In the wake of her parents’ deaths Sansa largely ignored whispers. Men put forth a hundred theories as to precisely how they suffered such terrible accidents; alongside such stories came questions: what was said, who took insult, and were their remaining children safe? Listening filled no larders and resurrected no ghosts. Wagging tongues served only to keep open wounds which required healing, endless speculation leaving she and her brother trapped in an fruitless cycling of — what if? Willful deafness would not serve her near so well in the Capitol, a city that thrived upon the exchange of information. More valuable than gold, more powerful than any weapon, each moment Sansa spent unaware of rumor, unconcerned with its cultivation or extermination, was a moment in which all she held dear lay vulnerable. What her mentor assumed with frightening perception the girl could not yet imagine; that a series of people could somehow conspire to expose her affair seemed an impossible series of coincidences, rather than common practice. It was in part why she wished to maintain her acquaintance with Baelish, going so far as to manipulate both their vulnerabilities through sex, simply to ensure neither could step away with ease. Perhaps in time his perception would become hers; Sansa did possess the raw makings of a perceptive, political creature like her mentor, yet still she clung to a haughty derision of all such machinations.
Besides, by this time tomorrow everyone would know she succumbed to the same arrangements, spread her legs for whichever wealthy friend or patron of the Capitol took a fancy to the ruby-haired swan. Even had Sansa presupposed discovery of her visit, surely she would have greeted the possibility with a snide, jaded acceptance.
For now, however, anticipation hummed in her belly. By far this stood as the longest they had gone — in private — without conceding fully to a carnal imperative. Flirtation, teasing, those long, hungry stares at flesh each had touched before yet now merely lusted after culminated in nothing more than electric brushes of skin. Oh, the drop of juice had lingered by his mouth, though it was not unseemly. Sansa wished only for an excuse to draw him back in, remind Petyr that hands and mouths and hips all worked together to make his invitation worth extending, worth accepting. Should the schedule hold true then she had less than a day to determine how best one ought woo a wealthy beau, yet she wasn’t practicing on Petyr. Indeed, anything that might appeal to her myriad admirers Sansa had no intention of indulging with him.
A blackberry pinched between thumb and fore kept her from refusing so intimate an advance. No matter that she now sat higher than him, that Baelish genuflected before parted thighs, still Sansa felt as though he maintained utter control. Knowledge of sex derived itself from two wholly separate realms — the mechanics taught fleetingly in school, and the romance she extracted from stories. Despite a need for companionship, understanding, in Seven the girl focused primarily upon the former, a desperate search for climax effectively smothering any moments of hesitant, faltering intimacy. This, what Petyr suggested in deed and word, demolished that barrier. “I told them I wanted to,” she explained of the lacy scrap. “They suited the dress.” And made her feel pretty. Everyone gasped and gawked over Sansa’s ephemeral gown, yet this man alone shared in her secret. Though a powdery lilac, pale and soft and the epitome of girlishness, those panties represented a rebellious streak of self-indulgence; damn their lines, their rules, for she had earned a bit of choice.
Enshrouded in warm air and warm hands still she shivered, chills racing along where he touched bare skin. Oh yes, this was dangerous; attachment — investment — threatened. Sansa dropped the berry back to its silvery platter. Though she breathed steadily each exhalation left her with a faint shudder, as if the girl was almost recovered from a grueling run. This new dynamic spawned new questions — did he only mean to tease, or to follow through? Would he expect the same in return? Did this mean she would be denied what was most wanted, the feeling of sweat-slicked flesh against hers?
Sapphire eyes narrowed imperceptibly at acrid words. A hand brushed through silver-streaked curls, came to rest on one cheek, fingers still tacky from her brief meal. “You’re not them.” Whether Sansa meant to remind herself or her lover would not be entirely clear. She waited for him to look at her, fully. Though it was obvious how Baelish waited, what he wanted her to do, the girl required some measure of honesty between them. An understanding that even without label or expectations, what passed between them stood entirely different from what those cruel black words marching across parchment in strict lines demanded of her. “We’re not doing that.” And then Sansa raised her hips, retrieving her hand to lean back on both elbows. For she wished to watch as much as he, to try and reconnoiter what this apparently selfless gesture meant, what it would cost her in return.