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Homecoming

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Homecoming

Sansa is unattended by any of her ladies, when Jon enters the room.  He thinks she might be asleep judging by how still she is, her head lolling back on the copper bathing tub, one graceful arm draped over the edge, and her lashes fanned across her cheeks, but then she speaks.

“Jon.”  It’s just his name, but the way she says it, draws it out, it encapsulates all her pleasure at seeing him, and yet, she says it before having ever opened her eyes.  When she does, she smiles drowsily at him.

“How did you know it was me?” he asks, coming to stand over her, his boots echoing on the stone of the floor.

“Your steps are too loud to be one of my ladies, and I don’t think any other man is fool enough to stroll into my chambers.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

She makes a little noise, shifting slightly in the tub.  “I missed you.”

“And I missed you, my sweet.”  He intends to show her how much.

She barely seems to have heard his response, when she says with brows drawn, “You look tired.”

“It’s nothing.  Just a hard ride.”

Jon shrugs out of his furs, shedding the first layer of his clothes.  It has been nearly two moons since he saw his lady wife.  Due to the length of their separation, he fully expected her to climb from the tub without delay, but she merely watches him, her expression unreadable, her eyes trained on his fingers as he works at the clasps of his jerkin.

“Are you not going to greet your lord husband?”

Her hands run along the rim of the tub, extending until her fingertips can reach no longer, a lazy motion that is accompanied by a sigh.  “I’m taking a bath,” she says with practiced innocence, her lips quirking.

“Yes, I can see that,” he laughs, as he crouches down beside the tub and leans his forearms on the edge, his chin resting on one hand.  “But what’s this?” he asks, trailing a finger through the cloudy water that hides nearly all of his lovely wife’s creamy skin from view.

“A milk bath.”  There has to be something else in the bath.  Lavender oil, perhaps, for she smells heavenly, distinctly feminine—the first nice smelling thing he’s smelled since he traveled east to Eastwatch-by-the-Sea.  “They say Daenerys takes them.”

“They do, do they?” he asks, his finger drawing down her breastbone, damp with moisture, until his finger disappears into the milky bathwater and into the valley between her breasts.

“It’s good for the skin.”

“Your skin’s perfect,” he murmurs.

He would like nothing more than to become reacquainted with it, with her.  He leans forward to capture her lips, but she turns her head.

“Jon, I’m bathing,” she protests, while extending one leg out of the scented bath, one finely turned calf and delicate ankle, until her instep finds the rim of the tub and her toes curl over its edge.

“I think you’re finished bathing.”

It’s all the warning he gives her, before he hauls her up.  He’s certain that her squeal is more surprise than objection, as her arms tightly clasp about his neck and her lips awkwardly find his—a little off center with a sharp bruise of her eyetooth catching his lower lip.  The sting of it, the wanting more, and her wet body against his makes his cock hard.  The fatigue he felt in his lower back from the day’s ride is forgotten, when he lifts her and carries her the ten steps to her high, curtained bed.

He deposits her on top and pulls at his tunic, which is soaked through from her slippery arms and breasts.  He attempts to yank it over his head, but it sticks, making the process a short, unkingly fight that elicits a giggle from her.

“I’m glad I amuse you, Sansa,” he says, when his head is finally free of the sopping garment.

It does him good to see her smile, to hear her laugh, but he affects a stern look.  She squirms away, anticipating the pinch he has intended for her hide, but he catches her ankle and pulls her back.

“Let’s see how that milk bath tastes.”

Jon,” she admonishes, her blue eyes wide, as if she has never heard him whisper anything filthy in her ear.

But she doesn’t fight him when his hand grips her hip.

“Move back.”

And she does—she may have balked once at his attempts to kiss between her legs, taught everything between man and woman but to trust, but she hesitates no more, he has earned her trust.  She slides back on the bed far enough that he can kneel between her legs, her tongue darting out to wet her lips as she stares back at him so intensely that he can feel her desire for him vibrate through him, while he spreads her legs a foot further and slips his arms beneath her thighs.

Her head flops back against the mattress tick as soon as his lips find the soft divot of her knee, her hands lace in his hair as his kisses travel up the inside of her thigh, the rough scratch of his beard already turning the white of her thighs pink, as he rubs his nose and chin against her and kisses and sucks.  The restless movement of her arched, naked body, the mewling noises she makes drive him to nip as much as he kisses, and her hands tighten, tugging at his scalp.

Though she teased him, he has no patience to return the favor with games or delay.  He licks the length of her, parting her auburn curls, opening her to him with a deep groan.  She’s already slick like a slice of fruit beneath his tongue.  It’s the wet, clean, not quite coppery taste of Sansa, of his lady wife—the memory of which makes him palm himself in the dark when he’s away from her—but there’s a sweetness that lingers too from the bath.

She is so lovely, so beautiful, so perfect, and unaccountably, she’s his.  His name on her lips, over and over, as he gently laves her with his tongue is enough to remind him of that.  He craves the reminder, craves the feeling of belonging, the certainty that he is wanted and loved.  Sansa gives him all of this.

She needs the same from him.

“I love you,” he murmurs against her cunt.

His chuckle rumbles low in his chest when her only response is a needful keening as her hips roll against his mouth.

“You missed your lord husband then?” he asks, pressing a kiss to her, sucking lightly.

“Yes, Jon,” she gasps, rocking in time with his attentions.  “Gods, Jon, yes.”

His fingers dig into the flesh of her thighs, holding her to him as he begins in earnest to lick and suck, until her hands fist in the linens of the bed and she begs for release in a tumble of words that are almost entirely whimpered nonsense.  Her string of yeses began as an affirmation, but as he slowly drags the flat of his tongue against her with determined weight, they turn into a crest of pleasure.  She sounds grateful, relieved, and desperate all at once, as her legs tremble in his grasp, and he can’t get enough of the sound of her coming apart in his hands.  Even as her back finally meets the bed once more and he withdraws his wet lips from her, there’s the welcome feel of her fingers raking soothingly through his hair, and he never wants that to stop either.

He rests his head against her thigh, stroking the flat of her belly.  He can’t possibly sate her enough, for Sansa deserves only pleasure and love and gentleness, and as much as he gives, she gives back to him twofold, so that he will never completely be worthy of her.  As soon as her breathing slows and she can stand his mouth on her again, he’ll begin again, and then he’ll bury himself inside of her and maybe his seed will take root.  Maybe he’ll come close to giving her everything she has ever wanted.