As usual, the lovely underthenorthernlights beta read this chapter!
I feel a bit nervous about this update... Feedback will be very welcome.
Sandor had always loved his small and rather old house, at the edge of town: it was his shelter, his den, a place where no one bothered him. Nobody will ever break my balls here, he thought the first time he had visited it. And it was true: it was out of the way, his closest neighbors being a bunch of does and some cottontail rabbits. For the first time in his life, there was a place he could call home and he was grateful for that, but as he stepped out of his truck and led Sansa to the entrance door, he had misgivings about his choice. It was old and a bit outdated, a rare example of what people called, with a hint of disdain a bachelor's house. Maybe she's going to hate it, he mused, inserting the key in the keyhole. Perhaps we should stay in the living-room.
He told her she could have a seat in the living-room then he headed to the kitchen, remembering the slow-roasted leg of lamb wasn't ready yet. And the potatoes aren't ready either… Of course, she decided to follow him to the kitchen; still facing the oven, he shot a glance at her, over his shoulder, clearly embarrassed.
"What is it you cooked?" she asked out of curiosity, her slender frame being an unusual but lovely sight in the all-too familiar surroundings. She was leaning back against the kitchen wall.
When he explained it was leg of lamb, her eyes widened like saucers. She came closer, insisted until he removed the lid of the casserole dish to see what the leg looked like, among caramelized onions and carrots.
"I thought you didn't cook," she whispered, almost accusingly.
"I swear I did it myself, Sansa. Pod gave me the idea and even the recipe, but I did it myself." In case she didn't believe him, the carrot peel still formed a heap on the table and the paper with the recipe was taped on the fridge door.
Sansa chuckled. "I can see you've been cooking here." She gazed at the sink where some dirty dishes remained and at the table with its heap of carrot peels. The kitchen was the only part of the house he had not cleaned thoroughly the night before, assuming they would stay in the living-room. "You impress me, that's all. Not all the girls get slow-roasted leg of lamb for their first date."
"It's easy," he rasped.
"With all due false modesty…" she teased him, eyes sparkling with mischief. "I'm impressed... and I'm touched you made a special effort tonight." Something softened in her gaze at that very moment; suddenly uncomfortable, Sandor averted his eyes and shoved the casserole dish in the oven. She must have felt his hesitation, for she stepped away and watched him put the deep-frozen wedges in the frying pan from the doorway.
Once he was done, he turned to her, disguising his unease in a braggart smile that vanished the moment he heard her ask: "Can you show me around?"
If her shyness had been obvious at the gym, under the kids' prying eyes, she had gained self-assurance while his doubts became tangible. As luck would have it, she had decided it was her turn to set the pace.
"Of course," he replied, wiping his hands on a tea towel. He had never been good at showing people around; now that he had told himself repeatedly, she'd find the place awful, his inability to show it in its best light had become a certainty. What made his living-room different from the other ones? What was the point in showing her the hallway?
They nonetheless went to the living-room, Sandor gesturing nonchalantly at the space between the couch and the the table. Looking through the window, Sansa suddenly exclaimed: "You have a terrace?"
Sandor would never call it a terrace. The previous owner had laid some decking on the garden, and that was all. Anyone else would have placed a nice garden table and some chairs on the decking, but Sandor had never found a good reason to do it. He had once bought an old metal folding table and its two chairs at a rummage sale. The furniture needed a good coat of paint, yet he had stored everything in the garage. When there was no one to sit across you, why repaint the table and its chairs?
After glancing at him over her shoulder, Sansa opened the French window and stepped outside. As she explored what she called the terrace, the sound of her heels hitting the decking persuaded him that something had changed. No one ever had tread upon the whitened wood of the terrace; mesmerized, he looked at the high-heeled shoes that produced the unfamiliar sound, then his gaze went up, taking in the ankles, the slender calves and higher, the thighs her dress barely hid. She turned around, surprised he had not joined her yet and gave him an encouraging smile.
"Dawn must be beautiful here," she said as he closed the distance between them. She was looking at the grove of trees behind his house. "You know what? I couldn't imagine you living in a different place. When you disappeared, I sometimes told myself you were living in some log cabin, in the North. I don't know why. This is not a log cabin hidden in the woods, but it's quiet and it's beautiful. I like this place."
He could see her profile as she contemplated the horizon and the already purple sky; the large forehead, her long, curled eyelashes, the straight nose and these full lips he died to kiss. If there was a table on the terrace, he told himself, I'd make her sit there and I'd kiss her. It was a reason worth cleaning the rusty table that waited in his garage and repainting it.
At some point, she seemed to realize how late it was already and she turned to him, a smile gracing her lips. "You want to show me the rest of your house?" she suggested, bolder than he had expected her to be.
"There isn't much to see."
"Looks like there's a second floor," she retorted, craning her neck to look at the upper level of Sandor's house. He relished the tension that was slowly building between them, even if his contribution to the process had been modest. She's doing all the fucking work, it's not even funny.
With an incline of his head, he motioned her inside, then he led her to the staircase. Just like the decking of the usually deserted terrace, the wooden stairs creaked approvingly under her heels.
"So… the bathroom is here," Sandor announced with a sigh, opening a door and turning on the light. Don't ask me to sound enthusiastic like some shitty real estate agent…
Before swiveling his head and watching her reaction, he expected her to nod politely at the clean but common bathroom he owned, but to his great surprise, Sansa was gaping. "You have a bathtub?" Almost shoving him to get inside and to have a better look, she went on: "I'd kill for a vintage bathtub like this one."
Leaning against the doorframe, he shrugged. "I don't call it vintage, I call it old." The hint of provocation in his tone made her shake her head slowly, as she still admired the clawfoot tub.
"I bet you never take baths," she said.
"I don't have time for baths, girl. Showers are good... especially if there's some pretty little bird showing up the moment I turn off the water." Sansa gasped at his remark. "If you like it, go ahead, take a bath."
Blushing, she let her eyes fall to the tiled floor and shook her head again. "Not tonight."
Not tonight. Does that mean something else? She moved past Sandor, almost like she would not dare to lock eyes with him, then she waited on the landing while he closed the bathroom door. This is the same old story: when she's bold I become spineless and mute; when I regain confidence she's that shy little bird again.
"Here's a closet but I won't show it to you 'cause I didn't take the time to clean it up," he explained. "The other door, well... it's my bedroom. Do you want to take a look?" He had shoved his hands in his jeans pockets in a casual attitude, although he was anything but relaxed. Her timid nod set his pulse racing; he opened the door for her. Sansa took in the large bed - not unmade, for a change - the sparse furniture and he realized her gaze was drawn to the window.
"May I?" she asked, before crossing the room and stopping by the window, both hands resting on its frame, like a little girl watching outside.
Like minutes before on the terrace, she stayed silent at first, before turning her head and giving him a fleeting look. There was something akin to apprehension in her blue eyes; she glanced at him to make sure he was still there and perhaps because she wondered what he was about to do. They locked eyes and for a split second he felt as if he could read her mind; he could have sworn Sansa had suddenly remembered where she was, that she had just realized what any red-blooded man would think of a girl standing in his bedroom. No matter how seductive she looked with her black mini-dress and her high-heeled Mary-Jane shoes, at that moment, her eyes were those of a little girl.
He was still in the doorway, unable to decide if he should come in or not, if he should join her or stay where he was. His feet glued to the wooden floor, he kept staring at her back when she turned to the window again. All of a sudden, a single question resonated in his mind. Will she ever come back to this room? And if she crosses the threshold of my bedroom again, will she do it tonight? There was something in Sansa's attitude, in the way her shoulders tensed imperceptibly that told him she shared a part of his interrogations; however, petrified by the notion the slightest change, be it a comment or an gesture, could ruin everything, he didn't dare move.
And suddenly Podrick Payne, with his goofy smile and his coarse features, became his hero.
She liked the leg of lamb, better yet, she kept saying how delicious it was, threatening him, that she would not come back if he didn't cook the same recipe. He soon teased her when she had a second helping, asking what kind of food they served her at the Quiet Isle General Hospital. Not only had Pod provided him with a recipe that was rather easy and didn't need much effort, but he had found the perfect idea to blow her mind. He might not have racked his brains about table decoration and such, but she was more than happy with the content of her plate and that was enough for him.
Good food and wine had alleviated some of the tension; after the leg of lamb, he sensed she was ready to discuss sensitive matters they voluntarily ignored most of the time. Settled back in her chair as Sandor came back from the kitchen after clearing the table of the bulky casserole dish, she sipped her wine, eyes sparkling, observing his comings and goings.
"What's on your mind?" he inquired, her curious expression forcing a smile out of him.
She squeezed her eyes shut for a second, seemingly embarrassed, then confessed: "I was wondering about the tattoo on your chest."
He sat down. As he was doing so, she shifted on her seat, swiveling her hips so that her legs weren't hidden under the table anymore. "So, what kind of question do you have about my tattoo?" he asked with a perfunctory shrug.
"How long are we supposed to play this game, Sandor? The only question I have is very simple and you already know what it is: what does the "S" stands for?"
Resting his elbows on the table in a pathetic attempt to look less nervous than he was, he cleared his throat, but the response didn't come. Years of loneliness had convinced him he didn't deserve affection; that certainty, combined with the feeling of rejection he had experienced since his childhood made Sandor unable to speak. What if she has imagined something else? Silence stretched between them, until he chided himself for being so coward. The truth, tell her the fucking truth.
Almost shaking, he rasped: "Maybe I already knew what question you had in mind, little bird… but be honest: you already know the answer." You're proud of yourself? Answering a question by asking another question, that's how you envision telling her the truth? Exasperated by his own attitude, he gritted his teeth.
Across the table, Sansa took it on the chin. She opened her mouth in disbelief, then she commented in an undertone: "Touché." She shook her head. "I never thought it would be so difficult to have this conversation with you."
Remorse slowly crept in Sandor's mind. "S for Sansa," he whispered, his heartbeat loud in his ears. The truth. The fucking, liberating truth. Shouldn't I feel different now that I said it?
"Why?" she asked. "I mean, you got this tattoo done after you left… You were on the run, probably hundreds of miles away from me…"
Where to begin? He didn't have a fucking clue. He pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger and decided to be honest with her. "I was drunk that night…" When he raised his eyes, eager to find some encouragement, her shocked expression made him realized he might have ruined everything. Asshole. You don't tell the girl you love you got her initial tattooed on your chest when you were plastered.
"Drunk?" she repeated, incredulous. In her tone, the slightest trace of empathy had disappeared. "You were drunk, that night too?" Crossing her arms about her chest, she suppressed a nervous laughter. "Isn't it ironic?"
What the hell is she talking about? Brow furrowed, Sandor swallowed hard and waited for the fit of anger he thought he deserved.
"You're always drunk when… when it's important," she stammered, overcome by frustration. She kept shaking her head slowly, as if the constant movement somehow helped her. "When you shouldn't. You were drunk that night too, when you came to me and offered to take me with you." High-pitched, her voice revealed she was on the verge of tears now; he extended his arm to brush her forearm but she leaned back in her chair, glaring at him. "Did you offer me your help for the same reason you got this tattoo, because you were drunk?"
He could have shouted at her. He could have stood up abruptly and threatened her until she ran away from his place, swearing she'd never come back. Seven years before, that was exactly what he would have done because there was no rational explanation to his attitude, in both cases. Knowing he was a different person, someone who had learned how to tame the beast inside him made him realize he had come a long way. Sandor stared at her, wondering if she would see in his gray eyes all the longing his words couldn't express.
"The night I left the Lannisters, when I threatened you - I'll never forgive myself for doing that - it wasn't alcohol that made me point a gun at you. It was anger. That and blood lust, probably."
Silent, she hung on his every words, rage slowly giving way to sheer emotion; unshed tears glistened at the corners of her eyes, yet she seemed determined to resist. Not a single tear rolled down her cheeks.
"I can't blame alcohol for the foolish decisions I took," he went on. "Quite the contrary. Being drunk made me able to do things you can call foolish… but these things, I really wanted them to happen, sober or not. You were right to refuse, but I really wanted you to come with me, when I left. And that tattoo with your name, as silly as it is, I wanted it so badly…" He stopped short from saying more, not knowing where that idea would led him.
"So how did it happen?" she asked. Her tone had softened, but she still wanted further explanation.
He averted his eyes, hesitating for a few seconds, then said: "I was on the lam. It was before I met your sister. Anyway… I realized it was my fucking birthday and I got drunk. Not that I ever used to celebrate my birthday, I wasn't in the mood for celebration, I just wanted to forget. Next thing I remember is… coming to my senses in that shitty tattoo parlor. The guy told me I had asked him to tattoo the five letters of your name between my chest and my lower belly… vertically. Like a huge scar."
He paused, drained his glass of wine. "I stopped him as he was starting to tattoo the first "A" of Sansa. There's still some ink under the "S", like some weird mole."
Across the table, Sansa hugged herself as if she was cold. She heaved a sigh, then she asked: "Do you regret it?"
"No. I know it looks weird, because I'm kind of hairy, but I like it. I think the tattoo artist had to shave my chest before starting. I don't recall that either." A nervous chuckle escaped her lips. "Are you still mad at me?"
She shook her head vehemently. "I like it too."
After that, they both needed calm and the lemon cakes he had bought at Hot Pie's seemed the perfect conclusion to their dinner. Although she kept saying it was delicious and he had to give her the address, Sandor felt like he had got his fingers burnt. Her tone was merry now and she smiled, but he wondered if she could forgive him. Was this cheerfulness sincere or just a way not to spoil the atmosphere any further? Pushing aside his plate, his elbows rooted to the table and his chin resting on his folded hands, he observed her as she ate the lemon cake.
They talked again, careful to avoid delicate issues, this time. She gave him news from her uncle and from Rickon, she said how much she loved working with the Elder Brother, even though it was sometimes difficult. The conversation wound down, yet he felt like they both wanted it to last a little longer, although silences grew longer. Fuck, I want her to stay. He was sure about it, as he was sure they both hesitated, ignoring what to do next. In the end, she got on her feet and said she would help him do the dishes.
"And I won't take no for an answer," she insisted, smiling.
Did she want to prove by that smile she wasn't mad at him anymore? He followed her to the kitchen, trying to etch in his memory all the details he could, from the bun that brought out her long and slender neck to that curious silvery zipper that went down her spine on the back of her dress: it made his mind wander where it probably shouldn't. Sandor admitted he wasn't ready to let her go and the sight of dishes in the sink somewhat reassured him: they would be for a while. Sansa looked for a tea towel; in the meantime, he rolled up his sleeves and tied his hair back. Behind him, he heard her laugh and turned around; at that moment, he was next to the sink, ready to turn on the faucet.
"What?" he asked. As she didn't answer at first, blushing slightly, and as she urged him to begin washing the dishes, he insisted. "What's going on?" he said, his voice drowned out by the sound of water filling the sink. "What are you laughing at?"
Eyes downcast, she stayed by his side, biting her bottom lip as if she feared to say something inappropriate. Her scent, floral and intoxicating, tickled his nostrils. He tried not to look at her breasts whenever he glanced at her, but the notion she would be gone soon made him almost desperate and less careful with each passing moment.
"I was-" she began. "No, it's silly. Please go on."
Sandor docilely took the glasses and washed them, still gazing at her. He handed out the first glass to her, but didn't let it go. "Tell me what it is," he urged her. "Now."
"What are you doing, Sandor? It was nothing, really." They stared at each other for a long while, as her cheeks reddened. In the end, she sighed and gave in. "OK, I think I drank too much. Promise me you're not going to laugh or something. I'm serious, Sandor."
He had all the time he needed to imagine something both embarrassing and hilarious. "I promise," he said, suppressing a smile.
Sansa took a sharp intake of breath and explained, turning crimson: "When I saw you rolling up your sleeves, I told myself I was very lucky to have in my life, this tall, muscled man who cooks for me even though he claims he can't and who does the dishes with me." She frowned, as if expecting a reaction that didn't come.
"That's all?" he inquired.
"I told you it was silly." Ill-at-ease, she wiped the glass carefully, clearly pretending to focus on the task she had been assigned to rather than on him.
Silence was uncomfortable for Sandor as well. "I thought you preferred handsome men," he commented, thinking out loud.
She chuckled: "You know what song that reminds me of?" Disguising her unease behind cultural references had always been one of her favorite tricks. At fifteen, it was Greensleaves and some shitty pop songs. What is it, now?
"Chelsea Hotel, by Leonard Cohen," she added.
Before he could realize his little bird was referring to a singer that had nothing to do with the idols of her teenage years and to a song that mentioned a sexual encounter in a now decrepit hotel of New York, on top of that, she was beaming at him and she began to sing:
"I remember you well in the Chelsea Hotel
You were famous, your heart was a legend.
You told me again you preferred handsome men
But for me you would make an exception."
Sandor didn't dare say anything afterward, because it was so unexpected and so strange to hear her voice in his kitchen he was in awe.
"Say something," she begged, her nervous grin proving, if necessary, how flustered she was.
Weak at the knees, Sandor rasped: "Make an exception."
She gave him a long look, her blue eyes widening in surprise, and the tea towel she held landed on the steel rim of the sink. Then, very slowly, her fingers curled around his wrist. It was the signal, the one he had been waiting a very long time for. His hands still wet after his attempt at doing the dishes, he grabbed her hips with a sense of urgency that bewildered him. He didn't know what he was doing and in all likelihood, she didn't know either, for she craned her neck and gazed at him silently. They both listened to each other's breathing before he ducked his head and kissed her.
Her lips, soft and still tasting of sugar, weren't enough though; pressing and demanding, he found a short relief when Sansa opened her mouth for him and kissed him back with a feverishness he had never suspected in her. Her arms wrapped around his neck, she seemed to make a point of answering his kisses and teasing his tongue in return. One of his hands had already traveled up her ribs and kneaded her breast while her fingers wandered on the back of his neck. She couldn't suppress a moan when his mouth left hers to trail down her throat; as he couldn't stay with his shoulders hunched any longer, he lifted her body in his arms until she sat on top of the table. The moment she wrapped her legs around his middle, he took it as an encouragement and he resumed his kisses. No matter how intimidating the grunt deep in his chest sounded, Sansa clutched to him.
He was hard now, and she couldn't ignore it. By the way she pressed herself against him, he could tell her desire matched his, yet he needed her to express it clearly. Because this is too fucking good to be true. He stopped kissing her, out of breath, hoping she would understand and confirm she wanted this as much as him. Her chest heaving, Sansa tried to catch her breath and said nothing; her eyes avoided him and it felt unfair because they had been so close before. His hands, still on her ribcage, fell to his sides. Did that gesture rouse her from the haze she was in after their kiss? Sansa raised her eyes all of a sudden and took in his confused expression.
"I don't want to do it here," she whispered. Under the anxiousness her words conveyed, she sounded rather determined. "I want to go upstairs. In your bedroom."
He nodded. "Of course we won't do it here." He took a step back, so that she could reach her feet to the floor.
When he would look back on that night afterward, Sandor wouldn't be able to remember how he got upstairs. He recalled the creaking of the stairs under their weight, her scent and the resoluteness in Sansa's tone that obsessed him. I want. I don't want. His little bird had changed and she was giving herself to him.
Even if they had hurried in the staircase, even if it took only moments to go upstairs, keeping his hands away from Sansa now that they had wandered on her breasts and felt - briefly - the soft skin of her thighs, was a torture. He pinned her against the wall just before they reached his bedroom door; again they kissed and this time he drew her leg so that it rested on his hipbone. Carrying her inside, feeling her legs around his waist and her hesitation when he would stop by the bed... These things were exactly what he wanted. One hand holding the small of her back and the other one under her buttocks, he lifted her. Gentle yet firm, Sansa stopped him by pressing her palms against his chest.
"But your leg…?" she asked with a hint of concern when she understood what he was doing.
That reminder he had been wounded and he still limped along was unbearable, especially at that moment. "I'm not a cripple," he retorted almost fiercely. She didn't find anything to answer to that and she snaked her arms around his neck, almost apologetical. As he opened the door clumsily because of his precious cargo, then carried her across his bedroom, she held his gaze. With a grunt, he put her down on the mattress, where she quickly removed her shoes and got on her knees, opening her arms and inviting him to join her.
Sandor mirrored her attitude, climbing on the bed and sitting on his haunches before covering her mouth with his again. As their kiss deepened, he let his hand explore the curve of her hip and further, the side of her leg until he found the hem of her dress. A tiny moan escaped her lips when his fingers slipped under the dark fabric and went up, to the junction of her thighs. Deep down, Sandor wanted to see what she looked like with only her bra and panties; he could have stripped her from her dress but he was growing impatient and besides, he wanted to know if she was wet. Under the pad of his forefinger, the feel of cotton was a surprise. The few women whom he had seen in undergarments lately all wore lace panties - cheap lace looking even cheaper because most of these women were fond of garish colors - and the notion Sansa now made herself conspicuous after years mimicking other women - like Cersei and that bitch named Margaery Tyrell - pleased him instantly.
The soft fabric wasn't as plain as he had imagined though - there was something embroidered on it, something that would remain mysterious as long as his fingers were his only way to explore her panties. The moment his hand unhesitatingly rubbed between her legs, he found the fabric soaked with wetness; his satisfied grunt echoed back to the whimpering sound his touch elicited. He couldn't wait anymore and his hands left her lower belly to reach behind her back, unzipping her dress. She didn't protest and did her best to help him, clumsy and feverish: he saw a flash of white as she removed her dress, pulling it over her head, and then she was facing him again, in her bra and panties.
She kissed him eagerly, without giving him a chance to contemplate her but he broke their kiss and gently made her step back. "Let me have a look at you," he rasped.
With that mix of shyness and reluctance that drove him mad, she obeyed and let him study her as she was kneeling in the middle of his bed. Broderie anglaise, he mused, gazing at the bra and panties she wore. Sandor didn't know shit about fashion, but it was one of the few things his mother had taught him before her untimely death: the difference between lace and broderie anglaise. On the white fabric, round patterns formed by embroidery invited him to run callous fingers on it. By places, the tiny holes in the fabric allowed him to see the ivory of her skin; he noticed the rise and fall of her chest, a tell-tale sign of her nervousness and he found himself mesmerized by the sight of her round breasts, as if it was the first time he saw a girl in underwear. If her white, simple yet elegant panties looked almost virginal, the way her back arched was provocative, and perhaps that contrast was what stirred him.
Visibly ill-at-ease, Sansa reached behind her head to remove the hairpins that held her bun; as she did, keeping her eyes downcast, he couldn't help staring at her hard nipples showing through the fabric. When the dull brown hair flowed down her shoulders, she paused, biting her lip. Taking advantage of her hesitation, Sandor pulled her close, ready to slide down the strap of her bra, but once more, she pressed her small hands against his chest.
"My turn," she whispered, yanking at the fabric of his tee-shirt.
He obliged her, letting her remove his tee-shirt, then unbuckle his belt. To take off his pants, shoes and socks, he got on his feet, feeling her blue eyes on him. His jeans formed a heap, not very far from her dress that had landed on the wooden floor. Wearing only his boxers now, he climbed on the bed, facing her again. It was her turn to appraise his body and by the way her eyes roamed over him, he knew she liked what she saw. Her small hands on his shoulders, she drank in his muscled chest, his six-pack and further down the bulge in his boxers. His cock had hardened when they had kissed downstairs and the kind of activity they had indulged in afterwards had made him hard as rock.
"Can't hide it," he chuckled.
He expected her to blush or to roll her eyes but she surprised him beyond words by fleetingly locking eyes with him, as if she wanted his consent. Then, her hand tentatively stroked his hard cock through the fabric of his boxers and all Sandor could do was curse under her delicate touch. His head lolled back before the fingers of her other hand brushed the nape of his neck, inviting him to look down at her again. They kissed, Sansa's hand still moving up and down his member until a grunt deep in his throat almost startled her.
Sandor froze, his lips hovering over her mouth; he brushed aside a lock of brown hair that hid her face and whispered: "Lie down". With his gravelly voice, it probably sounded more like a command, but she nodded all the same and complied. The sight of Sansa Stark wearing only a brassiere and panties, lying in his bed, seemed unreal and he had to look down at her for long seconds to realize it wasn't a fucking dream. He could have pinched himself to make sure it wasn't a fantasy induced by alcohol but instead, he lied down next to her and rolled on his side to trace the curve of her shoulder. Touching. He needed to touch her to convince himself she was real.
She cupped his burnt cheek and they kissed once more; as he was almost on top of her, he realized she shuddered underneath him, anticipating what was next. Fuck. Am I so intimidating? At some point, he wondered if she really wanted this, but his mouth nonetheless made his way down her neck then to her breasts. Her moaning, when he reached the top of her breasts encouraged him somehow and he went on planting unhurried kisses here and there, to tease her. Sansa made him pause to unhook her bra and when he saw her naked to the waist, lying back in the middle of the bed, his heart skipped a beat. She observed him with curiosity, her cheeks reddening and swallowing hard.
"Told you your tits are bigger now," he said in jest, assuming this reference to their meeting in the elevator might alleviate some of the tension. She grinned.
Taking his time, he traced the outline of her round breast, then brushed the sensitive skin of her nipple, before locking eyes with her. A mere nod from her and his mouth avidly covered it, eliciting louder moans; her skin smelled of almond milk. After a short moment he stopped because he wanted to see how she reacted at that. Propping himself on his elbow, he gave her an inquiring look; brow furrowed, Sansa seemed disconcerted - and perhaps a bit disappointed now that his ministrations had ceased.
"Go on," she begged.
So he went on. Licking, sucking, nibbling at her until her delicate pink of her skin had turned darker. Until she arched her back wantonly and whispered his name. He turned his attention to her other breast, settling himself between her legs, but he needed more. When he stopped, he sat on his haunches and looked down at her. He'd never get used to that brown hair she had now, but the rest was perfect as it was: she was slender, with long legs he wanted to feel wrapped around his middle; her round breasts were enough to make his mouth water. In her eyes, he read desire, although it didn't make much sense. Sandor tried to imagine what these blue eyes saw as they observed each other, panting: a man in his thirties, disfigured, with long dark hair tied at the back of his head. Not to mention that stupid, lustful look. Oddly enough, she didn't seem shocked or disgusted; on the contrary, she licked her lips. She must be mad.
For fear that she might change her mind, he leaned forward ever so slightly and placed both hands on her hips, his thumbs slipping under the fabric of her panties, showing he wanted her to take them off. If he was being honest, he didn't know if he could wait any longer before taking her. Although he sensed her hesitation for a split second, she shifted and helped him remove that last piece of clothe. When it was done, Sansa opened her mouth as if she was ready to say something important, then she shook her head.
"What is it?" Sandor tried to keep at bay his desire for her. If she wasn't ready, well, too bad for him.
"I- I had a one-night stand, after I broke up with Harry," she said, ashamed.
"So what?" Who was Sandor to judge her if she had fucked some other guy? He hated the notion she had been with someone else, yet he couldn't blame her.
The way she squeezed her eyes shut made him fear the worst. "It was last year. I haven't had sex since then."
Dumbstruck, he looked at her for long seconds; she was lying back on the mattress, naked, fanning her hair out across the pillow. As silence stretched because he couldn't find the right words, her unease became more and more visible. The way her blue eyes pierced through him, waiting for his reaction, almost hurt Sandor: somehow, with her insistent gaze and her quavering lips, she was begging him not to laugh at her. She wanted him to take care of her: she squirmed, hesitating, then she reached out to touch the burns on his arm.
"It's OK. I'll be gentle," he promised. Fuck. How a girl like Sansa Stark could remain without a boyfriend or a fiancé during a whole year was a mystery. And how am I supposed to keep this bloody promise now?
Lying on his side and facing her, he resumed his kisses until her muscles relaxed under his touch. In the end, locking eyes with him, she guided his hand to her clit. Her determination as she took his large hand in hers, showing him what she wanted, made him realize how crucial this seven years gap had been for both of them; none of them was ready and mature enough for this when he had left the Lannisters. Their relationship would have been a failure: she didn't know what she wanted at that time, and although protecting her was all he had in mind, he would have hurt her beyond repair. Why is it that the worst decision I made, is also the best? I failed her the day I left her out there, but at the same time, by running away, I made sure I'd never hurt the little bird.
Sansa was a grown woman now, knowing what she wanted and how. As he rubbed her clit, mesmerized by the look of pleasure on her face, he tried to adjust the pace and pressure his fingers applied. Secretly hoping that he could unravel a sort of mystery by boring into her blue eyes, he was slightly disappointed when she closed her eyelids. She moaned, threw her head back in the most provocative way and she nodded eagerly when his finger brushed her opening. Realizing she loved what he was doing to her and that she actually needed more wiped away any trace of frustration.
"Are you wet for me?" he teased, forcing a grin out of her.
Another nod from the brown-haired goddess lying on his bed made his cock twitch. Dripping wet. She's dripping wet and that's because of me. She was incredibly tight and Sandor decided he would take his time, no matter how badly he wanted her. He couldn't remember being so attentive to any other woman, but it was true, they didn't really matter. With them, sex was a primal need he wanted to satisfy, and nothing else. Tonight, it was different. In and out, his finger explored her slowly at first, then faster once she started bucking her hips against his hand. If at first she lifted her head from the pillow to kiss him or to nibble at his collarbone - an attempt to share some of the pleasure she experienced with him, Sandor told himself - she soon gave up; forgetting her shyness and her apprehension, she became more wanton with every thrust. She stopped him by circling his wrist with both hands; he docilely withdrew his hand, giving her a quizzical look. Rolling on her side to face him, she slipped her fingers under the waistband of his boxers.
"You know how to make yourself understood, girl," he rasped.
Was it Sansa or he who took off the boxers? He wouldn't remember the day after and he wouldn't give a fuck about it. All that mattered now was the glorious sight of his little bird, naked and blushing on the mattress while he took a condom in the bedside table. Apprehension had come back when she had seen his cock, yet she didn't utter a single word and she lay back. Once he was ready, he positioned himself between her open legs and asked for her assent one last time; a long, passionate kiss was the only answer he got from her. Lying on top of her, he rubbed the head of his cock against her opening, then he pushed his hips.
Tight. Warm. Afterwards, these were the two sensations he would recall. The time stood still as Sandor realized he was inside her. Why does it feel so fucking good? However, he immediately understood he'd have to restrain himself.
"Am I hurting you?" he asked, concerned. Her eyes shone strangely and he feared she was about to cry.
"No." She might be lying but he would never dare ask her. Not on my fucking life. Another thrust felt so bloody perfect he grunted. She clutched to him, digging her nails in his biceps. It's painful. I'm hurting her.
No matter how difficult and frustrating it was, he slowed down until he felt her bucking her hips against his. He might have hurt her, but she wanted this to happen and she was too stubborn to give up easily. Shifting, he slipped a hand under her buttocks and kneaded her ass cheek; a timid moan of pleasure escaped her lips as he drew her bent leg higher. "Now it's good," she whispered in his ear: a belated confession that it had been uncomfortable before. His cock stiffened inside her; there was nothing like the sensation he felt, as he pleasured her.
Sandor went on, focusing on her reactions, haphazardly planting kisses on her face and throat, receiving her own marks of affection with a mix of amazement and joy and finally thrusting harder once she moaned shamelessly. Although he knew he couldn't keep this pace much longer, he did his best to keep in control. The moment her nails dug painfully in his flesh, he realized she was about to come - she's close, he thought, a smug smile gracing his lips - then her inner walls clenched around his cock, therefore confirming his intuition. Forgetting all sense of restraint while she whimpered and arched her back underneath him, he fucked her like he had always wanted to: hard and with a sort of frenzy that would only dissolve in their climax. When his own release came, he felt tiny hands on both sides of his face; she was caressing his scars and his good cheek, and when he collapsed on top of her, far from protesting, she wrapped tentative arms around him.
In next couple of minutes, Sandor was in a sort of haze; after a quick walk to the bathroom, to get rid of the now useless condom, he slumped down on the bed and she snuggled up to him. He couldn't fathom what had happened. I just fucked Sansa Stark. I did it because she wanted me to and she came. The little bird came.
"It was good," she stated, briefly locking eyes with him, in case he still had doubts.
She's no sucker. Sandor might pretend everything was alright, with his hand behind his head and his perfunctory smile, she knew exactly what he was thinking and that certainty puzzled him. Satisfied by his nod, she rested her head on his chest and closed her eyes. Listening to her breathing as it became more and more steady, he thought he would close his eyes too, but he couldn't get to sleep. How am I fucking supposed to sleep after that? He tried to remember every detail of the night until they ended up in this bed: he couldn't. He tried to find a meaning to all the things that had occurred before, even thinking back on their first conversations at the Lannisters', as if these events had led them to that very moment. Nonsense. Things happen. Shit happens. Good things too. Good things even happen to old scarred dogs, it seems.
When Sansa rolled on her back, he seized the opportunity to draw the covers to her chin, he turned off the lights and he got on his feet. Not that he wanted to go very far, but Sandor felt like he needed to have hindsight; he didn't take the trouble to put on clothes and he limped to the window. His eyes adjusted themselves to the darkness after a while and he spotted an owl probably chasing mice, outside. Everything was quiet now and the faint sounds coming from his bed, when Sansa sighed or mumbled something in her sleep, emphasized his impression.
It can't be true. Naked, he stood where Sansa had been earlier that night, looking through the window. There was tension in the air at that moment, when she had glanced at him over her shoulder, across the room. Carefully, he turned around to look at the form lying in his bed, half-hidden by the covers. I fucked her, he told himself. Nothing happened in the silent bedroom. I banged her. I had sex with her. Sansa would probably yell at him if she could hear his thoughts, yet he felt that repeating those words, as crude as they were, was the only way he could accept what had just happened. I've been waiting for so long I can't realize it's true.
As he stood there, blurred memories of his first time washed over him. He was very young at that time and he had drank a lot before, so the details of that night had faded. However, there was one thing Sandor remembered very well: at dawn, when he had walked away, leaving the young woman who had taken his virginity, he didn't feel anything. The night was warm and he heard the chirping of crickets somewhere; his head reeled, making the street lamps threatening, but there was nothing else to say. If he was being honest, that night had left him with a void inside him; he knew he should have felt different because he was a man now, yet as he drove back to the Lannisters' mansion, everything was so quiet inside him he had realized how unmoved he was. Unmoved and hardened. The other people were right when they insinuated he was a monster: his reaction after his first time - or lack, thereof - proved it once more.
In comparison with that night, some twenty years ago, Sandor was now discombobulated. He couldn't understand why he felt that constriction in his chest nor why he couldn't take his eyes off of the girl lying in his bed, but the feeling was there, strong and persistent. His cock had gone soft and Sansa had fallen asleep, leaving him alone with his shitty rumination about his first time and that weird feeling in his chest; he had nonetheless fucked her. Come the morning, he would see in the mirror the traces her nails had left on his biceps and on his back. Amused, he run the pad of his thumb on his upper arm; he suppressed a gasp when he found the spot where she had dug her nails in his skin. She's got claws, now. Sandor smiled at that; he seldom watched his reflection in the mirror with satisfaction, but the morning after he would take his time to contemplate those traces and he would be pleased with himself.
As Sansa rolled over in bed, he feared that she might woke up. He wasn't sure where this fear came from nor why it would be bad news if something roused her from sleep. All this was unfamiliar and the slightest change disturbed him. So what now? Head bouncing against the window frame behind him, Sandor tried to imagine what would happen the morning after and the days to come.
He would cook breakfast for her - with the meager contents of his fridge - and ask her if she had plans for dinner. With a bit of luck, they would see each other and maybe they'd spend the night together. I have to find someone to close the gym when I can't, he mused. I really have to. Deep down, he knew he'd have to change his routine if he wanted this to work, but what was this? Fuck, what do we have? Is it a relationship already? He swallowed hard.
For years, he had thought he'd never see her again. When he indulged himself in daydreaming, he saw their night together as a completion, an end per se: never had he thought it could be the beginning of something. Swamped by events: that was how he would describe the current situation. I longed for her, I wished this would finally happen… but I thought it was a fantasy. I never readied myself. I had that dream but I had lost hope. I'm not ready. Who's ready to fulfill one's dream the moment it comes true?
A long time ago, the man he used to be would have laughed at that and run away; a lot of water had flowed under the bridge though, and he wasn't that man anymore. Sandor walked silently to the bed, careful not to make the wooden floor creak under his weight. He stopped next to the bed, observing Sansa. As he had never found a good reason to buy curtains, the moonlight caressed the covers and her cheekbone. She was lying on her side, her back to him, her shoulder moving ever so slightly with each breath she took. A smile pulled the corners of his lips. He climbed on the bed with a wealth of precaution and he crawled in between the sheets. Mimicking her attitude, he lied on his side; he positioned himself right behind her. Sansa didn't move when his arm wrapped her waist, nor when he kissed the back of her head, wishing this kiss was just the first one of a long, very long series.
The roar of the engine outside woke him up with a start. He instantly rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands, trying to remember what had happened. Oddly enough, the sensation in his head reminded him of a hangover, for it took him a while before he realized why everything felt so different. When he extended his arm, he reached out to find an empty space beside him. Where is she ? He turned on the light, unnecessarily, because the first rays of dawn already pierced the darkness. Gone, she's gone. He couldn't believe it.
As he got on his feet hurriedly, he felt a sharp pain in his thigh – he gritted his teeth, uttered a curse and grabbed his boxers. No time to complain. Against the Elder Brother's recommendations, he hurtled down the stairs and hobbled along to the entrance door. The cold air outside surprised him when he pulled open the door, leaving it swinging back and forth. Sansa's car had disappeared.
She was gone.
You can find more info about the things that inspire me on my tumblr: asimplylucia.
To Anon (guest): As you can imagine, it's sometimes a bit complicated to update on a regular basis when chapters are rather long (and chapters are long in this story), but I do my best… Hope you enjoyed this chapter too. Thank you for reviewing!