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It’s the fault of those letters. Those filthy, terrible, wonderful letters Jon sent during his stay in King’s Landing. Those letters are why Sansa will never be able to look her chambermaid in the eye again.
Not because Netty read them or anything of the sort. No, she’d merely entered Sansa’s bedchamber to stoke the hearth the morning after Jon’s return, expecting to find them asleep – most likely facing opposite sides of the bed as they always did after the intimacy of the night’s pleasure waned and their typical awkwardness resumed – and instead she’d come face to face with Sansa astride Jon, riding him harder than she’d ever ridden any horse, even the time a snake had spooked her mount and sent it racing for the stables at a hard gallop.
Sansa supposes that what she was just doing could be termed a hard gallop.
She shrieks in surprise, echoing Netty’s own startled cry, and drops to the side, rolling Jon with her as she hides herself. It’s a useless gesture; already the door is clicking shut and Netty’s feet can be heard clattering hastily down the hall. Sansa imagines herself as Netty must have seen her, bouncing teats and all. She moans, burying her face against Jon’s chest.
“This is your fault!” she wails. He chuckles – oh gods, she can feel it where he’s still inside her – kissing the top of her head.
“My fault?” His voice is rich with playful indignation, something she’s not used to from him. Since they wed, their days have been so stilted, neither of them comfortable in their role as husband and wife. That awkwardness melted away in their marriage bed, thankfully, but while they’d shared pleasure, nothing between them had ever been playful before.
“You’re the one who threw me down and climbed on top of me,” he continues, making Sansa’s body heat and throb at the words, and then at the memory of the surprised delight on his face when she’d pushed up at him as he lay atop her, kissing her in the pale light of dawn, urging him to his knees and then backwards to lie at the foot of the bed as she straddled him, both of them more than ready, despite their lack of preamble. Her cheeks flame to think of how scandalously she’d behaved, then and all the night before, when the two of them had…had fucked, there’s no other word for it, fucked like they’d die if they didn’t, hard and fast and long and repeatedly.
“But your letters,” she protests, even as she cants her hips, gasping in pleasure when he meets her movement with his own. “If you hadn’t written all those things, we wouldn’t have gotten so…so…”
“So…?” he prompts with an impish grin. He waggles his eyebrows comically, and Sansa gives in with a snicker.
“So carried away.”
“Ah, is that what it was?” Sansa feels the slight pressure of him against her, a silent request. She rolls to her back and he follows, settling between her thighs with delicious pressure. Easily, he begins to move, without the desperate intensity of the night before but still with some new feeling that tells Sansa things between them have changed. It’s frightening and exhilarating and seductive, causing an ache in her chest that has little to do with the near constant ache of desire she’s felt since he’d turned to her last night at her tentative advance with a groan of relief, perhaps even since she’d unfurled his first letter and read his longing for her in every line, growing with each missive, until desire was scattered throughout his words like punctuation.
Small wonder they’d pounced on each other the night before; their usual awkwardness had been laced with memories of all they’d said with the safety of distance bolstering their courage. And now Sansa would have to find a new chambermaid, because she certainly couldn’t instruct Netty on anything anymore.
“How I must have looked to her,” she sighs, wrapping her legs around Jon’s hips, her heels at the back of his thighs. “Poor Netty.”
“Poor Netty!” Jon laughs. “Lucky Netty, you mean. You were glorious. Primal.” He palms her breast, stroking the peak and making her shiver. “Like a goddess of old.” His mouth replaces his hand, and soon she can scarcely breathe.
“Jon,” she breathes, surprised at how reverent she sounds. At how reverent she feels about him.
“But then,” he peeks up at her with a grin, “I had a better vantage point.”
“Jon!” He grins harder at her clout on his shoulder, and a laugh wells up in Sansa’s throat, one she can’t contain. He laughs too, the sound vibrating on her skin as he presses kisses in the valley between her breasts. “Is that really how I looked to you?”
His only answer is to take her mouth in a kiss, one long and sweet and deep. A kiss that promises a thousand more just like it.
“Perhaps we should stay abed today,” she breathes when he’s released her mouth at last. He’s still moving inside her, slow and sure.
“Oh?”
“Mm. There’s a lot in those letters we haven’t gotten to yet.” Before, she would have expected him to be surprised at such a request. Before, their awkwardness would have gotten in the way. But that was before.
“I am at your command, my lady.”
*
title from Tear It Down by Jack Gilbert