Her puzzlement grew the longer Baelish spent detailing what he wished to have brought up. Had she misinterpreted? Both of them assumed personas merely reminiscent of their true selves, semi-transparent masks which allowed only the most basic, fundamental facets to remain visible. Perhaps whatever desire he indulged in Seven did not make itself known with the same urgency here, caught up in a trap of crystal and candles and champagne; perhaps he really did want to talk, flirtation a ruse to lure in a willing girl, only then to lecture her on keeping up her strength for the exertions ahead. For even though she once demanded such treatment, it struck Sansa as odd the way he looked after her, counting drinks at the party, insisting on more filling fare. Was it an act? Was it guilt? Before she made no effort to soften what blame she believed he carried in the entire arrangement of sponsors. Or had seeing Sansa surrounded by admirers, her time a commodity to bid upon rather than a vast, near-endless resource like it was in Seven, changed something in the way he saw her? Just like his suit, the warmly casual greeting with Tatty, had sparked a brief flare of avaricious desire in her chest.
Was that urge something no mask could hide away?
“I would— hate to be overdressed,” she murmured, voice hitching as he played with silken hem. No, there had been no misunderstanding. Yet for the first time Sansa felt pursued. No matter who reached for the other in Baelish’s living room it was always she who came over, the entire arrangement predicated on a handful of desperate, demanding ruts meant to soothe her conscience. Warmth rushed up along her legs, down along her arms, pooling with familiar weight low in her belly. She could have pulled his hand higher, wrapped her arms around him, mounted him and gotten to the point, but this felt so much better. A process, rather than an isolated event, best enjoyed with a certain deliberate progression instead of a single, riotous act. “I noticed,” and this time Sansa’s voice fell to a whisper, eyes faltering from his to again drift over the bulge between his legs.
Attention was drawn back, a command that, rather than buck, she responded to with hushed enthusiasm. “Then you should have— ” Precisely what Baelish ought to have done about his itch remained unvoiced, hushed with first a graze, then a full press of mouths. If he had asked, Sansa would have crept away, found a darkened hallway or room in which they could hurriedly join. No doubt others already had, some passages invitingly unlit; an observant guest would have seen how pairs, or even more, would slip into their ebon embrace and emerge much later with a pleased flush high on their cheeks.
Lips parted easily, tongue a velvet slide against his; she would taste only faintly of the sugar and alcohol Capitol citizens plied their Victors with, having long since ceased drinking under Baelish’s advice. So too did her thigh yield, any resistance cursory, a mere whisper of difficulty meant only to keep her from appearing too eager. Now that Petyr had established their pace —steady, slow — Sansa found herself relishing its gradual nature more with every passing moment. She mirrored his hold, one hand resting against his chest before slipping up to cup his nape, while the other reached below Baelish’s waist to cup him through fine linen. A thumb brushed over him, firm, as fingers reached to tease lower. It was the first time she had mapped him, certain that Petyr would let her and confident enough not to falter in her touch. A noise half moan, half whine met that first lewd graze through lace. By instinct alone Sansa lifted her hips, closest leg twining with his at the knee. Between them, not wanting to rush, her hand began to move with more purpose, stroking hidden flesh with clear intent to arouse.