"Oh, Petyr," Catelyn said, spreading her hands on the blanket of her brothel bed, and ducking her head to the side "We shouldn't..."
"We shouldn't?" he purred in her ear, sliding his arm around her waist, "And why not?"
He dropped a kiss on her ear, "You're just a little past when you'd need to worry about a surprisingly small 'Stark'." She shivered.
He dropped a kiss in the crook of her neck, "And if you did, what of it? Have a Snow of your own, and he'd never dare say a word, if he even noticed, the fool." She leaned into his touch, with eyes closed and a small warm smile.
He kissed the knob of the top of her spine, brushing the tops of her dress lacings with his slow, questing hands. "Besides," he said, voice thick with heat and amusement, "Who's to know? I'm certainly not going to tell him..."
She turned back to look at him, with a small, wicked smile of her own. "Petyr Baelish, if I do this thing, you had better give me something I can't get in the North," she said firmly, and hiked up her skirts.
He laughed. "Oh, don't tell me the daring Northman wasn't brave enough to put his mouth where his manhood was," he said.
"Ned," Catelyn said, with raised eyebrows, "Took me aside and told me that I wouldn't have to lower myself so."
Petyr laughed even harder, as he slid off the bed and knelt before her. "Well, far be it from me to second guess the Hand of the King..."
"Get to it, Littlefinger," she commanded, "I might as well enjoy something of Southern airs and graces."