There's a drumming noise inside my head that starts when you're around.

I swear that you could hear it, it makes such an all mighty sound.

Louder than sirens, louder than bells, sweeter than heaven, and hotter than hell.

As I move my feet towards your body I can hear this beat it fills my head up,

And gets louder and louder.

The bedding parade wasn't as embarrassing as she envisioned, and she made a point to ask Shae to make sure there was a robe available to her. Joffrey's disturbed mouth glistening as he wets his lips, Cersei's cruel eyes, and the look of need on Tyrion's face was all she imagined. It made her skin crawl. She wasn't theirs to have, and she felt very protective of that. The Lannisters have taken everything from her, and this she refused to give. She didn't want old men and boys gaping at her as many made it quite clear how much that would delight them. She would not let them have the satisfaction. Petyr seemed appreciative of this, and when she shyly made her sentiments known he stood and made a distinct announcement: if he were to find his Lady Wife in anything less than her robe on her way to their chambers, that they would find themselves in one of the seven hells.

She made it to their wedding suite just as he asked.

The silence is deafening when the last giggle of the wedding guests disappears behind the large doors leading to their suite. It's a room Sansa's never been in before being usually reserved for guests. It's much larger than her rooms and much grander. There is a imposing, mahogany four post bed facing a large window that overlooks the bay. She can see the last fiery hint of daylight on the horizon as the sky fades to stars. The Summer twilight casts a deep rosy hue to the atmosphere and it adds to the luminous aura of the candles lit about the room.

Even in these large rooms she felt it close in on her suffocatingly. The closeness of him was all too apparent. She looked at the bed, at her feet, at the wall, anywhere but his eyes. Sansa waited for what felt like forever for him to say something, anything to alleviate the tension in the air. Suddenly, his forefinger and thumb were on her chin gently coaxing her to face him. A heavy sigh escapes her lips as he touches her, and she could feel her heart thundering in her chest so hard that it echoed in her ears. She didn't think she could feel this nervous. Her eyelashes flutter and she finally looks at him under heavy wine soaked eyelids. It just kept flowing at the feast, and she didn't see the need to stop. After all, her father did warn her how fast ladies legs spread when they have had too much wine. How wrong I was in thinking it would make things easier. Even with all the drink, his touch had caused her nerves to shake all the wine from her body and she realized how sober she was, and nothing scared her more.

"All is well, my sweet Sansa" he says her name, barely a rasp.

She takes him in. He is still wearing his doublet, but it is completely unbuttoned, and unkempt. She can see his yellow-green tunic clearly underneath. It's unlaced at the top and she spots his collarbone, and a slight change in pigmentation where a raised scar forms at the hollow of his neck. It disappears under his tunic. He catches her looking at it curiously and smiles out of corner of his mouth, "That's a tale for another time, my sweetling."

She watches him smile and thinks on Loras's lips. His were pouty and full complimenting his deep set eyes and curly, golden hair. Lord Baelish's mouth is slim and masculine and framed by a goatee. She decides she likes his nose, it is sure and straight, and finely boned. His eyes are also tainted with wine, and his hair is disheveled. He is not unhandsome, she thinks. There is something about him that she finds attractive, but she can't place what it might be. Truthfully, she is quite relieved. She thought she might find him repulsive once they were behind closed doors, and that she would recoil away from his touch.

"Sansa?" He inquires again, and his eyebrows raise creasing his forehead with lines of concern.

"I am fine, Lord Baelish...it's just that...well," she stutters, "I'm very nervous, you see. Well, I'm..."

"I know, my sweet," he reassures her. "You don't have to say anything about it to me. If you are not ready..." He means to move away from her.

"I am!" she blurts out unexpectedly, catching him on his arm. She just wants to get it over with. Waiting would be torture, and even though she hates to admit it, curiosity has gotten the better of her. She needs to know what it is everyone finds so fascinating.

"Well, all right." He chuckles, "And please Sansa, I am your Lord Husband now. You may call me Petyr"

"Petyr." She repeats, her mouth feels odd with his given name. It's so...familiar.

He smiles at this, the first seemingly full smile she's ever seen from him. She notices dimples on his cheeks and that it reaches his eyes.

She's interrupted by his lips lightly grazing the back of her hand, and then her cheek, and then...

It's just as before, at first. Dry and chaste, and light as a feather. His lips are softer than she imagined. The hair from his beard grazes her lips softly. She panics and freezes up realizing that she has no idea where to go from here. Her arms are limp at her side, her eyes are closed, and she feels humiliated because she is drawing a blank on what to do next, Do I put my hands on his chest? Should I open my mouth more? Do I throw my arms around his neck? She settles on bringing her hand up to rest on his arm, and he takes his cue, cupping her face in his hands again. There's more of a seriousness to his movements now, and the heat of him rushes over her.

Kissing her once more, it no longer feels feather-like. It's persistent, and as his lips are claiming her own he suddenly runs his tongue over her lips and parts them, cautiously entering her mouth and colliding with her own. Her body is stunned at the entirely new sensation and even though it takes her a moment to respond, her tongue seems to react naturally. Feeling her response, he is more keen. He's pushing into her now, their tongues dancing, and she can't believe this is what kissing feels like! Its rush flows over her body, from her head to her toes and all comes racing back to the place beneath her nightclothes. It's like her body has been waiting all its life, for this moment, and her head is swimming in all the newness.

His arm now encircles her waist, and he gently places his hand on the lowest part of the small of her back. He guides her to him, and she feels the hardness of his frame collide with the softness of her feminine shape. She hears a soft groan deep in his chest, and she smiles. She must say, that kissing is delightful, and she enjoys it immensely. He pulls away stealing her comfort with him, and he is staring down on her, his emerald eyes are glowing. She recognizes this now, the distinct look of wanting. Her mother had told her of the change in a man's face when he is in this state, and she witnessed it mildly once in Joffrey's eyes. But seeing longing on Petyr's face was not something she experienced before, and she cannot believe it is all for her.

He's kissing her neck now, his tongue making slow circles as he sucks on the delicate skin there. And now she is the one making noises, and when the soft mew escapes her lips she slams her mouth shut and her eyes dart open, hoping he didn't hear her. His endeavors have sent a shock to her womanly place, and it creates a drumming feeling there that makes her knees want to buckle. She feels it tighten and relax, and it's so strong that it is almost painful. She understands that need he is feeling, and she is perplexed her mother had never mentioned this part. Now she feels his fingers slowly move from her waist to the front of her dress, gently grabbing where it is open and pushing it from her shoulders. She hears it cascade on the floor, and pool at her feet. The cold hits her hard in nothing but her corset and shift, and goosebumps crawl up her arms. His fingers then move down the clasps at the front of her corset, and with practiced hands releases her from its grasp. She feels the weight of her breasts and tummy, and she knows her shift is see through in the light. Her vulnerability is substantial.

Instinctively Sansa's arms come up to her shoulders to wrap herself, but he gently grasps them midair and brings them back down to her sides.

He has stopped kissing her now, and she can feel his eyes on her. He is boring into her and she tries to stifle a sudden need to run. Mustering all her bravery, she straightens her shoulders, and looks him in the eye. He meets her gaze intently. Then, still keeping eye contact grasps her hands in his own, and brings them up to his chest. There, he guides her to undo the laces of his tunic. She can hear the beat of her heart gradually grow louder in her ears, and it takes all of her to keep her hands from shaking. His hands drop from her and she continues until all the laces are undone and she can see the light spread of his chest hair. As his tunic slips to the floor, she let's out a gasp, and stares, her mouth agape.

What she thought was a small scar on his collarbone revealed itself to be an angry and straight track that spanned down his taught chest to just above his naval. Without thinking, she runs her fingers over it as gentle as a whisper, her eyes fascinated as she traces the path from his chest to his belly. When she first makes contact with his skin, he flinches slightly, but then relaxes. It's unexpected. She never imagined under his neat exterior something exuding such pain and lack of judgement. For it could only have been a severe lack of judgement that earned him this.

Her eyes connect, and he's grabbing her, his mouth is fully on hers now, his tongue violently clashing with her own. His hands are roaming her body from her back, gliding to her breasts, and he cups her in his hand making her grab at his back. His hands continue their journey past her belly and around to take hold of her hips before they make it to their destination on her backside. He grabs and squeezes her cheek and the throbbing between her legs returns and doubles in intensity. It is the same rhythm as the heart beat in her chest which reverberates in her head. She feels him gently go to the backs of her thighs and pulls her up. For as lean as his shoulders and arms appear they are sure in their movements. He brings her legs to wrap around him and now she is looking down on him. Her legs tighten around his waist reflexively and she fears she might fall, I must be too heavy for this.

With this he turns towards the bed, and gracefully walks up the two steps to reach it. Then with, a thrust she is flat on her back and gazing up at him. He is in nothing but his bare feet and breeches now. They are slightly unlaced from some woman pulling at him during the bedding ceremony and from all the erratic movement they sit well below where his hips protrude. There isn't an ounce of extra padding on him anywhere. His stomach is spread lean across his hips, and his chest is compact. He is all lean muscle and bone. She looks at his face, down his neck, and observes his graceful collarbone that spreads out to his small shoulders. He is more robust and youthful than she imagined, and she is happy to say that it pleases her. Maybe my dreams were wrong, She decides.

She hopes that his appreciative glance down at her means he feels the same way. He puts one knee on the bed and motions for her to sit up. She does so and then, he's lifting her shift from her body, and pulling it over her arms. Her cheeks burn, and she feels herself flush from her chest and neck. Her temples glisten, and her palms feel clammy. She feels her nipples harden with the cold, and now he's pushing her down. He sits at the bed's edge, his eyes for a brief second taking her in. Gently, grasping each foot in his palm and gliding each stocking off, his finger lightly trailing down her leg all while looking at her eyes. His fingers again trace a line up her shin, over her knee, to her thigh. He makes soft circles there with his thumb, and continues up until he finds where her thighs form a V. She inhales deeply, and tries not to close her eyes. She watches as his fingers dance over her creases to her tuft of hair at her center. She feels her breathing become more labored now, and she watches her stomach rise and fall. His circles continue, and now she feels her secret place pound, and she's glad she isn't standing. All the while, he is watching her, a slight contented smile on his lips, just sitting on the edge of the bed. While his circles continue and get more rhythmic, his other hand wanders up her hips to her natural waist, and then he takes her breast in his hand, and squeezes slightly. The sensation is obliterating, and a profound moan leaves her lips making her want to look around the room, just one more time, to make certain they are alone; but in this moment, she's not sure she cares.

Her sound coaxes him to join her on the bed. He stands and she hates the feeling of his hand leaving her, and with just the hint of hesitation undoes the rest of his laces, and slips his breeches off in one single motion. For all she imagined, and dreamed, and thought about what all the beautiful knights look like beneath their armor, it in no way prepared her for the shock of what was in front of her. It is surprising, and odd, and she doesn't quite fully understand how it's going to fit inside her. But in a strange way it still very attractive, and she wants to pull him closer. He descends on to the bed and resting two arms on either side of her he holds himself up on his elbows, and gazes down into her eyes. She can feel him completely now in all his slim muscle and the hardness of his manhood.

He is burning.

"Sansa." he says low in his throat. "You don't know how I've dreamed of this." She is taken aback by this declaration, How long has he been thinking of me? Her mind wanders to all of their past encounters. She never would have guessed that was what was going on behind that cool exterior. Or maybe she did notice.

His knees find the bed in the space between her legs and he's gently spreading them with his well formed thighs. He's holding her face with one hand, while his other arm is supporting her back and pulling her to him. In the movement, she feels him involuntarily thrust, and she feels his throbbing hardness rub against her own wetness and heat. Her legs instinctively wrap around him. His lips, are at her ear and he groans again, this time louder. His beard tickles and she stifles a giggle. Now Petyr's hands are roaming her body, from her back to her breasts, and then they are grasping the softness at her hips. He's holding her so tightly, she's sure he'll leave bruises. She can't think straight, every sensation is completely new to her. She has no idea what to make of it, and in this moment she feels free. She is free of worry, and free of the games of King's Landing. She's free of Joffrey and Cersei's cruel sneers and remarks. In this moment, no one can hurt or use her, she feels completely safe.

She decides to let it all go. Sansa let's her worries fade, and she's decidedly ready to become a woman.

He slows, and raises his head slightly to face her, his nose is touching hers, he claims her mouth with his, and quietly says,

"Are you ready, my sweetling?"

"Yes," She exclaims, gasping.

Petyr kisses her again and he's more sure of himself than ever, his movements are distinct and purposeful now. There's a brief abeyance, and she feels him at her crevice, and in one swift motion he thrusts into her. Her back arches and she screams out in pain, but mostly in shock at how her fills her up, and invades her very being. Sansa dreamed about this moment for a long while now, and she was informed by her mother of the mechanics, but this feeling is nothing she could have imagined.

He retracts, and once again eases himself into her, now delving deeper inside her with each thrust, their bodies joined as one. His movements become more rhythmic, and the pain subsides giving way to small spurts of pleasure. She raises her hips up to match him. Just then he lets out a vehement, passionate moan. To see a man in such rapture, so vulnerable, especially Petyr Baelish, is amazing, and she relishes it. It gives her an astounding feeling of power, something she hasn't felt in such a long time that she thought it was forgotten. She realizes why men have started wars over the women they love. We are the undoing of them.

Sansa notices his eyes, the green almost completely vanished, they are black with desire. She's shocked to realize these are the eyes of her dream, But why would another man have his eyes?

When Sansa pulls him into her with her calfs he kisses her more deeply and tenderly than ever before. As his steady thrusts turn to frenzied writhing she can feel him pulsating inside her and her walls hold him tightly. Violently, he let's out a long and low groan, pouring himself into her. With that, he collapses, and she's suddenly conscious of his heartbeat pounding uncontrollably in his chest as it beats against her own. She's aware of the sweat dripping from his brow, the wetness and the stickiness trickling between her thighs. She can feel him slowly withdrawing from her, still pulsating. The lay there, frozen like that, for what feels like eternity.

Then he kisses her cheek lightly, and flutters over her lips and eyelids, to her forehead. He caresses her neck, and collarbone, finally resting his head on her breasts hugging her tightly.

He looks up at her like he's remembered something important. "Sansa" he says, his eyes are mischievous now, and his mouth playfully smiles at her.

"Yes?"

"Would you like me to give you your wedding present?"

"What more could you give me, Ser?" she asks, sitting up now, confused.

"Petyr." he corrects. "And I can think of a few things, Sansa." he growls her name.

He's on her again, this time planting kisses on her small and pink tipped breast. She gasps a loud when his tongue dances over her nipple, and it forms into a hardening peak. He's suckling her like a babe, and she's astounded it brings her such pleasure. He releases her and moves to the other making sure they are equally satisfied. Then he's planting kisses one by one and marking a trail with his tongue over the softness of her belly, and lapping in the hills of her hips. She wonders where he is going as the throbbing returns from earlier. Her head falls back, and she mews for him. The aching is getting worse and worse, as he finds himself further down her body. Finally she feels his nose in the red curls between her legs. She needs him now. Sansa bucks up her hips, and tries to grab onto his shoulder to pull him up to her, but he pushes her away and keeps at his endeavors.

She feels him then. "Oh my!" she says and her head jerks up to look at him. "What are you doing?"

She is suddenly mortified, and means to lean away from him, but he shushes her, the black taking over his irises again. "Now, now, my sweetling, don't you trust your Lord Husband?"

"...Yes" she sighs. She tries to subdue her shaking nerves and control her breathing. She settles herself back onto the pillow, and closes her eyes, waiting.

Petyr's tongue glides softly between her folds, I can't believe he's kissing me there!, she thinks, and then she feels his tongue wandering up, closer to the throbbing, leaving trails of himself behind. Then he focuses his attention to her tiny nub, the one that is throbbing, and she almost screams out in ecstasy as he claims her there. His tongue moves up and down, and then to her pleasure in gentle circles. She's moaning now, she can't help herself. Her embarrassment is slowly creeping away with every pulse, and she's arching her back to rise and meet him. His hands slowly glide up her hips and torso and find her breasts. He's caressing them magnificently, and when he pinches the peak of her nipple between his fingers, she's crying out and grabbing at the pillow, the sheets, anything to crush in her fist. Every nerve ending in her body is on fire, and she can feel the slow building of pressure in her loins. She's dripping from Petyr's seed, her own slickness, and the wetness of his mouth, and she can feel it pooling on the mattress underneath her.

Sansa is surprised by the savagery of it all. It's so animalistic and raw, and she wonders how any one of those "civilized" people walk around in court acting like this doesn't happen between their sheets at night.

She hears a satisfied, muffled groan from between her legs, and she matches it. The movements of his tongue have quickened and her hips are grinding into the bed. There's a drumming rhythm to them now, he's grabbing at her thighs, and his fingers roughly pull at her backside. Sansa, continues the tempo, breathing desperate gasps until the pressure is so intense, so hot that she can't see, or hear, or think. And then there's a shattering moment of release and she shudders and cries out!

Sansa is spent. Utterly and completely spent. A sleepiness takes hold of her, and she relaxes into the down of the mattress. Petyr comes up to meet her, and kisses her fully. She tastes herself and feels her wetness in his whiskers. He smells of her intensity combined with the saltiness of his seed. At first she feels shy, and the rosiness returns to her cheeks. She wishes she didn't have to look at him, but she forces herself to and in this moment she sees his true face, all his masks put away, a boyish grin spread across it, and his eyes are sparkling. He swoops his arm around her shoulders and brings her in to his chest. She wraps her hands around his torso feeling his sharp hips jutting from beneath the taut skin. She can taste brine of his sweat, and smell the pungent, but appealing aroma coming from under his arms. She shuts her eyes, and breathes a deep sigh of utter contentment. Sansa is happy she is finally a woman.

Petyr smiles into her hair, "Did I not tell you to trust me, my sweet Lady Wife?"