Strange it was, how time and again their natures crossed and recrossed one another when passion overwhelmed reason. For Baelish had the peculiar power of making her breath hitch, then stop entirely, as though his lover at last shared a body’s disdain for mortal sustenance. When entranced by a joining far more intimate than flesh to flesh she could even feel shared pulse, all sense of self surrendered to an idea of them, together, for eternity. And in such yielding he would know of her devotion. The man called Baelish had not, in so brief a time, ceased to present mysteries both confounding and vexing, yet the girl beside him slowly rid herself of brash skepticism. When first they me he would have had to drag her, growling, into that alleyway; now Sansa wound her tongue with his, canted her hips, invited him into further debauchery.
For she had wanted him, in the way a woman wants a man, since that first bold suitor plied his wares. Too fumbling, too lacking in grace of speech and movement, still Sansa imagined Petyr in all their places; separated for hours, the night transformed into a single, long seduction. Whether Baelish had at last become distracted by her games, or his business had truly concluded, she did not know. It did not matter. Soft noises thrummed beneath her ribs, bidding him to slip fingers beneath that lacy scrap, to please her and make the girl forget in what filth he’d dragged her.
A wasp stung at her hip, flimsy lace too easily lost. Ah, but filth was his desire. Later, wrapped up in downy blankets, enveloped by the perfume of fine soaps and hot water, Sansa might blame wine for her abandon. Yet she would only do so to preserve that myth of innocence, a lie that control always satisfied more than submission, that Petyr’s darker whims did not entrance a growing portion of her soul. That she wanted this. “Yes,” the girl agreed, lips bruised and smeared with the remnants of waxen decoration. Oh, but no whore could moan half so convincingly as she, a sound unmistakably lewd echoing against brick walls, drifting out into the street beyond. Pleasure and pain commingled, fine coat an insufficient cushion against unforgiving stone, just as his woolen slacks disguised none of Baelish’s stiffened heat. She ground against him, seeking relief, as fingers threshed through the delicate hairs at his nape. “Fuck me, please,” Sansa begged between kisses, teeth skating his lips. “Let them see.”