Author's note:
Hope you all had happy holidays. Thanks for reading and reviewing.
Chapter 9: Touching
"Good morning, my lord," Betsy said and curtsied when Sandor stepped into the kitchen, drawn there by a delicious smell of fried bacon and scrambled eggs. "Will Lady Sansa be down to breakfast?"
"Morning Betsy," he said, trying his best not to be gruff.
The girl was a marvel and it wouldn't do to make her think twice about wanting to work for him. Sansa seemed to like her and her food was among the best he'd ever tasted.
She was a pretty little thing, about a head smaller than Sansa and quite plump, with smiling, light-brown eyes and curls of brown hair peeking from beneath her neat cap.
"Lady Sansa is still asleep and I don't want to wake her," he said.
Which was more or less the truth. Sansa would probably need a bit more sleep after last night.
When he had come awake half an hour ago with her in his arms, the memory of the delicious fuck in the small hours of the morning still warm in his blood, he very nearly had woken her up just to ask for another go.
He lacked even the most basic discipline when it came to her. One of the reasons he had decided to leave despite not being needed at the keep was that he feared he'd scare her to death with how badly and how often he wanted her. If he'd stayed in this bed, or even just in this house, there was no telling what he would do.
Betsy smiled in that somewhat saucy way she had.
"I understand."
His glare seemed to be wasted on her; she had been unafraid of him from the start. Respectful according to her station, but not scared and she never once had tried to avoid looking at him. He was inclined to like her just for that, it was uncommon enough.
He gestured in the general direction of the frying pan.
"I just wanted a bite to eat and then I've to be off."
Betsy swirled around and ran toward the hearth.
"Of course my lord," she said, while busying herself with preparing his breakfast. "Right away."
…
He slipped quietly out of the house, not before he had commended Betsy on the deliciousness of the breakfast she'd served him and reminding her to tell Sansa he would be back in the evening. The girl had blushed at the compliment, nodded and assured him everything would be done as he had requested.
As it turned out, Joffrey had gone on a hawking trip with the queen, taking Blount and Tyrell with him, leaving him with nothing at all to do.
He spent some time in the training yard, but couldn't quite get into it as he used to. So after loitering about the stables for a while, grooming Stranger and feeding him a bunch of apples and carrots pilfered from the kitchens, he finally decided to saddle him up again and go back.
Back to where he was master of his own property, back to where food, warmth and smiles awaited him. Back to the beautiful woman who shared his bed.
Back home.
…
He surprised Betsy and Sansa while they were balancing on chairs and tables, trying to fix some new hangings to the windows and walls.
While Sansa just smiled awkwardly at him and said they would have to finish their work another time, Betsy made a few thinly veiled remarks about how they really could use a tall and strong man to help them with their chores.
So he quite unexpectedly found himself roped in to hold up what felt like acres of fabric, had then to nip over to the carpenter's workshop to buy a hammer and nails to fix some shelves that had come loose, see about window frames that were apparently rattling at the slightest gust of wind and generally make himself useful in various capacities.
Despite those being menial tasks he wasn't exactly used to, he felt rather proud of himself for managing them with credible success, and at least Betsy didn't stint on praise.
His industry was rewarded with a filling lunch consisting of dark bread with a fine, strong smelling cheese, cold beef and a few apples.
Sansa suggested to take a nap afterwards. While he for a moment hoped she had something else in mind; as he fell into bed, he found that getting a bit of sleep might not be that bad of an idea.
He wasn't even sure he did finish the thought before he passed out.
…
"My lord?"
Sandor groggily opened his eyes to see Sansa lying on her side, a proper distance away, looking at him.
Her eyes looked luminous in the brightly orange afternoon light that shone through the windows, giving the illusion of warmth. It made her hair look as if aflame, a softly undulating sea of fire. The air smelled deliciously of freshly baked bread and something even sweeter, making his stomach rumble.
He chuckled despite himself, too relaxed and comfortable at the moment to be miffed at her form of address.
"This bed isn't the place to 'my lording' me, little bird."
"What am I to call you then?"
He turned to her fully and carefully lifted a strand of fire from where it had fallen over her eyes.
"Don't you know my name?"
She fell silent for such a long time he wondered if she truly didn't, unfeasibly as it might be.
True, people never called him by his given name, but they usually used it to express which Clegane they meant, even if these days there was only one left.
"Sandor," she whispered.
His heart stuttered for a second and he had to swallow a few times to get rid of the lump that had formed in his throat. He had no idea his name could sound like that. He'd like to hear her say it more often.
"I meant to ask you something," she started again after a moment. "Sandor."
His pulse quickened slightly at her careful words. What kind of question would be so important to her she found the courage to ask him directly? She, who for months had not asked for anything? Had not expected anything from anyone anymore. She who would not even ask Joffrey for mercy, because she knew that whatever she asked for would be withheld from her out of pure spite.
"Betsy is pestering me about it for days and..."
Disappointment, surprising in its intensity made him grit his teeth. Of course she asked for someone else.
"Just spit it out," he grated.
"She wants to know if there is something you'd like her to cook for you, if you have a favourite dish."
That curious disappointment still gnawed at him, so he didn't feel in the mood to even contemplate the question.
"Wouldn't know if I had," he said, speaking what was quite probably the truth anyway. "I eat when I'm hungry, I drink when I'm thirsty and I fuck when I'm randy. As long as it's not rotten or tastes like shit, it's a means to an end."
Her eyes clouded over and he saw wetness glistening in their corners when she abruptly turned from him.
She didn't leave the bed, just lay there with her back to him, stiff and unmoving.
Was the foolish girl mad at him for not having a favourite food? Or was this about something else? Had he inadvertently said something wrong again?
He reached out a tentative hand and skimmed his fingertips over her shoulder, wishing she wouldn't still wear that stupid shift and he could reach her naked skin. It occurred to him that he had barely touched her at all during their encounters so far and right now it felt an unbelievably inexcusable oversight.
His hands fairly itched to feel her skin, but although she didn't flinch from him, she was as immovable as a stone and tense with something he couldn't understand.
Once again he thought back on his words and realized that maybe she'd picked up on the wrong part of his speech.
Again.
Gods, why had things to be this complicated all of a sudden? Why did he have to mince words with her now? Now when she wasn't constantly threatened anymore, when she was relatively safe.
Although she was just an arm's length away, he felt as if a vast expanse divided them that he had no idea how to cross. There was thin ice he had to be walking on, he knew, and he was certain to drown once it broke.
He'd much rather stay on dry land, keep things how they had been.
So he just grabbed her around her waist, drew her to him and fit himself around her from behind. She didn't fight him - he knew by now she never would - but that was no consolation.
She was still motionless in his arms, no trace left of the softly warm acceptance she had shown him this morning, which he now craved with steadily mounting desire.
"Don't be silly," he grumbled to her, intent on smoothing the little bird's ruffled feathers so she might a bit more inclined towards what he wanted to do with her. "You know I didn't mean it that way."
She still didn't stir, still was stiff and tense, but with her so close, with her perfect backside nestled against his groin, he rapidly found himself back in the grip of that mindless lust that apparently only she could incite in him.
And maybe, he mused as he let his hand roam over her covered body, maybe that was what she wanted to hear.
"I might not have a favourite food," he whispered into her ear and was rewarded with a slight trembling, "but the hunger I have for you...," he continued, grazing the exposed skin of her neck with his teeth to illustrate the point, making her tremble once again, "...could not be sated by anyone else."
After another tense second, she mellowed in his arms, moved into his caresses and gave a barely audible sigh that kicked his arousal up another notch.
He tugged at her shift impatiently, hoping she'd forgiven him enough not to say no to what he intended.
She helped him getting the cursed shift off her body and he was dumbstruck for a moment when she was bare under his hands, all soft skin and gentle curves. For a deranged moment, he wondered if his rough hands hurt her, so delicate did her skin feel to him.
But then she sighed once again and he surmised that maybe his fear of hurting her was turning into a quite unhealthy obsession.
Touching, though exhilarating, suddenly wasn't enough anymore. He had to see.
With one sweep of his arm, he threw the covers aside, exposing them both to the nippy air, but oblivious to it. The way his blood was boiling, he could heat up the room all by himself.
She shivered a little and looked at him with huge eyes.
Yes, he'd seen her naked before. Seen her stripped to be humiliated, beaten or otherwise tortured. Back then, the only desire he'd felt was the one to protect her, to cover her and hide her away from the pitiless eyes of those who delighted in her suffering.
And back that first time... he shook his head to rid himself of that memory. Better not think of that now.
Because now… now was different. Now she didn't flinch from his touch, now he knew he wouldn't hurt her. And it was only the two of them with all the time they could want on their hands, so she was his to touch for as long as she did not say no.
So he touched her.
Placed a hand on her belly, right over the scar that crossed it as an ugly reminder of what she had been through. What he hadn't had the power to prevent.
She flinched.
He lifted his eyes to hers, expecting to see fear again, the same desperate anxiety he'd seen a couple of nights ago.
"It's very... sensitive," she said as if in apology. "I can barely touch it myself."
On an impulse he could not have explained if his life depended on it, he bent down and carefully placed his lips on the scar. When she didn't flinch this time, when instead she made some very soft sound in the back of her throat, he repeated the action. His lips felt what his calloused fingertips could not: the thinness of the skin that had grown over the gash, the curious difference in texture between her soft, healthy skin and the smooth, taut scar tissue. It was an astounding discovery that his mouth was so much better suited to this particular task than his hands were, so he let his lips touch their way along the mark of her torment until he reached the underside of her breast.
Deciding that exploring the exquisite softness with his lips was still more rewarding than just touching her with his hands, he kept at it, running his lips over the swell of her breast, marvelling at the way the fragile skin gave to his slightest touch, delighting in her responses that were as timid as they were genuine.
Touching her with his mouth had another unforeseen upside as well. With his nose so close to her skin, he drowned in the sweet smell of her and with only a flick of his tongue, he could taste her, too.
He carefully circled one soft, pink nipple with the tip of his tongue and watched with wonder as the skin around it crinkled and her nipple stood erect as if begging for more of his attention, which he gladly gave. Her appreciative sounds were whipping him on to be as carefully thorough with her other breast as well.
She was a feast for every one of his senses, inciting unknown sensations that very much reminded him of being drunk, of indulging himself in something way past sense and reason, but still unable to stop. In a remote part of his brain he wondered how something that seemed rather innocent in comparison, could feel as if something exquisitely naughty drove him insane with pleasure.
Once again she shivered, from cold, maybe, so he moved over her, trying to shield her from it with the heat of his body.
She gave a small sigh of contentment when he covered her with himself and for a moment he wished he was as naked as she was, that he could feel even more than he already did with his hands and lips and tongue. That he could feel her skin and limbs alongside his own, that she could feel him in the same way and not just the scratchy material of his shirt and breeches.
He chased the thought away quickly. It would certainly not serve his purposes to have her see the ruin that was his mangled hide, it was already a wonder she had learned to take his ugly mug as well as she did.
Lying on top of her brought his original purpose rapidly to the point where he felt he could not deny himself any longer.
Lifting himself a little away from her, he reached between her legs to get her to open to him. He couldn't supress a groan when he found her slick and heated. His fingers didn't meet the slightest resistance when he slipped them inside and his cock twitched in eager anticipation of plunging into this damp warmth that he had somehow managed to bring forth without even trying.
She was quiet now and he almost missed the enticing sounds she'd made before, although he might not have heard them anyway what with the pounding of his own blood so loud in his ears.
Not seeing any sense in fucking her with his fingers when he was painfully hard by now, he took himself in hand and guided his cock to her entrance. It went in on a smooth glide until he reached the point where he knew he'd hurt her if he pushed farther.
As he had to last time, he kept still for a moment afterwards, holding a tight grip on the brutal urge to just pound into her until he was sheathed completely, until there was no telling anymore where she ended and he began. Until he had claimed her for himself so completely she'd never forget she was his.
The sensation – or maybe it was just the knowledge – of the wetness between them coming only from her was maddening, as if he was even closer to her now than he'd ever been before. Every move he made was delightful torture in itself, a torture he took great care to prolong for as long as she didn't look as if she minded.
He even somehow dealt with seeing her smile at him as she had that time before, held onto his temper when she stroked her hands up his arms and finally wound them around his shoulders. Giving in to the gentle nudge, he moved closer and buried his face against her neck, her silky hair caressing his cheek.
While his whole body screamed for release, he oddly wished this would never end. That he could stay like this with her arms around him and the smell of her hair in his nose, pretending he was welcome where he was.
Deliberately, he slowed his thrusts even more, while his lungs burned with the effort of breathing and sweat beaded all over his body, making him curse his clothes once again.
Usually, fucking didn't take so much out of him. Usually, he wasn't a panting, sweating mess, trembling and shaking. Although he usually didn't draw it out either.
She shifted under him then, only slightly and before his mind could really catch up with what she was doing, she had lifted her legs and wrapped them around his hips, holding him close in the cradle of her thighs.
As if she had deliberately opened herself to him, he slipped deeper into her on the next downward thrust, almost buried to the hilt. Feeling her tight warm wetness around the base of his cock like that was more than he was prepared for and way more than he could handle.
Sweet agony punched into his gut and ripped a roar from his throat, muffled against the side of her neck, while his hips bucked against her in mindless ecstasy.
Much too late he thought of pulling out but found himself unable to while his release went on with an intensity that blackened his vision and had his ears ringing. His muscles turned to jelly while he fought for breath and his heart laboured in his chest like a sledgehammer.
How was he to ever stop wanting her after this? How to stop craving and needing her as much as the next breath?
And how to explain to her that he might have planted a babe inside her in his careless self-absorption?
Cursing, he tried to lift himself away, but she held him tight in a surprisingly strong grip, winding both her arms and legs more firmly around him, holding him to her in this most intimate of all embraces.
"It's alright," she whispered to him, her hands ghosting over his back, barely felt through his shirt. "It's alright, Sandor. It's alright."
...
tbc