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those who wait

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Few things she’s ever done have been as wrong as this.

She’d wanted to do something more wrong, had wanted him to fuck her, wanted his cock inside her to drive off the memory of every other man who’d forced his touch on her. She wants to be fucked by someone who truly loves her, but though Jon may play at kissing and touching with her, some lines are still too heavy to be crossed and he had refused. It had cost him, the look on his face painful, but he had refused.

His restraint has its limits, though, it seems. She can hear him breathe heavy and rough beside her, hears the soft moan in the back of his throat when she works herself lower on the bed and spreads her knees, dipping her fingers into the wetness that’s already collected to rub them slick and smooth over herself. The jagged edge of his breathing excites her in a way she didn’t expect, it goads her into even greater shamelessness. She revels in his anguished sound when she arches her back and tilts her head to the mattress, in his whimper when she gives a moan of her own. His whimper turns into a pained whine and his eyes on hers are hot enough to scorch her skin when she curls two fingers into herself, says, “I wish these were your fingers, Jon, I wish it were your cock.”

“That’s it,” he says when her hand begins to move faster and more erratically. “That’s it, sweetheart, there’s a good girl. Good girl, gods, Sansa, that’s my good girl, so good, you would feel so good.” A bolt of heat shoots through her when she realizes his hand is rubbing over himself through his breeches. She would have thought that touching herself under his gaze would be the most potent part of this, seeing him touch himself, but it’s looking in his eyes that has her truly growing desperate and urgent, it’s seeing the heat and desire and love there, for her, all for her. She wants to laugh at how he won’t give her his cock when this is far more intimate, but it’s all she can do to breathe.

“Come on, sweet girl,” he rumbles, his voice vibrating through her and making her skin feel like it’s shrinking. “Gods, you’ve the prettiest cunt, if I could I would sup on for it every meal, I would never taste anything else. Show me, sweetheart. Show me your sweet cunt, I want to see you frig yourself for me.” Her body responds to his words without even a conscious thought from her, her knees dropping wide to her sides, one bumping up against him, his hand moving over himself rubbing against her thigh. His knuckles bump against her, he leans close enough that she feels his breath warm and wet on her cheek, could count the flecks of gold in his eyes. She wants to lick into his mouth, wants to climb inside his skin, but it would mean taking her eyes from his and that she doesn’t want.

“Jon,” she pants, writhing under her hand, moving so gracelessly that she can scarce believe herself. “Jon, I’m-”

“Yes, gods, yes, there’s my girl, Sansa, come sweet for me, let me see your pleasure.” As if it had been waiting for his permission, Sansa’s body jerks, her hips snapping up uncontrollably as her release breaks through her like a wave. A choked cry wrenches itself from her lips, and the pleasure that takes her is so strong that she has to close her eyes, losing his gaze. She hears him groan with his own release, feels it spread hot and wet through the cloth of his breeches where it touches her now limp thigh. “Sansa,” he whispers against her hair. “Sweetest Sansa, my beautiful girl, I will remember you like this until I die.”

She does not say to him what she thinks, which is that she intends to give him far more to remember than this. His honor is a living thing, she’s learned, and it must be coaxed just as he coaxed her, it must be tamed like a wild animal. So she only relaxes against him, curls her body to his, heedless of the mess of their shared releases, not caring that she’s sweaty and disheveled. She only cares that he’s here with her. If this is all he’ll give her for now, it’s all right. The one thing Sansa has learned better than anything is patience.