She knew that Sandor had something on his mind, but she also knew better than to insist that he tell her what it was. If it was something pressing, he would tell me. He'd always been honest with her, after all - and wasn't that a large part of why she'd fallen in love with him in the first place?
Love. He'd said it to her - finally told her that he loved her - yet neither one of them had repeated the word since then. There had been a few moments in recent days when Sansa had worried that he hadn't truly meant to say it...that if he had, he would have repeated it every chance he got...but deep down she knew that this wasn't the case. He is not the type to say such things over and over again. Sansa also understood that clinging to him and making constant declarations of her own love would do her no good, and she was thankful that more often than not a mere look or a quick touch sufficed when it came to communicating their feelings for one another.
The wind had picked up and was whistling through the tree branches and archways as Sandor led Sansa to the pools. It had been a warm day - unseasonably warm, Sansa's maidservant had pointed out - but it appeared that the gods wanted to remind the Dornish that winter was coming. Eventually we will have no choice but to stay here. Though she was safe for the moment, this idea still frightened Sansa - that if winter arrived in full force, blocking the mountain passes and keeping ships from coming and going, Dorne would in a way become just as much a prison to her as King's Landing had been. The people may be kinder, but she knew better than to assume that this would last forever. The truth of the matter was that as heir to the North, she was dangerous to every ruling House in Westeros...though less so to the Martells, of course. That - and their hatred of the Lannisters - gave her some leeway with Prince Doran. But is it enough?
And how long will it last?
When they arrived at the pools and found them empty, though, all other thoughts flew from Sansa's head. She knew that they had to be careful, but the hour was late and the only light came from a few random torches and from the moonglow shining through the archways. The chance of someone finding us here now must be slim, she promised herself as she removed her hand from Sandor's arm and pushed her robe from her shoulders, letting it pool around her feet. She ignored Sandor's noises of protest as she reached for the hem of her shift and lifted it over her head, tossing it aside so that she was standing fully naked at the edge of the pools. "Well, are you going to enjoy this with me?" Sansa asked.
Clearly unsure of the safety of the situation, Sandor looked around them, grumbling his concern as he finally began removing his tunic. Sansa turned and stepped into the water, which, thanks to the still-hot days, was much warmer than the air. She lowered herself until the water was lapping at her chin, then turned and smiled at Sandor as he followed her lead. Just before he reached her, though, Sansa giggled softly and swam away from him, leading him into the shadows at the far end of the pool, where it would be less likely that someone would see them. She could hear him splashing and cursing behind her. Sansa turned and laid her finger over her lips. They were alone for now, but they wouldn't be for long if he kept making so much noise.
Her gesture clearly frustrated him even more, but thankfully Sandor took the hint. He dipped underwater and swam toward Sansa, which startled her - she could swim, of course, having learned in the godswood pools in Winterfell, but knowing how to swim - especially underwater - was not exactly a common thing. In the work of a moment, though, her surprise was forgotten - Sandor resurfaced right in front of her and wrapped his large hands about her waist, pushing her back against the edge of the pool and kissing her vigorously. She wrapped her arms and legs around him and kissed him back in kind, wondering at the fact that he seemed to just know how to embrace her.
Sandor broke their kiss, twisting Sansa's wet hair around one hand and pulling her head back, baring her neck and trailing his lips down it. As usual the feel of them - the contrast between their good side and bad side - made her skin tingle with pent-up pleasure. He buried his face between her breasts and ground his hips into her, and Sansa felt heat building deep within, felt as if she could fairly burst from it. "Sandor..." she moaned, her voice sounding strange to her, strangled as it was with want, with need. His mouth found hers again, perhaps to silence her more than anything else, and she clutched desperately at his slippery-wet back, positioning herself so that his manhood rested against her woman's place. He was still wearing his breeches, and though they were all that separated her skin from his Sansa wanted nothing more than for him to remove them as an obstacle and to feel him inside of her, truly inside of her...
Perhaps Sandor sensed her desire, but somehow he knew better, somehow he had enough self-control to stop her when she moved her hands down and tugged at the waist of those breeches. He brushed her arms out of the way and cupped his hands around her buttocks, his fingers deftly parting her folds, one of them gently dipping inside of her while another flicked at her nub. The water lapping about them somehow made Sansa feel warm, safe, secure; the feel of it moving against her and between them seemed to punctuate her arousal. She pressed herself into Sandor's hand, and he suddenly pulled away from her with a grunt of frustration.
"Careful there, little bird," he warned. "That maidenhead of yours is too precious to throw away just now."
Of course she knew that he was right. Sansa reached for him, wrapping her hand around the back of his neck to pull her body close to his again. She moved one hand between them and cupped it over his manhood, and she couldn't help but smile when he closed his eyes and tipped his head back, clearly allowing himself to relish her touch.
And then, a low growl rising in his throat, he was on her again, nipping at her ear, at her neck, biting down on her lip as he pulled her hand away and shoved her back against the edge of the pool again, his hips bucking against hers as he held her in place. There was nothing more than the thin, wet layer of breechcloth between his hard manhood and her woman's place, and the feel of it nestled amongst her folds, the friction as he so closely mimicked the act of making love, drove Sansa to desperation. She clutched at his huge upper arms and pushed her back against the hard edge of the pool, heedless to the feel of it digging into her muscles and bones as Sandor drove himself against her. Suddenly his mouth was on her breasts, first one and then the other, his teeth raking their soft skin and biting down - almost too hard - on her nipples. It was painful, yet she would not even entertain the thought of pushing him away, not now as his movements became more frantic, not now as she felt that pain combine with the pleasure roiling inside her, the two crashing together and bringing her to a peak the likes of which she would swear she'd never felt before.
Sandor clearly had his release just moments after Sansa shuddered her own. It was as if he felt her pulse against him, she realized - no sooner had she clenched her jaw and dug her nails into his skin to keep herself from crying out in pleasure than she felt him go suddenly still, and then jerk his hips upward once, twice, thrice, fast and hard, before allowing himself a low groan and relaxing his hold on her. He pressed his forehead against hers, their lips brushing against each other. "This can't keep happening," he mumbled. "I don't know how I'm holding myself back...and we're not being...discreet...enough."
"I know," Sansa sighed in agreement, running her fingers through his hair and burying her face against his neck. She wanted more than anything to remind him that it was very likely that the Martells would quite enjoy helping her prove that she was a maid and then annulling her marriage to Tyrion, thus leaving her free to wed again...but she was afraid that he would pull away from her a second time, thinking that in doing so he was protecting her more than he could by being at her side. No, she would have to wait until someone else suggested such a thing, preferably in his presence.
She would have to hope that someone here in Dorne - preferably Prince Doran - would see the opportunity of assisting her and also rendering her next to powerless by dividing her from the Lannisters and then by wedding her to someone of no consequence. She had somehow been able to say the proper things at the proper times - been able to play the game, as it were - this past month or so...but the true question was, how far could she take it?