sex. Really phenomenal sex, he thinks, gazing down at the long curve of her naked body.

"Yeah," he agrees. When it came to girls and sex, wasn't always quite about being in love. Between them it can't be anything less. "Almost called you all these ridiculous endearments too."

"Like what?"

He shakes his head against the pillow, the whisper of the cotton the auditory accompaniment to his refusal to say.

"I'll get you drunk, Jon Snow. You won't be able to help yourself," she says, punctuating her promise with a poke.

"Don't doubt it." It won't even take a stiff drink. Just more of those sweet pleases. "You're irresistible that way."

"I don't know. You resisted long enough."

"Is that what I've been doing?"

She toes his leg, over his ankle and down again. Naked footsies. "Well, being very gentlemanly at least. You could have had me on my birthday though. All those drinks in me," she says, stretching against him like a cat. "I wanted you. Wanted to see what all those hours in the gym did for you."

"Sansa."

"What?" she asks, all wide eyed faux innocence.

"Are you kidding?" he asks, reaching up to scrub his face. It's already getting rough with fresh growth. If he kisses down her the body the way he'd like to, he'll leave a mark. Of course, it is winter. None of that skin shows. "You can't say things like that to me."

"Why?"

"'cause it makes me really mad at myself."

She laughs loudly and then slaps her hand over her mouth. It's not just enthusiastic groaning that could wake her parents up.

"We could have been really good at this by now," he whispers with a pat to her ass.

"It was already really good."

Fucking fantastic.

He can feel her smile against his chest as she hides her face by rolling into him, muffling her words. "I don't usually, um…"

"Yeah?"

"I don't ever, you know, during sex."

"I don't know," he says, wrapping both arms around her. He doesn't have the foggiest what she wants him to guess at so as to save her from having to say it. "Why don't you tell me?"

"Come or whatever."

His stomach bottoms out. A guy's orgasm is a whole thing, impossible to miss. Still, as much as guys go on about girls being a mystery, he always thought that was pure laziness on their parts. He likes to think he knows when he is doing something right, let alone getting a girl off.

"Were you faking it?"

"Just now?" she asks, head popping up. She's as red as a rose and just as lovely with her hair all fuzzed around her head. She gives a quick whip of her head. "I didn't need to."

"Oh." Oh. Fuck. He rolls her over, caging her in with his arms. "You shouldn't have told me that."

"I thought you might like to know."

He does. Good for the ego and all that, but he'll congratulate himself later. "I do, but the thing is, you're so pretty when you come."

"Jon," she says, covering her face with one hand.

"I'm going to want to see it again, and I've got four more condoms with me."

"Four?" she asks, peeking through her fingers.

"Yep. Good thing too. We've got a lot of practicing to do."

Notes:

Uh, so... there's that!

*runs away*

Ned's up next.