Sansa didn’t want kindness or mercy, nor did she desire cruelty from her erstwhile lover. All she desired was for him to understand: her sitting there, in his room, on his bed, did not align him with that string of names demanding her presence in the Capitol. Quite the opposite. Every encounter between them constituted an expression of choice unfettered by crass instructions or the lascivious expectations cemented by loss of life other than her own. Sansa’s choice. And perhaps therein lay the problem, for in every fantasy enacted Baelish served an ancillary role. Though she insisted his status as a Victor, as her savior, mattered, they never talked about it. The only platform either offered made room for a quick, efficient rut only; no pillow talk, no coddling, no reverent awe. But how rare that was. Behind closed eyes Sansa could imagine a sponsor’s touch: always vaguely slimy, not with the cliche amphibious muck, but from the excess of lotion in which they all seemed to swim. It was always cold, too, from the central air that cooled and sanitized their homes. She pictured those fingers running through copper hair, remembering a decidedly redder stain; further down they would trace, coveting ivory flesh where before there had been only a gaping wound.
When Petyr caressed those same expanses she saw no memory of carnage reflected in grey-green stare. So when he aligned himself with professional obligations, made light of their tryst as mere practice for future duties, the girl felt compelled to end such nonsense. Not even his key obligated her arrival, no more than Sansa’s presence bound him to performance. Choice provided greatest arousal, that knowledge of propriety shirked in favor of what granted pleasures altogether more personal. If Petyr didn’t want her, had no wish for encounters which fell beyond duty’s flimsy veil, then even flirtation lost its appeal.
And didn’t he? It was not Sansa alone who tinged that parting kiss with fierceness, tongue risking across his teeth, finding the taste of him sweet. Defiance simmered in the oceanic wash of her gaze, though she neither called him back nor refused his compliment in a fit of petulance. Did her choice, the need expressed through two simple declarations, seem so much more reckless in Baelish’s jaded eyes? What she desired was almost fashionably simple in comparison to the convoluted pathways gossip suggested most Capitol liaisons took: they fucked for themselves, a mutual exchange of pleasure and company whose frequency depended only on their complimentary appetites. An affair, a relationship, a scandal — it hardly mattered what term one applied, so long as both participated in voluntary fashion. That mattered. That distinguished Petyr from whatever hordes lurked outside her door and, hopefully, somehow made her different from every Lysa who lurked in his past as well.
Sansa followed him to the cart, regarding the transfer of food impassively. “Here.” If he listened carefully, then Petyr might hear a faint, questioning quiver in her statement. “I can rest here.” Rather than persuade him with silvered tongue or promises of satisfaction, the girl instead relied on touch. She entirely avoided bulging arousal, saccharine lips, even the mussed hair now known to give Baelish pleasure. Both hands rested, firm and warm, atop each shoulder blade; downward they traced, paces steady if not quite evenly matched. It wasn’t a massage, no fingers curled, no thumbs circled, no fists formed to work at hidden knots. Sansa merely mapped him through the thin white linen of his shirt, counting each vertebra, following the curved borders where one expanse of sinew ended and another began. When she reached his hips her palms swept up, held flat against his flanks as nail tickled along each rib. Sansa stepped closer. Baelish would feel her breasts and belly soft against him. Her embrace was not quite a hug: while one hand followed his arm to give silent pause to his packing, the other moved back down, middle and fore toying with trouser’s waistband. Occasionally they grazed lower, over the beginnings of wiry hair between his legs.
“The bed’s large enough to share.”