Author's Note: This chapter is intended for mature readers only. Happy reading!
The kiss was soft at first.
Hesitant, almost.
Sansa moaned impatiently and pulled him closer, tangling her hands in his hair.
And Tormund responded in kind, lifting her up off of her feet and carrying her the short distance to his bed.
He laid her down gently and climbed on top of her, not stopping for a moment, his mouth hot and insistent on hers. His beard was rough against the soft skin of her face and neck, and his hands were busy with the laces of her dress.
She gasped when his lips found the soft hollow of her throat and traveled lower.
She called out his name, then, and Tormund pulled back from her and looked down into her face.
His hazel eyes were dazed and proud and also a little unsure.
No one had ever looked at her that way before, she realized.
Like they couldn't tell if she were alive or a dream.
He cupped her face possessively in his hands.
"Say it again."
"What?" she asked breathlessly, her eyes searching his.
"My name. I want to hear you say it again."
"Tormund?"
"Aye?"
"Shut up and kiss me already."
And he laughed then, that great booming laugh that she loved, and reclaimed her mouth with his.
She pulled off his heavy layer of furs, and the light linen tunic he wore underneath, and ran her hands down his bare chest.
He was more heavily muscled than she'd expected. His torso was long and lean and scarred. There was a tattooed marking on his chest, on the space above his heart, and she kissed the skin there, running her tongue along it lightly.
He moaned and pulled her up into a seated position, and onto his lap, and she wrapped her legs around his waist. She kissed the skin of his neck, climbing higher until she reached his earlobe. She gave it a playful bite.
He took her face in his hands then and kissed her hungrily.
When she bit his lip he moaned and pulled back.
She waited. Impatiently patient.
"Gods, Sansa, you're making me crazy," he said.
And he looked crazed. His eyes on her face were wild and hungry.
She could see a war raging in his eyes.
He wanted her. But there was something else too.
Her dress had slipped off her shoulder and Tormund nipped the bare skin there tenderly with his teeth.
Then he moved her off of his lap gently, leaving her feeling curiously bereft.
"I'm trying to be calm," he told her, running a hand through his untidy hair.
"Why?" she asked.
She didn't want him calm. She wanted him wild and fierce. Possessive and protective. She wanted him to kiss her and never stop.
There were a few inches of space between them and she longed to lean in and close the distance.
Tormund looked at her but didn't say anything. She'd never seen him so unsure before.
"Tormund?"
He got up from the bed then and paced to the window.
He turned back and looked at her, his face troubled.
"Look at you," he said.
Like that explained anything at all.
Sansa settled back against the head of the bed. The sunlight trickling around the edges of the curtains was warm and soft on her face. And the pillows smelled of him.
He was torn and she was content.
"Are you afraid of me?" she asked him, realization dawning on her all at once.
"Me? Afraid of you? He laughed, but it wasn't convincing. "Shouldn't it be the other way around, girl?"
When she didn't answer, he continued, his voice low and impassioned.
"Sansa, I was killing dead men north of the Wall when you were just a little girl playing with dolls. I've stolen, and raided, and murdered. I've seen things that you couldn't even dream up in your worst nightmares."
"Stop trying to scare me," she warned him. "It isn't working. I've known bad men, Tormund, and you aren't one of them."
Ramsay's face filled her mind unbidden and she shuddered, wrapping her arms around her legs and hugging herself tightly.
Sometimes, it seemed like all she knew were bad men. Couldn't Tormund see that?
She felt the bed creak under his weight when Tormund settled beside her, but she didn't look at him. She was angry now. Angry at him and angry at herself.
"Sansa, look at me," Tormund said.
She refused.
He reached out and gently lifted her chin up so that she was looking into his face.
His eyes on hers were fierce.
"I would have ripped him apart with my bare hands," he told her. "Before I let him hurt you."
She reached out then, and placed her right hand on the skin above his heart, which beat a steady rhythm against her palm. Unbidden, a smile tugged at her lips.
"Do you swear?"
Tormund covered her hand with his and his eyes on her face were warm and true.
"Aye, girl. I swear it. No one will hurt you again, so long as there is breath in my body."
His heart was beating faster now under her hand and his gaze didn't waver as she climbed over top of him and settled back onto his lap, her legs straddling him.
She smiled then. Slowly. Triumphantly. And placed a chaste kiss underneath his earlobe, allowing him to feel her pressed against him for a moment.
When she drew back, his eyes followed her longingly.
"Tell me Tormund Giantsbane," she said, seated on his lap, with her shoulders bare and her hair falling around her in a glorious tangle. "Are all wildling men so slow to make love to their women?"
He fell on her then, hungrily, his mouth urgent against hers, one hand snaking around her waist to pull her harder against him, the other cupping her breast until she moaned against his fevered lips.
Tormund shifted their position, flipping her over as though she weighed nothing at all, and settling her back against the bed with him on top.
Instinctively, she parted her legs, allowing him to settle between them, and Tormund ran his hand up up up. From her ankle to her calf to her thigh and then higher.
Sansa gasped at the sensation of his fingers on her, moaning and letting her head fall back on the pillow, as he sucked on the soft skin of her neck.
He put a hand over her mouth to quiet her.
And she was glad of it a moment later when a knock sounded at his door.
Tormund pulled back from her. Eyes momentarily glazed with lust. He shook his head and some of their clarity returned. Now, he only looked angry.
Sansa could hardly guess what her own expression looked like.
Terrified most likely.
But more for him than for herself.
She'd be disgraced true, but he could be killed, depending on who was waiting outside.
"What?" he bellowed, pulling a knife from his boot.
The door began to creak open.
"Get the fuck away from that door!" Tormund roared.
And whoever it was retreated hastily, the door banging on its hinges, before closing again.
"Tormund," a vaguely familiar voice called from the other side. "It's Davos. Jon wants to talk to you."
Tormund groaned quietly and laid his head face down in the crook of her neck.
"I swear I'm going to kill your brother," he muttered into her hair.
If she wasn't so afraid of being caught, she would have laughed.
"Go," she urged him.
He looked at her then.
To stop was unthinkable.
Not to stop was impossible.
"Tonight," she promised him in a whisper. "I'll come to you tonight."
"You'd better," he said. "Or I'll come find you."
Sansa smiled. "Go," she said again.
And so he stood, pulling on his furs. He gave her one last lingering look before he stepped out into the hall, careful not to open the door wide enough to expose her.
After he was gone, Sansa put her hands over her eyes and groaned.
She was alone in his room. In his bed. In sheets that smelled like him.
She lifted her fingertips to her swollen lips.
What was she doing?
She'd never felt so alive or so foolish.
He'd practically admitted that he cared for her. He certainly felt protective of her, at the very least.
But how did she feel about him?
She sat up in the bed and adjusted her dress from where it had slipped on her shoulders, retying her laces as best she could, before crossing to the window. In a thoughtless instant, she almost pushed back the curtains to look over the grounds before she realized what a mistake that could be.
Littlefinger already wanted Tormund dead just for looking at her. For touching her face. If he'd known what had just occurred between them—what she'd promised him tonight—he wouldn't hesitate to order his death.
Her very presence here endangered him.
She crossed to the door and pressed her ear against the smooth wood, listening for sounds in the hall. Her heart was pounding a jagged tempo in her chest as she waited. When she was certain it was clear, she peeked her head out of the door, looking up and down the hall before stepping out and shutting the door quietly behind her.
She was halfway down the hall before her chest loosened enough to breath naturally, and nearly back to her own rooms before her heart stopped hammering.
"Could she really come to him tonight?" Sansa wondered. And more importantly, could she even stay away?