Sansa had to spend some considerable time floating in the bath on her back, staring at the stone ceiling and letting her mind process the fact that Jon had asked to marry her. They had already made love countless times after the defeat of the White Walkers. She had been furious when Jon brought Daenerys to Winterfell and told her how he had to fuck her in order to secure her dragons in the fight against the Walkers. In order to prove his intentions, he took Sansa in the most blissful experience of her life. Afterwards she had forgiven him and now that Daenerys was dead from the war they could finally announce their love, but they still had to wait a few fortnights so as not to offend the remnants of Daenerys's men.
She washed her hair twice, groaning in bliss at the thought of sweet, shiny hair at last, and so clean and warm all the way through every pore on her skin was tingling she wrapped herself in a thick robe and went to her chambers, where one of the surviving Dothraki handmaids was waiting for her. She had the special skill of removing body hair with linen and hot wax, an invaluable trade given the practice was relatively unknown in Westeros. The pain was well worth the results, to be pretty and neat, and she would have done it for herself, though she had a lover now who would appreciate it.
After the woman had left with her heartfelt thanks, Gilly came in to brush her crown of hair until it shone in the crackling firelight and put it up in several small braids off her face, the rest trailing loose down her back. Now utterly relaxed, she switched her woolen robe for a lighter one of wine coloured silk, and slumped in a chair by the fire, her toes digging luxuriously into the thick carpet, glad to be ready for Jon.
Her friend drank a goblet of wine with her, probing for news of when the marriage was going to happen, and after her quick replies she got up and discreetly withdrew for the night, promising to dismiss the guards at the door, leaving her alone to brood and stare at the jumping flames.
She was three goblets down of Arbor Gold, and feeling rather dozy, when the doors to her chambers opened silently. Jon's hair was still wet and loose from the bathhouse, curling appealingly around his face, his eyes wide and soot black in the dim light of the cavernous room, and he was clad in only a grey linen shirt and breeches. She eyed him closely, from his tangled hair to his bare feet, her spirits lifting at the fine sight.
"Even your feet are pretty," she observed.
"How many of those have you had?" he said dryly, as he moved to stand over her lazy form, a picture of tipsy indolence that made him smile fondly.
"Three, thanks to Sandor and his raving of the benefits of wine," she replied, a grin lighting up her face.
"I could beat him bloody for making you become so drunk," he said, only half joking. 'Are you sure he isn't going to-?"
"Sandor won't force himself on me, Jon." She said sternly, and at his possessive look she had to continue. "You should know by now that he's a good man. I'm loyal only to you my love."
His eyes flared a little as it sunk in that their relationship would eventually be revealed to the North even though they still had to keep it relatively secret so as not to have the Northerners think Sansa dishonored or Daenerys' allies think he had manipulated her. After those thoughts flit through his head his mouth quirked sweetly. "You're mine," he said softly, but possessively.
"Do I turn you on that much?" she smiled, stretching out in the chair in a sinuous arch. "Do you want to have me tonight?"
"You look so beautiful I am scared to touch you and mess you up."
"If you don't mess me up, I shall be disappointed," she pouted, making him chuckle, and she recalled the boy he had been when they were young, so dour and subdued she had wondered whether he had ever laughed. He was not the same man now, and it was her doing.
To her delight, he sunk to his knees on the carpet at her feet, resting his head in her silken lap. Her fingers twined in his black curls, scratching his scalp lightly. He smelled delicious, like pine needles and musk and smoke. He was sniffing her as well, his hands fisting her robe and crushing the fabric into crinkles as he breathed her in. "I love your scent," he rumbled into her flesh. 'I love how soft and warm and pretty you are. I love you.'
She sighed in relief. She was an idiot to doubt him, he who wore his heart in out in the open for her and was incapable of lies and subterfuge when it came to his true family. She put her goblet down carelessly on the floor, and gently tugged at his hair to get him to look at her. Her hands slid to hold the sides of his face, her fingertips rasping the soft hair there, and she bent down to take his lips, tracing the plump shape of them with the tip of her tongue before she opened her mouth to his.
The familiar rush roared in her ears, the disorientating surge of want that she had never felt with another, and his hands were inside the neckline of her robe, drawing it back to free her breasts. She was going to tell him to strip, her usual thwarted urge to see him naked before she was, but she forgot in an instant, moaning as his lips dragged down her chest to take a nipple between them, pressing down with sharp teeth until it stood proud and pink, then moving to the other, the gentle tingle of nerves rippling down her belly to twinge between her thighs, which had parted to hold him to her.
Then her robe was falling away, the knot of the sash unpicked, and she was naked, a creamy white expanse of breasts and hips and cunt against the crimson silk. "Oh Gods," he cursed, his hand moving down her stomach to cup her bare mound of flesh, already slick with moisture, his deep eyes following the path of his hand. "This is so beautiful, and soft, like silk, fuck…" He was barely coherent, his accent thickening and stopping up his throat. His pale skin was flushing, and his breath was uneven and hot against her skin as he eyed her closely, just touching her very lightly. "Put your legs up on the chair," he whispered. "Let me see all of you."
Shamelessly, she lifted her feet from the floor, balancing on the arms of the chair, spreading herself wide for his mouth, whining as he dipped down for the first taste, his whiskers a sweet scrape against her sensitive flesh. His tongue was as light as a feather against her cunt, only delicately lapping up her juices before pushing inside to find her nub, very gentle, teasing it instead of probing and dragging.
She lifted her hips with a louder whine, seeking friction, but he would not grant it, his hands on her thighs to pin her down in the chair. It quickly became torment, keeping her mightily roused but unable to reach the release she craved, her skin tightening so she felt as if she was shrinking smaller, and she was so wet that her robe was saturated beneath her. She writhed and mewled, tugging at his curls in desperation, until he finally paused and looked up, his beard and lips soaked with her mess, his eyes pitchy and unfocused.
"Hold back," he breathed. "Try to hold back for me."
In the small space between their entwined bodies she noticed his breeches were unlaced, his cock as hard as stone and held close in his right hand, while his left still held her down, and she tossed her head back and sobbed at the thought of him touching himself as he consumed her. She did not know how long she could tolerate it without going insane, the heat between her legs and bursting in her mind, her teeth worrying her lower lip as he sucked all of her into his mouth, the friction inching higher, her legs jerking in small spasms, her breath heaving as if she was sprinting for miles.
Eventually she reached breaking point and pushed him away with a sharp cry, clamping her legs together to stop from coming. "No Jon…oh no, oh Gods…" She knew she would be calling on them many times tonight.
The warning throb died down a little, and she wrapped her arms around her belly to dull it further as she eyed him with some desperation, but her look had no effect. There was a distracted expression in his eyes, as if he was there with her, but not. She was picked up off the chair, a wet kiss on her puffed mouth that made her sigh, her robe stripped from her shoulders, and she was carried towards the great bed, its shadows swallowing her up as she was placed on the edge.
Freed at last, her hands snatched at him hungrily, yanking at his shirt front to urge it off, sliding his breeches down his slim hips, giving him no chance to toe them off before she was on him, her tongue swirling over the fat head of his cock before she sucked him down whole, her hands slipping to his perfect arse to grab great handfuls of it. He jumped and growled long in his chest, his fingers curling in her hair and urging her to take him all, her throat struggling to relax around him, he was so wonderfully hard and unyielding.
She slid back with a slow draw of her lips, her gaze tilting upwards to look at his face, so intent and dark with desire, his mouth hanging open, that it was both lovely and frightening. She worked him with her tongue as he had done to her, delicate jabs and sweeps where he was most reactive, making him squirm and sob in a stream of heaving breaths, tugging at her hair restlessly, twisting it in his strong fingers.
"Sansa, stop, please…" he finally begged her, but she kept going until she wrenched a cry out of him, thick and desperate and very exciting.
As she set him loose with a last kiss on the tip of his cock, she didn't even think on it. She moved, turning and getting on all fours on the edge of the bed, asking him to fuck her the way he longed to, for she wanted it too, and was no longer afraid what might float into her mind anymore, for she had trust. It was somewhat imperfect, but enough to submit, her head bowing down as she waited for his response.
There was a long pause, only the sound of heavy breathing, then a hand on her, drifting over the thick cheeks of her arse and sliding between them, opening her swollen folds with care, then a swallowed curse, a swift movement of breeches being kicked to the floor.
"Are you sure?" he asked her gently, and she replied with an arch of her spine, flowing into his touch. 'Tell me to stop, if you need to.'
Her hands grabbed onto the coverlet, taking handfuls of the slippery fabric, and she tensed her inner muscles deliberately, wanting to feel every solid inch as he entered. The sensation was indescribable; a bend of pain and pleasure and black, focused need that made her growl like a cornered beast, her skin quivering as she absorbed it, slow at first, horribly slow, not reaching far enough inside her to satisfy, her body moving backwards impatiently so the head of his cock hit the back of her taut channel, knocking at the entrance to her womb.
She muffled a strangled sound into the covers. The hands on her flanks tightened their grip on her, then moved her back down, her walls sliding closely along his length, dragging another rich curse out of him. She balanced on one arm, needing to touch herself to counter the warring sensations that were tying her belly in knots, her fingers gliding over her nub in practiced sweeps, the noises she was making quite inhuman as she curled into a ball under his movements, faster now, parting her flesh exquisitely with each thrust.
When he planted a foot on the edge of the bed for purchase, changing the angle of his cock within her, she lifted her flaming face from the safety of the covers and howled, no longer needing her fingers to drive her home, it was too damn good, too much, her bent body nearly breaking in two as he bore her down hard into the mattress, the pleasure now pure agony, but as sweet as honey, as sharp as a blade, the sound of him grunting with effort, muttering nonsense words as he used her harshly, sparking in her brain, which was a mass of light and dark, the two halves of her fighting until both surrendered.
Her eyes flew open as a deep pulse of release seized around his length and ensnared him, drawing him deep, but she saw nothing of the bed, or the room, or the covers held tightly in her fists, only stars in the blackness, then red; the red of blood, the red of her hair. She fell forward, the weight of his body holding her flat as she felt him come inside her, thick spurts of heat that trickled down her quivering thighs, marking her as his as he sobbed into her hair, his hands rough and pinching, trying to grab ahold of her sweaty skin as he collapsed at last.
She was stiff and uncomfortable, but had no ability to move, lying there as if drugged in a stupor, every pore of her skin gasping, the pulse still flickering in her loins rapidly, and she was not inclined to shrug him off, not this time. He could stay trapped inside her until he slipped out, or until he was ready once more. She wanted him to crawl inside her skin, next to her heart, and stay there, until death took them both.