There is nothing that tastes quite so good to Margaery as Sansa does.
Every time they retire to the refreshing cool of Margaery's chambers, every time she sets to work peeling away the layers of damask and silk and linen, it's like the first time. As thrilling. In her sixteen years, Margaery's had more than half a dozen girls in her bed, and none, none, compare to this shy beauty of a northerner.
That handmaiden of Sansa's keeps her always wrapped up in long sleeves and heavy scarves (not that Margaery can blame her – an orphaned girl in a court like this?). When Margaery lifts the scarf away, takes hold of the lapels of her dress to pull them gently apart, the sight of all that creamy pale, virgin-soft skin makes her feel dizzy. It's pure instinct to duck her head and kiss her way from the arc of Sansa's throat, along her freckled shoulders, and then down. Down to where the swell of her breasts disappears under the ivory corset.
Sansa lets out a little mewl as Margaery slides a hand up to gently, gently cup her breast. Fingers card through Margaery's hair, and she squeezes down, nips with her teeth.
"Ah –" Sansa's breath catches, and then she says, low and raw, "Please. Margaery, please."
And by the old gods and the new, how is Margaery supposed to resist that?
She reaches around to Sansa's back, to unlace her corset, and fumble, as though Margaery's some clumsy, clueless stable-boy. But she's just – she needs, needs so badly to touch, to taste, and she feels feverish with it. Drunk. Damn it all.
But then she has it, the ribbon sliding through her fingers, the edges of the corset coming apart, and it's like a miracle. It's like a miracle the way she pulls the corset down, and then Sansa's sighing, her breasts bared and beautiful, full and rich, and how she tastes, almond and vanilla, how her nipple is at once hard and delicate. Margaery flicks at it with her tongue, suckles, and Sansa moans, low and long, fingers running through Margaery's hair, twisting, tugging. When Margaery bites down, her back arches, shoulder blades working against the flat of Margaery's palms.
"Oh – yes, that's it, yes – "
Sansa grabs at Margaery's shoulders, her waist, pulls her from the chaise where they were sitting side-by-side, to kneel in front of Sansa, between her legs, knees on the cool mosaic floor. One slippered foot lifts to press at the small of Margaery's back. She's – seven hells, she's so responsive, squirming and shifting at every flick of Margaery's tongue, a world away from her usual marble-steady court composure.
Hands are cradling Margaery's head, kneading at the back of her neck, the join of her shoulder. It makes her want to purr like a cat at the petting – Sansa's fingers are so deft, so clever. Know her body so well. She remembers the last time they did this, biting at her own wrist to stifle the shout as she came and came and came, Sansa's long harpist's fingers buried inside Margaery and twisting just so. Even the memory makes her moan softly, hips rocking of their own accord.
As if in answer, Sansa lets out a high, breathy gasp, and tries to wrap her other leg around Margaery, to pull her in tight. To get them close enough that they can rub up on each other. They've done that before, frantic and fevered and desperate, so un-maidenly and wanton it was delicious, no finesse to it at all. And Margaery's touched herself to those memories many a night, but she can taste Sansa's sweet skin, smell the sweat on her, a savoury counterpoint, and she wants more. Needs it.
When she lifts her head, draws back a little, Sansa makes a wordless whine of protest, tries to tug her back down. The sight of her lover's nipple, swollen and blushing red, almost tempts Margaery, but she has a greater prize in store.
She brushes Sansa's teat with the pad of her thumb. "Oh, sweeting, hush. I'll take care of you, don't worry."
And she curls the fingers of her other hand around Sansa's slim ankle. Slides that hand up her calf, to the knee, bringing the heavy purple folds of Sansa's skirts with it. Margaery smirks as her fingers ghost along the inside of Sansa's thigh, and Sansa gasps, bites her lip.
"Come on – come on, Margaery, don't tease me!" Sansa's voice slides into a child's petulant whine, and Margaery pinches her leg playfully.
Pushing aside the layers of silk underskirts, Margaery says, low and honeyed, "You should know by now I never tease." Her searching fingertips find that place between Sansa's thighs, brush against the familiar heat of her. When she doesn't move her hand, Sansa jerks her hips forward, trying to fuck herself on Margaery's fingers. She's slick, damp with desire before she's even been touched, and pride coils hot in Margaery's gut. "So very wet," she murmurs.
And Sansa wraps those clever fingers around Margaery's wrist, tries to pull her hand to where she wants it. "For you," she breathes. When Margaery looks up, she sees her lover is pink all the way up to the roots of her auburn hair and down her neck, a flush spreading out along the wings of her collarbones. Her eyes are heavy-lidded, hooded with lust.
It's a good look for Sansa.
"You're going to be even more wet by the time I'm through with you," Margaery tells her, and before Sansa has time to reply, ducks down to bury her head beneath all those skirts.
The hair between Sansa's legs is a deeper, fiercer shade of red than that on her head. Red like a flame, one Margaery is drawn to like a moth. She runs her fingers through it gently, slides them down and pulls apart Sansa's lips. Takes a moment to breath in the raw, rich smell of her, the musk so strong here, almost overpowering.
Then she darts her tongue over the pink nub of Sansa's clit, smiles as her breath catches, shocked. The second lick is firmer, and this time Sansa groans, her legs falling further apart as she bucks her hips up. And then it's on. Margaery sets up a pace, swirling her tongue from side to side, lapping at Sansa as though she were a shaved ice cone, the only relief on a sweltering summer day. And Sansa matches it, holding Margaery's hair back from her face as she snaps her hips in time to the rhythm of Margaery's tongue.
She's making this high, wordless noise, her breathing heavy and loud, hands clenching and unclenching in Margaery's hair. Close. They've only been at this a matter of weeks – time stolen in between the planning of weddings and carefully chaperoned dances – but from the very first, they were like two musicians playing from the same sheet, falling into synchronicity as though born to it. And now Margaery knows all of Sansa's tells, the way she runs her tongue over the plush of her lips when she's thinking of Margaery during needlework or at the high table, the way she looks when she's been kissed. The way she sounds when she's about to fall off the edge.
Without warning, without hesitating in the hungry motion of her tongue, Margaery slips two fingers inside of Sansa. Buries them up to the knuckle, and presses, presses against the place she knows waits for her there.
That's all it takes.
Sansa's hips give one wild buck, and Margaery feels the inner walls of her clench down like a vice, again and again. She gasps, "Fuck," as though it's been punched out of her, and Margaery moans against her, aroused beyond bearing at the sound of profanity from such a sweet mouth.
This girl could be the death of her. Margaery wouldn't even care.
She's all set to keep on going – to keep on going with her mouth and her fingers until Sansa comes over and over, until she's strung out and exhausted and speechless from it. But then Sansa's tugging at her, hands at her chin, urging her up.
The moment Margaery lifts her head, she's being kissed. Sansa's still trembling from the aftershocks, and her kiss is all passion and no technique, sealing her lips to Margaery's, tongue surging forward and fucking into her mouth. Desperate to taste herself, Margaery realises, and moans. She cups Sansa's heavy naked breasts, thumbs over the nipples, tight in readiness for her, hard against the silk-softness of her flesh.
When Sansa breaks off and presses their foreheads together, they're both breathing hard. "Get on the bed," she tells Margaery, panting. "I owe you a favour, my lady."