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Havana, ooh na-na (half of my heart is in Havana)

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He got me feelin' like…


I knew it when I met him

I loved him when I left him

Got me feelin' like


...and then I had to tell him

I had to go, oh na-na-na-na-na

- Havana, Camila


I Knew  him forever in a minute  (That summer night in June)


Havana, Cuba; 1956

"C'mon," Margaery giggles as she tugs Sansa towards one of the hotel concierge cars.

She's got that telltale wicked gleam in her eye that she gets when she's up to no good, and tonight it's damn near blinding. (Because let's face it, Margaery Tyrell is always up to no good.) Sansa likes to think she's impervious to her friend's reckless charms, and yet—here she is, sliding into the backseat of the turquoise Chevy Bel Air, the excitement of the unknown stifling whatever may be left of her good sense.

Havana nights burn just as hot as its long, sweltering days—maybe hotter. Her thighs stick to the vinyl seat; and as the car pulls away from the hotel, wisps of her auburn hair fall from her messy updo that was perfectly coiffed this morning. But the breeze feels good on her sticky skin, so she forgets to care.

"Adonde?" a deep voice rumbles from the front seat, a pair of smokey grey eyes appearing in the rearview mirror.

"El Gato Tuerto, por favor," Margaery answers, perfectly rolling her R's as she tosses another wicked smile in Sansa's direction.

The driver only nods and Sansa thinks she might have heard him chuckle, but she can't be sure.

"Where are we going?" She eyes Margaery, knocking her knee into her best friend's thigh when she offers only a coy smile in return.

"Only to have a proper send-off on our last night in Havana." Margaery seems perfectly pleased with herself. "You can thank me later."

Sansa is certain that El Gato—wherever—is probably not on Olenna Tyrell's list of approved places deemed suitable for respectable young ladies. Margaery's grandmother is sharp as a tack, and Sansa wonders what sort of alibi her sly friend has cooked up that managed to get them out of the hotel without an escort. She says as much.

"Stop worrying." Margaery thwacks her bare thigh, and Sansa blushes when those grey eyes appear in the rearview mirror once more. "So, you remember Pedro, that swarthy dreamboat waiter by the poolside?"

Sansa nods as she rubs away Margaery's handprint. She'd be hard-pressed to forget him, when she's heard about nothing other than his chiseled body and sensual lips for the better part of the day.

"Well, I may have low-key hinted that two gorgeous, unattached girls might be looking for a good time while he was feeling me up by the service elevator."

"Shhh." Wide-eyed, Sansa shushes her uninhibited companion and the casual way she mentions getting felt up, as if they were simply discussing the weather. Shifting her eyes, she thumbs in their driver's direction, thankful when she doesn't see those grey eyes staring back at her.

"Oh, please! He probably can't even understand us." Margaery flicks her wrist dismissively, then captures Sansa's face between her cupped palms. "Sansa, love, stop being such a prude. Harry is a flaming jackass, and if I have anything to say about it, you'll be getting felt up before the night is through—even if I have to do it myself."

This time Sansa is certain she hears the driver chuckle. As Margaery's hands fall away, she knows by the heat radiating from the tips of her ears, that her face is probably as red as the sundress clinging to her sweat-slicked skin.

Sansa knows Margaery is right. Despite her less-than-tactful ways of conveying her point, well... her point still stands. Harry Hardyng is a flaming jackass. She gave him both her heart and her virginity, and still that hadn't been enough for him. Fortunately, she doesn't get the chance to dwell on it for long, as the Bel Air coasts to a stop and she's shaken from her unpleasant thoughts.

El Gato Tuerto looks as alluring as it sounds, with its pulsing red lights and the heady sounds of Cuban music seeping out from within and onto the crowded streets. Sansa hasn't been paying enough attention to decipher whether or not they've entered into one of the seedier districts of Havana, and she's not offered the option of getting cold feet, either—the car door is swinging open and she's suddenly face-to-face with the owner of those intense grey eyes.

"Si quieres, Señorita?" He holds out his hand for hers.

Sansa reminds herself to swallow. Those smokey eyes are smoldering now, as they travel the length of her legs appraisingly when she sets her feet on the pavement and accepts his outstretched hand. To call him simply just handsome would be an insult. He's beautiful—a modern-day Adonis, with messy dark curls that brush against the collar of his would-be tacky floral shirt, unbuttoned nearly to his waist. She averts her gaze—because proper ladies don't stare—but not before her cheeks flush and she sees those pouty lips of his pull into a smirk.

"Oh—well, hello," Margaery purrs, drawing the word out as she pops up behind Sansa. Her pretty eyes bat coquettishly while she sizes him up.

Sansa is confused to find this annoys her immensely, and further mystified that Mr. Adonis seems impervious to her friend's undeniable charms. He gives them a polite nod, shuts the car door, and climbs back into the driver's seat. She feels a fluttering of disappointment that she can't explain tickle at her insides. But then Margaery is tugging her along again, and Sansa is forced to drag her eyes away from the taillights of the Bel Air as it disappears around the side of the building, lest she stumble and fall flat on her face.

The inside of the club is packed, the air thick with smoke and tinged with the smell of cheap booze and sweat. Scantily-clad bodies grind against each other in a manner that makes Sansa feel like a voyeur for looking, as the sensual sound of the Cuban music pulses in her ears.

Margaery is a chameleon, already twisting her hips to the beat as she one-two steps to the bar, and Sansa has no choice other than to follow or have her arm yanked out of its socket. Margaery props her elbows up on the counter and leans in to mutter something at the bartender. It produces a smile and two bottles of something Sansa can't pronounce and knows she probably shouldn't drink, but she takes a sip anyway.

It's cold on her lips, yet settles in her stomach with a warmth that spreads through her limbs like molasses with each swig she takes. It's not unpleasant and Sansa decides she likes it. She begins to feel herself relax the lighter her bottle becomes, and soon Margaery is handing her another.

Sansa doesn't get very far into her second drink when swarthy Pedro the poolside waiter shows up (and she has to admit that Margaery was right about him), and he's eager to take up where he left off by the service elevator. Margaery flashes her an unconvincing apologetic smile as she lets him lead her into the maze of half-naked bodies pulsating on the dance floor.

Sansa is almost positive that she should be pissed off for being ditched, but her drink tastes better with every sip and the music sounds too good, so she just shrugs and takes another swig. She doesn't even realize that her own hips have started swaying with the beat until she feels the brush of fingertips at her waist.

Prepared to turn and put Mr. Grabby in his place, she instead finds her ever-widening eyes caught again in that arresting grey gaze. To say she's shocked is an understatement, as Sansa gnashes her teeth against the rim of the bottle and sends droplets of booze spilling from her lips. A stream trickles down her jaw and the Adonis' finger catches it before it can slip to her throat.

For the second time tonight, Sansa has to remind herself to swallow—and breathe. She thinks if her eyes get any wider, they might spring from their sockets. A smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth as he rubs the liquid into oblivion between his fingertips, then he reaches for her bottle and helps himself, licking at his lips before they close around the rim.

As a flurry of butterflies erupt in her tummy, Sansa is momentarily envious of that bottle and she wonders what those pouty lips would feel like pressed against her own. She startles from her sinful thoughts as he slams the bottle down on the bar.

"Ven." His breath ghosts across her cheek as he takes a half step backwards. "Come," he repeats the command in English, twining his fingers with hers and tugging her away from the bar.

Sansa stumbles along behind him as he shoulders his way through the crowded dance floor. Sweaty bodies bump against her and seem to close around them as he suddenly stops and turns to face her. No man had the right to look so damn good, she thinks, her head starting to feel hazy.

"Tu nombre?" he asks, then laughs when she just stares blankly up at him. She wishes she had listened when Margaery insisted she brush up on some basic Spanish before this trip. "Your name, pretty girl?" He treats her to the question again—this time, in English.

Oh! "Sansa."

He nods then taps his hand against his bare chest where his shirt has fallen open, and Sansa finds her eyes linger there longer than necessary. "Jon."

He's still smiling when his eyebrows raise up to meet the mop of black curls atop his head, and his teeth graze against his bottom lip.

"Ven, Sansa." He crooks his finger at her, beckoning her closer.

Saansuuhh. The way her name rolls off his tongue turns her legs instantly to jello as her feet move forward of their own accord. She stumbles against him, and he chuckles as his arms encircle her waist.

Sansa isn't exactly sure where to put her hands, so hesitantly, she sets them on his shoulders—elbows rigid, her torso held a safe enough distance away to satisfy any attending chaperones for propriety's sake. But there are no chaperones, no disapproving looks or clicking of teeth—only a melding of bodies and sweat-soaked limbs locked together in deliciously sinful poses, like that book she and Margaery had once found tucked away under Willas' bed, when they were snooping for nothing other than the sake of boredom.

The memory makes her blush, and that produces another chuckle from Jon. It vibrates against her body as it rumbles up from his chest, and her face only goes redder as her nipples tighten and push against the fabric of her dress.

Sansa is certain he knows, because his grey eyes grow a shade darker when his hands slide down over the backs of her hips and cup her backside. Her gasp is audible, but short-lived—trapped inside her closing throat when he hauls her up against him and shoves his knee between her thighs.

She should slap him for being so familiar with her, but instead, Sansa's eyelashes flutter against her flushed cheeks, and her mouth forms a little "oh" when he flexes his hips against hers, and his knee presses deliciously where it has no business being.

"I—I don't... I don't know how—" Her body goes rigid as she fumbles with her words. The language barrier doesn't even matter at this point, as she's apparently forgotten how to speak proper English, too! She's self-conscious as her eyes flit around at the other couples, and even a little envious as she knows Margaery is somewhere in this crowd not giving a damn what she looks like and living in the moment.

That smirk twists at his mouth again. "Shhh." He places a finger against the fullness of his lips, then taps it against hers. "Calla esa boquita." His voice has a huskier quality to it as his finger traces along her bottom lip. His grip is tighter while he pulls her closer still.

"Solo deja que hable tu cuerpo." His breath fans her cheek, his lips grazing the delicate line of her jaw as he rotates his hips against her in a slow circle. "Tu cuerpo, Sansa. Your body—let your body do the talking."

A spark flickers somewhere deep in her belly, and she melts against him. She tells herself it's because she doesn't trust her legs to hold her up anymore, but the truth is it feels so, so good. And oh so bad, too.

One hand remains firmly planted on the swell of her behind, and the other glides slowly up the slope of her back until his fingers find her sticky bare skin and Sansa shivers, despite the sweltering heat. Her hands flex then relax, and she lets herself explore the feel of him too, her arms twining up around his neck to test the way his silky black curls feel between her fingers.

Jon snaps his hips to the heady Cuban rhythm again, and this time, Sansa moves with him—the persistent brush of his knee at the vee of her thighs fanning that spark in her belly to a roaring flame that licks deliciously at her insides and threatens to set her whole body afire. Her heart thrums and Sansa imagines it beats in tune with the music—boom boom boom, it pulses in her veins, and she's sure she's never felt more alive.

Jon smiles his approval as he leans forward. His hand skims the outside of her thigh before falling to grasp her behind the knee, and his smile turns wicked. In one fluid motion, he hooks her leg up over his hip and bends her body backwards, dipping her low and slowly, his hips sashaying as he goes. Sansa clings to him, her hands sliding down the length of his muscular arms, head lolling back and breasts straining against the front of her dress.

She feels him now—all of him—pressing intimately against her as he rolls his hips into her again and again. Her eyes flutter closed, pleasure skirting throughout her lower limbs, and she bites at her lip to keep from moaning when she feels the brush of his lips sweep across her collarbone.

There's a tightening in her stomach—a dull ache that only intensifies as Jon pulls her back up, and the look in his eyes says he knows that he put it there… and he's the only one who can sate it.

She wants him to.

Sansa leans closer. Jon's eyes are on her mouth now, and she flicks her tongue against her lips suggestively—instinctively. She doesn't wonder what's come over her. She doesn't care.

The beat grows faster so that it rivals her racing pulse as Jon ducks his head and laces his fingers through hers. And suddenly she's spinning. Her head. Her body. Her senses. Jon's behind her now and Sansa can't help but feel frustrated. The tension in her stomach coils almost painfully, and she's not exactly sure what she wants—just that she wants.

She flexes her hips backwards against him, seeking relief—demanding it, even. Jon pushes back and she's rewarded with a low growl. It vibrates against the back of her neck, his breath stirring the tendrils of loose hair by her ear.

"Me quieres como te quiero, Sansa." His nose nudges the delicate skin below her ear as he sucks her lobe between his teeth. "Want me, as I want you."

Her entire body shudders at his words. The fire raging within her is an inferno now. It sings through her veins like molten lava, pooling between her thighs, and Sansa thinks she might crumble to the floor in a heap if not for Jon's strong arms holding her up. He threads their fingers again, tugging her arms high up over their heads; and this time when he pushes his knee between her legs, she clenches her thighs around it and rides it unabashedly, delighting in the sweet, sweet friction.

Jon is not left unaffected. Sansa feels the thrill of her own triumph as the evidence of his desire presses hot and hard and urgently against her backside. His hands glide slowly down the length of her arms, slick with perspiration, fingertips grazing against the sides of her breasts.

Hips still swinging provocatively behind her, his hands roam across the flat planes of her stomach, and her muscles clench in response. Down, down, they travel farther still, until they rest on the tops of her thighs—the tips of his fingers brushing against the bare skin of her legs as they move against each other.

Sansa shudders again. She's hot all over and the ache growing within her is damn near maddening now. She wants him to touch her—everywhere. The realization is as startling as it is liberating. (Margaery would be so proud.)

Jon twirls her around again, and she's back where it all began—captivated by his beautiful grey eyes as they rake her body appreciatively. The music has slowed again; the beat can only be described as sensual, and it takes Sansa a moment to realize his hips have stilled.

Jon leans closer, so close their lips are nearly touching—nearly—but, not quite. "Bésame, Sansa," he breathes into her open mouth.

She doesn't have to speak the language to know what he's asking of her. Let your body do the talking…

Sansa brushes her mouth against his. Soft. His lips are soft, his breath is hot. He groans his victory into her mouth as his hands slide up to cup her face, and then his tongue is tasting her. It curls around her own in an erotic dance, thrusting, undulating—like his hips had, enticing her, daring her to take what he's offering.

She does.

The music, the people, the stifling heat of the Havana night—it all fades away. It's just her and Jon, and his hands on her face, his soft, warm mouth slanting over hers and kissing her like no man ever has before.

Her hands are in his hair again, carding through the soft curls when he pulls back slightly and leans his forehead gently against hers. The grey of his eyes seems softer now, as he draws a shuddering breath into his lungs. Sansa wishes he hadn't stopped kissing her—wishes he'd just go on kissing her forever.

"Sansa." His breath tickles her lips, and he reaches for her hand and brings it to his mouth. "Ven, Sansa?" His lips brush against her knuckles.

Ven. Come. This time when he says it, it's not a command, but a question. He wants her—Sansa knows it. She could say no. She could pull away, go find Margaery and stop this all right now before it goes too far… But the way he's looking at her, his eyes imploring, drinking her in like he needs her more than the very air he breathes, tell her it can be so much more than just that… That he wants it to be.

No, it's already gone too far. Sansa opens her mouth to speak and Jon's breath hitches—like she holds his very fate in her small, powerless hands, and he's hanging on her every word.

But she has no words. Her voice has abandoned her, and so she nods her head instead.

Jon smiles. Heartfelt and genuine. Sansa's heart skips wildly—beating an almost painful crescendo within her breast. It echoes in her ears as he's leading her through the maze of bodies and towards the back of the club.

They brush past Margaery and her smitten pool boy. She fans herself dramatically, then winks and gives Sansa a thumbs-up before turning her attention back to her current boy toy.

Jon throws back his head and lets out a hearty laugh and Sansa thinks she might die of embarrassment. There's no time for that, though, because he's shoving through the backdoor and the stale breeze is stirring the wisps of her loose hair and ruffling up the edges of her skirt.

If she thought the outdoors would offer a reprieve from the sticky heat of the crowded club, she was sorely mistaken. She startles as the door bangs closed behind her, and stumbles against Jon.

He turns and his eyes are smoldering again, that sexy smirk twisting the corner of his mouth up as he walks her backwards until she feels the scrape of the brick wall on her bare shoulders. He raises his arms up on either side of her head—barring any attempt of escape, but she doesn't plan on going anywhere, anyway.

"Bésame, Jon." She tests the word on her lips in a false show of bravado.

"Si, mi amor." His voice is a strained whisper she barely hears over the chorus of their erratic breathing and thundering heartbeats. "Kiss you, beautiful Sansa." His brows quirk in amusement as his eyes fall to her mouth.

He skims his lips against hers—lightly, the barest of touches as his hips press her deeper into the wall at her back, his hardness answering the call of the heat she feels burning between her legs. Sansa whimpers against his teasing, torturous assault, her fingers clutching at the collar of his would-be tacky shirt. She slips her hands inside and curls her fingers around his biceps, delighting in the feel of his smooth skin over the chorded strength of his muscles. Soft yet hard.

Jon groans at her touch, and finally relents, his lips slanting over hers with a renewed sense of urgency. His tongue slides against hers in a soft caress before he sucks it into his mouth. Sansa moans, her knees buckling, but Jon's strong arms wrap around her waist and she knows he won't ever let her fall.

He tattoos kisses down her cheek and onto her throat, his teeth nibbling, his tongue tasting, his mouth devouring her all at once. Sansa's head is spinning, her body reeling. She scrapes her fingernails against his shoulders, leaving crescent moons in their wake.

Her head lolls against the bricks as Jon's hands slide from her hips to her backside. Kneading her flesh in his grasp, he bunches up the back of her skirt and slips his fingers into the back of her panties to cup her bare skin in his palms, and moans his satisfaction into the hollow of her throat.

Sansa shivers as his breath paints goosebumps along her heated flesh. He rolls his hips in a slow circle then thrusts them upwards into hers; she cries out, and sinks her teeth into her bottom lip.

She thinks she might die when Jon draws back abruptly, causing Sansa to whimper from the loss of his heavy, comforting weight. Her hands reach out to draw him back, but he easily evades them, then leans to close his lips over her nipple. His tongue wets the front of her dress as he suckles her through the thin material; her nipple puckers and scrapes against the damp fabric—pleasure and pain—like the tightening she feels building in her stomach and the sweet throbbing ache between her thighs.

"Please," she pants against his ministrations when he moves to lavish his attention on the other breast.

He growls in response, like a hungry wolf, territorial and dangerous, and drops to his knees before her, his glorious mouth sliding down her stomach before his head disappears under her skirt. Sansa doesn't have time to wonder what he's about, because all coherent thought flees her mind when she feels the nudge of his nose at the apex of her thighs.

"Sansa." Her name vibrates against the front of her panties, and she thinks she might weep from the pleasure that radiates through her body in droves.

His hands are on her legs now, sliding up their silken length, and Sansa doesn't protest when he hooks his thumbs in the waistband of her panties and jerks them down her thighs. She's barely stepped out of them before Jon's ducking back under her skirt, and his mouth is closing over her most private of parts.

Sansa knows, somewhere deep in the far recesses of her mind, that this is most indecent and she should probably stop him—probably. Her body trembles against his mouth as his tongue slips between her lips to lap at the nub tucked between her womanly folds, and she knows in an instant that she'd rather die than ever stop him.

Jon's hands are on her hips, guiding them, encouraging her to roll them against his face. Soon they move on their own, her back scraping against the brick wall as Sansa pushes up against his mouth, and each thrust brings an animalistic growl springing forth from his throat—vibrating through her body like a series of shockwaves.

Sansa sucks her bottom lip between her teeth and bites down, seeking a way to release the tension that's coiling in her stomach—stretched taut like a cord and ready to snap. She digs her nails into Jon's shoulders, and then his hands are closing over hers. He shoves them up into his hair.

She fists his silken curls. Twisting and pulling at the strands—her hips grinding against his face like she had against his knee. Sansa closes her eyes. All her nerve endings feel frayed at the edges, as all her muscles seem to tighten at once.

Her pupils blow wide as all the tension she feels deep in her belly finally erupts in an explosion of heat. Sansa throws back her head and cries this sweet, sweet release to the Havana night sky, her hips still rutting against Jon's face, as her cry begins to ebb into a low moan.

There are stars swimming behind her eyelids, and Sansa is grateful for the wall at her back, for she doesn't have the strength to stand on her shaky legs. She leans heavily upon it, her chest still heaving as Jon pops his head out from under her skirt and pulls himself up to his full height.

"Mmmm, tan bueno," he murmurs, and smacks his lips before brushing them against hers, and Sansa can taste her own heady tang on his tongue as it plunges into her panting mouth.

Hands on her waist, Jon lifts her into his arms and Sansa wraps herself around his body. His erection is hot and hard as it strains in his pants to press against her stomach, and she feels like a harlot when she can think of nothing other than having him deep inside of her.

There's heat hitting the backs of her thighs as Jon sets her down and Sansa realizes she's on the hood of the Chevy Bel Air they came in. The engine is still warm, the hood hot, but it's not terribly unpleasant. She can't find it within her to care, anyway, because Jon's pressing her down and his body is covering hers.

Her skirt rides up and Jon insinuates himself between her thighs. His lips and hands are everywhere and Sansa imagines herself as a living flame; the heat that had only just ebbed within her returns with a vengeance. It scalds her insides with a fierce, gnawing ache—an ache that only Jon can soothe.

She pushes her hands between their bodies and attacks the fastening of his pants, muttering unladylike curses at her clumsy fumbling. He chuckles, his hot breath spilling across her throat, as Sansa writhes beneath him in wanton desperation.

"Por qué tan impaciente, mi amor?" Jon's mouth is pulling into that detestable yet sexy smirk once more. Sansa whacks him in the shoulder, panting in sheer frustration.

Jon's grey eyes grow darker. Almost black. They spark with a sudden fierce intensity when his hands slide down her legs to curl around her ankles. Sansa lets out a yelp as he yanks her hard, and her body slides down the hood of the car, her thighs colliding with his. She can feel the brush of his knuckles between her legs as he unfastens his pants, and then the hot hard length of him is pressing against her heated flesh.

Palms flat against the hood, she stares up at him, eyelids half closed, pupils dilated. "Yes, yes, yes—" It's a litany that spills from her lips as her stomach clenches in anticipation, like she's waited for this her entire life. This moment. This man.

Jon rocks his hips forward, burying himself deep within her with one quick, sharp thrust. He releases a pained groan, his chest heaving, then he snaps his hips back and drives into her again. Sansa shudders, releasing a throaty cry of her own now that Jon's pulsing within her and chasing away that throbbing, empty ache. Her legs fold around his waist as she revels in the feeling of this fullness.

Their sticky thighs slap together, mingling with the muted sound of the music still thumping in the club, just beyond the set of doors behind them. Horns blare and engines roar on the street ahead—bustling with the busy nightlife of Havana, and the thrill that they could be discovered at any moment only stokes Sansa's ardor. Perhaps she's not as good a girl she once thought herself to be…

Her heart bangs against her ribs as her body hums, and her backside slides against the Chevy's hood from the fine sheen of perspiration that coats both their bodies. Jon grips her thighs tighter as he ruts against her. His fingers dig into her heated flesh so that Sansa is certain his thumbprints will remain for days, marking her ivory skin. She wonders if that's his intention. Something to remember him by… The thought thrills her even as it clutches unexpectedly at her heart.

The need to be closer materializes suddenly—unbidden and overwhelming. She curses the damned detestable layers of clothing that keep her from knowing the true feeling of his naked skin sliding against hers. Arms outstretched, Sansa reaches for Jon and he obliges, his hips slowing to a more sensual rhythm as he leans to cover her body with his own.

His lips lock onto her throat, and she wraps her arms around his neck and pushes her fingers through his dampened curls, grazing her nails against his scalp. He hums his satisfaction as he presses her deeper into the hot steel at her back. Their chests colliding as they heave, trading breathy moans in what little space is left between them.

Dry. Her lips are dry. She flicks her tongue against them, and Jon groans, the pupils of his grey eyes dilating as he dips to drink of the soft sighs and moans that spill forth from her panting mouth. She wishes she could speak—find her voice, and tell him the way she feels, the way he's making her feel, but she's already used up the last vestiges of her courage.

And what does it matter anyway? Tomorrow she'll be gone and this will all be but a beautiful memory. They'll always have Havana, she thinks, unsure if she wants to laugh or weep at how absurd it all seems. She thinks she might do both when she gets back to the hotel, but Jon's face is burrowing in the hollow of her throat again and making her forget everything but the cresting pleasure she's riding like a wave.

"Dame tu corazón, Sansa." Now he's looking down at her. His grey eyes smolder still, but there's something else swimming in their smokey depths—a tenderness that wasn't there before. It tugs at her heart as she waits for a translation that never comes… a slight she forgives when his mouth closes over hers in a searing kiss that's so all-encompassing it robs the very air from her lungs.

Sansa gasps when Jon finally relents. She feels that tightening pulling at her insides again—only this time it's sharper, more intense. She snaps her hips upwards in search of relief, and Jon shudders against her, his breath hitching and his arms shaking as he struggles to temper his desire.

"Hacerme el amor," he whispers, mouth hot against her ear, nodding his head furiously as his hands slip down to cup her backside, just as he had that first moment on the dance floor. "Yes, make love to me, Sansa."

His words pull her apart at the seams and Sansa comes undone. She's trembling now, as her hips thrust upwards into his—with his. She's a woman on fire, swimming in a flaming sea of passion, and Sansa knows she'll do whatever he asks of her… give him whatever he wants.

"Ven, Sansa." Come. And this time it's both a request and a demand as Jon's teeth nip along the delicate line of her jaw. "Ven por mí." His hips alternating between slow, languid circles and quick upward thrusts, he implores her once more, his voice strained, "Beautiful Sansa, come for me."

Sansa squeezes her eyes shut as that taut cord finally snaps within her. Jon thrusts become frenzied as her body writhes and clenches around him, and he's reduced to grunts and guttural moans.

Want me, as I want you.

Dame tu corazón…

Blackness, beautiful blackness. The world falls away, and she's falling—no, floating—shattering like a million little pieces of glittering stars in the night sky. Like the sky above that she cries her release to, Jon's cry mingling with her own.

"Mi amor." He collapses atop her—sweat-slicked limbs and heaving chest. His thumbs trace her cheekbones tenderly, almost reverently, as their heartbeats stutter their way to a normal pace.

The warm breeze ruffles at his tousled curls, smokey eyes glazed with sated passion, and the corner of his mouth twists into his signature smirk as he drinks her in.

It's an image she'll carry with her in her heart, always.




I knew it when I met him,  I loved him when I left him


Sansa rubs at her temples. The dull ache that had started at the back of her neck had somehow worked itself behind her eyes, and the noise level inside the cramped cabin wasn't helping. She shifts uncomfortably in her seat and waits impatiently for the seatbelt light to flash so she can have a moment's respite.

Margaery squeezes her hand and offers a sympathetic smile, but she had way more to drink last night than Sansa did, so she's much more worse for the wear. And in fact, Sansa feels like a light-weight in comparison—an unsympathetic one, at that.

Truth is, her current state of unease has nothing to do with the bumpy take-off, their lousy accommodations in coach (since the airline mucked up their itinerary), or her ever-increasing headache, but Sansa keeps that to herself. And she waits.

Finally the light flashes and she frees herself from her restraints, mumbling apologies and excusing herself as she squeezes out into the aisle. She swears if someone beats her to the restroom, she'll kick down the damn door, but thankfully there's no need for violence as she finds it unoccupied.

Sansa quickly ducks inside and slides the latch, then drops down onto the toilet seat and buries her face in her hands. She just needs a moment to catch her breath and relieve this suffocating heaviness that's squeezing at her heart—just a moment… And she deserves that, doesn't she?

It doesn't take long for the tears to fall. Unbidden and bitter, they slip down her cheeks and smear her mascara.

In retrospect, it had probably been a fool's errand when she had scoured the entire hotel this morning, looking for Jon. Just what she intended to say when she found him, Sansa hadn't entirely been sure, she only knew that she had to see him again… to know…

To know what, exactly? If he felt the same way as she did? If he'd been unable to eat, or sleep or think of anything other than her—the way she had of him—since they'd parted ways in the hotel lobby late last night?

Perhaps it was silly of her to think he had wanted anything more than what they'd shared (or even that she was the first girl to succumb to his penetrating gaze and gyrating hips), and now she wonders if the connection she felt had all just been in her head. A manifestation of her lonely heart… Just a silly, stupid girl.

And it doesn't matter anymore, anyway, because her search had turned up empty, with no record of a "Jon" (last name unknown) even working at the hotel—if the woman behind the front desk could be believed. Their concierge service didn't even have any turquoise Chevy Bel Airs!

Sansa feels like a fool. And in fact, she is one. Her knowledge—or lack thereof—only makes the ache inside of her more profound.

There's a soft knock, and Margaery's muffled voice comes through the door. "Sans? You okay?"

"Yes," Sansa sniffs, wipes at her tears. "I'll be out in a minute." Just as soon as I stop feeling sorry for myself.

"You sure?"

"Yes!" she snaps, surprised at the hostility in her voice as she drags herself up from the toilet to regard her reflection above the sink.

She's a mess. Eyes rimmed red and mascara streaking her cheeks. Her head still pounds and her heart still aches, but she can't hide in the bathroom their entire flight back to London.

Well… she could, but she won't.

Sansa turns the faucet on and splashes some cold water on her face, wipes away the streaks and tries to pinch some color back into her cheeks. What's done is done. And how would they have carried on a relationship if she'd found him, anyway? A few thousand miles of separation does tend to complicate things—and that's assuming he'd even wanted to pursue anything at all.

Another knock sounds at the door to stir her from her thoughts.

"Just a minute," Sansa calls politely, turning off the water and wringing her hands over the sink.

She drys them off, smoothes the wrinkles out of her dress, and pulls the pins from her hair, letting her auburn tresses tumble free in hopes that it will help alleviate the pounding in her skull. She's about as collected as she hopes to be, and frankly, it'll have to be enough.

The knock is back again. Louder. More persistent.

Sansa bites back the urge to fling sharp words at whoever stands on the other side—except she knows that she's the one being rude and hogging the facilities. One last look in the mirror, then she slides the latch free, only to have the door swing back at her.

Yelping in surprise, she stumbles backwards to avoid being hit, her own feet tripping her up so that she stumbles forward instead. And why wouldn't this happen? she thinks bitterly, fleetingly, as she braces herself for the bloody nose she's sure to get when she hits the plane's floor face-first—but then, she doesn't.

A pair of hands breaks her fall. Warm and firm, gentle and familiar, they close around her upper arms to steady her, thumbs rubbing slow circles in her bare skin. She knows this touch—had committed it to memory because she thought she'd never feel it again, and hadn't that been the reason for her tears in the first place?

And yet, it couldn't possibly be… She squeezes her eyes closed, afraid to shatter the illusion.

Those familiar hands pull her closer, one brushing the hair back from her face. It drifts down the side of her jaw, thumb sweeping in a tender gesture as it traces the contours of her lips, then cups her under the chin.

"Abre los ojos, Sansa." His voice skirts across her nerves like a soft caress. "Open your eyes, and look at me."

"You're not really here," Sansa croaks, pushing her voice out past the lump that had lodged in her throat.

This is it—she's snapped. Sexual liberation has ruined her, so that in her desperation, she's conjuring up images of the embodiment of her dreams. This is all Margaery's fault. If she hadn't threatened to feel her up…

"I am," he insists, coaxing her with a gentle shake. He chuckles softly, his warm breath hitting her face.

Sansa sucks in a calming breath, counts backwards from ten, and then her eyelids finally flutter open. Her knees instantly knot as Jon's grey eyes regard her adoringly, his mouth already pulling into that sexy smirk she's come to crave.

She's forgotten about her headache, because now her heart's pounding so hard that she's certain it's about to burst from her. Her palm's pressed flat against his chest, and Jon's heart is thrumming too. He leans in as if he means to kiss her.

A part of her—the part that had been crying her eyes out over him just moments ago—wants him to. But the other part of her—the one that, as it turns out, didn't know Jon the way she thought she did, no matter how he'd made her feel, because he hadn't bothered to tell her—has other ideas.

So without preamble, Sansa raises her hand and slaps him smartly across his handsome face—just hard enough to sting his ego as much as her own. Her heart instantly clenches at his wounded expression after the initial shock wears off.

"Who are you?" Sansa demands to know—deserves to. She narrows her sharp blue gaze at him, refusing to be swayed by his charms.

"You know who I am, Sansa." He answers in perfect, unbroken English, and her hand itches to slap him again—would slap him again if not for the hint of accent she still catches a whiff of.

"I turned the hotel upside-down looking for you this morning. You don't work there. You lied to me." Sansa tries to wriggle free from his embrace, but his grip only tightens.

"I didn't," Jon retorts. His voice remains calm, even, despite the way her own hitches. "I never said that I worked there."

"You led me to believe—"

"I did no such thing," he cuts her argument short. "I simply gave a ride to the girls who hopped in the back of my car."

Something about the way he words it sets the little green monster in her rattling its cage. "Oh?" Sansa quirks an auburn brow. "And do you always hang around the hotel, waiting to give girls rides?"

"Only if they're redheads," he teases, his hand sweeping up her back to grab a fistful of her hair.

Sansa sniffs indignantly, masking the shiver he provokes. She hates the way her body instantly responds to his touch, as much as she hates that the thought of him with any other woman makes her insides burn with ire. "So why were you there, then?"

"Because father insists I learn the family business," Jon snorts his displeasure, as the realization dawns on Sansa. The enormous portrait in the hotel lobby of the handsome man with flaxen hair, the exotic dark-haired beauty by his side, and the cherub-faced toddler perched on her lap, with a head full of silky-looking black curls.

"I find no joy in being the Targaryen heir and therefore, I don't usually advertise it, Sansa," he offers her his explanation. "I am Jon, simply Jon."

Suddenly Sansa feels lightheaded and dizzy. Her pulse flutters wildly as the crushing weight that clenched at her heart lifts, and she finally feels like she can catch her breath. It's a short-lived victory, though, because the giddiness that creeps up on her instantly steals it away again. Jon is not a liar. He's here, and—why is he here?

She dares to hope… but no, she shouldn't… she does anyway. "Why are you here, Jon?"

He releases a shuddering breath, his entire body moving within the sigh, like she just stuck him with a pin and he's about to slowly deflate. And Sansa's own breath hitches, so that the only reason she knows she's still got a pulse is because she can hear her heartbeat echoing in her ears.

"Well…" Jon pauses as he seems to contemplate his next words carefully. "I couldn't help but notice your accent, and it got me to thinking that it's been a long time since I visited with my dear old Aunt Daenerys in London. I don't believe she'll object to me staying with her while I finish my studies at Oxford."

"Jon… you… you're coming to London for me?" Sansa can't believe her ears, and she's not even sure she can trust them, because the incessant pounding of her heart is making her damn near close to deaf.

Was he mad? Insane? It occurs to Sansa that they are one in the same, but still… He didn't even know if she wanted to be with him and yet, here he was, taking a hell of a risk. For the briefest of moments, she considers teasing him, telling him she's not interested, but his eyes are so damn earnest, and his bottom lip quivers the slightest bit.

"Dame tu corazón." Jon's hands slide up to cup her face, and he tilts her head back so that she's drowning in those smokey depths. He's said this to her before—last night when they made love under the Havana night sky, and he hadn't offered her a translation.

He does now. "Give me your heart, Sansa."

It's already his, but she doesn't tell him. Not yet. Instead, she slides her hands up to cover his, her thumbs caressing his wrists, where his pulse is skipping as wildly as her own. She wets her lips and tells him the only thing she can think to say—only this time, her bravado isn't false.

"Bésame, Jon."

His sigh of relief is palpable as Jon vigorously nods his head. "Si, mi amor."

He leans closer, his brows quirking up over those intense grey eyes, and his lips twisting in that sexy smirk that sets Sansa's toes to curling. "Kiss you, my beautiful Sansa."

The brush of his mouth is soft as her lips part for his kiss, and her hands twine around his neck to push through those glorious silky black curls.

There's a knocking at the door, and Sansa wonders how long they have until someone finally breaks it down. But in the meantime, she rolls her hips sensually against Jon's, and lets her body do the talking.



made for me by the awesome Ms. obiwan-katnobi