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The carriage was suffocating.
It was an ornate thing, gilded and silked to the point were Sansa was fearful of bandits, but yet it remained a shadowy place, the fresh air that slipped through the covered windows offering little relief.
Though perhaps it was not the air itself, she thought, shifting in her seat.
There was no way to move in the cramped surroundings without brushing against Petyr. There was no way to breathe without taking in the scent of him. There was no way to rest without remembering the feel of his lips, the wickedness done in the past.
She wondered if perhaps that was by design.
“Sweetling?” she heard him say, after she had fallen lost in thought for too long. He rested a hand on hers, entwined their bare fingers together, and all Sansa could think of was the press of him before, the slight bruise around her wrist aching.
She remembered how undone he was then, and something like a hot shiver raced down her spine, pooling between her legs.
“Is anything the matter?” his voice was soft, imploring her to remain quiet.
“I...” I don’t want to marry this man. I don’t want to return home like this. These thoughts screamed out in her mind and died swiftly. Petyr would not wish to hear such things. It was not part of the plan.
It would make her appear weak in his eyes. And for some reason that was the most dreadful idea of all.
Instead of talking, she acted. She turned to him, allowed him to get a good look at the tears in her eyes. Watched his expression shift into a strange amalgamation of concern, of lust, of something she had never seen in his gaze before. Almost a sense of frailty.
She kissed him then.
There was no hesitation on either of their parts. Their bodies fell into patterns well remembered—and oh, how she had remembered. That time in his solar had occupied her thoughts ever since, escaping from the recesses of her mind and coming to the forefront at night, when she was alone under her covers. And now just seemed a continuation of that night, of all those fantasies. The taste of his mouth. The feel of his hands sliding up her skirts. The press of his fingers guiding her into his lap.
In the suffocating surroundings her skin felt like it was on fire. Petyr wasn’t talking—such a curious state for him!—as his lips were busy at her mouth, and then her neck as he slid her into place, her back to his front. His fingers were more than occupied, sliding between her legs with ease, building her to a shameful state.
And oh, it was shameful, despite the pleasures of the moment, despite the thrill she got upon hearing the hitch in his breath. Despite the sharp wave of pleasure that raced through her body at the feel of his cock, bare, resting against her wetness.
She turned to him then, blue on grey-green, foreheads pressed together, breath shared. She stared at him as the carriage rocked, as it grew hotter, as she shifted her hips oh so slightly and gave him his answer.
His hand was ready, fingers curled against her cheek, muffling anything that threatened to slip out as he slipped inside, gentle but with such pain. She focused on that, on the stretch and the ache and the fullness, at the opening of her body in a way she had never before experienced. She kept her eyes closed and allowed him to move, limp in his arms as he took his pleasure, as he made her forget everything that hung around them. And yes, there was pleasure under the pain—despite the fact that she had felt herself tear she was slick around him. Her body was more than accepting, it was needy.
There was something thrilling in that and as they built, as his hand fixated on the nub at her center and drew her out, she was able to focus on another—perhaps unintentional—pleasure. A benefit, as it were, so precious that she did not at all mind to pay for it in this way.
It was that thought that brought her release, that caused her to press down on him and come hard, swallowing her screams into his hand. It was all Petyr could do to pull out in time, holding her close to him as the waves took her. She felt him come against her legs, inches from her cunt, the wetness dripping down her thighs.
He shoved her off him then, with perhaps less care than she would have expected, and she met his eyes.
There was fear there, and anger, but it was quite clear to her that the cogs were turning, searching for a way to correct this. A virgin was to be expected.
She didn’t need to speak. She laughed, lightly, relieved, the tone hanging on the dry air, as she watched him shift their course.