sweetling [Petyr Baelish x Sansa Stark]

10. murky depths

Petyr was a planner. Rarely did he ever go on instinct unless absolutely necessary, so when he ended up touching Sansa's leg, he surprised even himself. But how could he not? She was just sitting there, dressed hitched up with her ivory skin calling out to him. It said touch me, you know you want to. And oh, how he did. When he'd seen Sansa laying on the lawn, resting like a winters goddess that allowed the rare sight of sun to melt away her worries, he was lost. And when she'd rushed over to him, cheeks red with embarrassment and swimsuit pulling tightly at her private regions, he'd almost wanted to cry. She was just oh so beautiful. And the best part was– she had no idea what she was doing. A nymph, whose innocent charms and talents were yet unbeknownst to her.

Even when she sat in the car, silently letting him touch her surprisingly cold skin, she didn't know what she was doing to him. How her silent compliance meant more to him than any 'yes' ever would. Because it was a secret– this touch, this moment, no one could ever know about this. It seemed that the two of them barely were able to register it, as if the driving force was actually their subconscious. A 'yes' would break the spell of secrecy, of the silent yet knowing contract between them that this, however wrong it may be, was how things were going to be. And so, he stroked her leg, enjoyed the glances he caught of her squirming in her seat, and drove them back to the prison they called home.

The drive went by far too quickly. Soon he pulled into the driveway, both hands now on the wheel, and when he stopped, he was surprised to see Sansa already out of her seatbelt, yet instead of rushing away from him as he had expected, she was twisted and bent so that her knees were on her seat and she was reaching into the backseat, grabbing her bag. It was terrifyingly brief, but Petyr enjoyed the sight of her bottom peeking out from her dress. Calmly, he slipped out of the car like he should've done in the first place.

The cooling summer air greeted him, and he strolled slowly towards the house. He heard the car door close, and then footsteps rushing towards him.

"Sir?"

Barely able to hide his grin, Petyr turned with a questioning hum. Oh, she was so predictable.

Sansa then smiled shyly up at him, "Thank you for driving me. You really are very nice."

"Why, thank you, dear. I hope you enjoyed yourself," He replied, surprising himself with his earnestness. Then, quite out of nowhere, Sansa went on her tippy-toes and leaned forward, her lips pursed. It was obvious where she was aiming– his cheek was right there, turned as if ready to accept, but Petyr, again, let instinct take the lead, and he turned his head.

Lips crashed against one another, rather rough and unpractised. Before she was able to pull back, however– her gasp of surprise warning him of that– Petyr leaned in, one hand snaking up her back while the other held the back of her head steady. This close, he could smell the chlorine of the pool that still hung around in her hair, and he imagined what she tasted like between her legs. The thought almost made him groan with unbridled lust.

Carefully, he kissed her inexperienced lips. He gently probed between her lips, which were tight and cold, before he gently stroked her back. His touch made her gasp, and he carefully, softly, sucked on her now relaxed lower lip. This gentility, this instinctive taming, was working. Sansa relaxed at his touch, trembling arms touching him back, both at his biceps because they didn't know where else to go. Slowly, carefully, Sansa copied his moves, her breathing ragged and eyes shut tightly.

Eventually, Petyr's hand moved from the back of her head, no longer needing to hold her still, until he reached her cheek, tracing her jawbone like he'd wanted to do for days now. She was so cold. It felt as if his fantasy of her being this goddess of winter was actually real, and he felt this overwhelming urge to keep her warm and placid, sedated in some way by the overwhelming heat of his body against hers. Even when their tongues touched, hers was cold. Cold with– Petyr opened his eyes, tasting her a bit more aggressively. That was alcohol.