Much like the hallucinatory parties, swathed in silk and encased in a crystalline globe, their affair felt far less real when pursued within Capitol bounds. While in Seven she might fret over curious eyes and words spoken out of turn, here rules sagged into guidelines, mere suggestions of conduct whose breach would be readily forgiven. Oh, Tatty and her ilk gasped with affront whenever a hair drifted out of place, a blink came too soon or a thank you too late, yet each passing day brought with it a new crop of social faux pas to provide fresh scandal. Sansa had come, hadn’t she? So long as she fulfilled her duties, tomorrow night and for all the nights to follow, then what did a few whispers matter? She hardly thought of them at all, security assured by a stoic doorman, electronic keys, the blackout curtains fringed and hanging in a fashionable shade along Baelish’s windows. A dangerous mindset, no doubt, though one gladly endured to hear him, feel him, taste him.
Obliging, Sansa arched her neck towards an open mouth, eyes lidding, then falling shut. Embarrassment flared white-hot between her ribs — did she seem too eager? But Petyr seemed not to care. Between tense walls a finger slipped in coy imitation of what rested heavily under one hand, coaxing from her a sigh. “If I told you yes, would you try?” A fantasy, nothing more; for though she believe discretion would continue to serve well, in the dark recesses of Sansa’s mind a warning tickled, that they must not strive for more than scraps. “Mm, but I like having a secret. Something all our own.” How easily that pronoun came: ours. In the district it might have meant something, but here, outsiders themselves, such a lexical joining seemed natural.
Disappointment expressed itself in a rumbling purr, displaced hand left to cling futilely at one linen-clad thigh. Without an exchange, pleasure traded in equal portions until each party declared themselves satisfied, Sansa felt vaguely adrift. Parity assuaged those ebbs and flows of guilt, momentary doubts that she had compromised one or both of them with her greed. So long as he enjoyed their ruts as much as she — or, conversely, that Sansa took no undue pleasure whilst he found none — then she could consider their wrongdoing minimal. Besides, the girl thought viciously, none of the men who paid such steep prices for the honor of her company would grant her any such consideration. In her rooms sat page after page of instructions, the minutiae of romantic and sexual appetites for many of the Capitol’s wealthiest citizens; doubtless none of them had been given similar instructions on how best to woo Sansa Stark.
No. Their coin and their standing ought suffice for that.
Gradually she leaned into Petyr, a sunflower seeking that yellowed orb from which all nourishment and warmth came. Atop the bed her hips rocked, faint complement to the steady pumping of a lecherous digit, encouraging without guiding. The softness of Sansa’s cheek rested against his, barely grazed with stubble; a miracle of the Capitol, perhaps, that one’s shave could endure so long. As Baelish dipped lower she knew the softness of his hair, more curly than straight, traces of shampoo and cologne wafted up from his scalp. Despite burgeoning tension in her belly, a calm settled over her, easing the girl closer against him, humming softly as a coral bud stiffened beneath her dress. Warmth from his kisses bled down her mouth, her throat, her chest, until she seemed suspended in a winter’s steaming bath.
“A dove.” Fragile. Pure. Untouchable. Sansa shifted, met his stare. “But I much prefer your sentiment, I think.”
Rapping at the door made her panic over a lowered dress, a misplaced blanket, their whispered intimacy and her gown’s feather-weight leading Sansa to believe she lay far more exposed on the bed than truth would hold. Distraction came from Petyr’s mouth, and his hand as well, almost beckoning the girl to instead shift onto his lap and chase after what pleasure he so smugly held at bay. Don’t move. She scoffed, a weak, half-hearted noise, wavering when he brushed over that secret nexus hidden just above her lips. Disheveled though she was, Sansa found great satisfaction in seeing how his pants bulged, a vulgar announcement that within his rooms the man had found some sort of amusement with which to while away the late evening hours. Only after the cart began trundling in, closer and closer to the cause of Baelish’s lewd predicament, did Sansa think to reevaluate her pride.
Yet it never rounded that final corner, leaving her undiscovered atop the bed. Such a risk — perhaps minimal, perhaps quite real — gave her arousal an edge, coppery like spilled blood, ratcheting it upwards so that even more the food seemed only a distraction. Not even rich aromas of lamb and beef, the crisp tang of yellow cheese and the yeasty bass note of fresh-baked bread, could persuade Sansa away from physical imperative. The fruit, aided by Baelish, made a slightly more impassioned treaty; she was hungry after all, no matter the excuses given. Flowers appeared to be the prevailing theme. Nearest to her outstretched hand sat a strawberry, plump and red and perfectly ripe, stem and collar sliced away so that one could better appreciate its carved resemblance to a blossoming rose. Sansa took it. One bite sent a dribble of electric pinkish-red juice down her chin and fingers, wiped away at the same time she plopped the remaining morsel into her mouth. The gown could not be stained. Her tongue swept out, wiping away the red stain of her lips, cleaning sullied fingers. She even reached up towards Petyr, brushing at a translucent drop just below his bottom lip. “It almost seems shameful,” she told him, gaze steady, “to devour something so pretty.”