A/N: Seven hells, but the tension headaches this fucking chapter gave me. I wanted their first time to be brilliant and wonderful and still be a first time, with all the hitches and false starts that comes with losing your virginity. I'm not sure that I captured everything I wanted to, but with Manny's careful guidance I'm as close as I'll ever be.

Speaking of Manny, she has done things for this story that I didn't even know were possible. Not only is she an absolutely AMAZING friend, she's the finest editor a girl could ask for. Even though I do spend revision time sullenly muttering, "I liked that comma." (In the end I delete the commas, because they really aren't needed and I need to join a 12 Step Comma Addiction program. And I abandon the purple prose, because sometimes I'm just too fucking wordy for my own good.)

Disclaimer: Look at my vast kingdom of everything I don't own.

Sandor sits on the edge of his marriage bed, trying to remember how to breathe. How had he gotten here? A bout of laughter, a confession, a kiss, and then... Oh, yes. His little bird had taken his hand and tugged until he'd stood, angling him away from the table beside the warm hearth. His own feet had done the rest, choosing their destination: the bed. No, their bed.

Sansa stands between his spread knees, the waterfall of her copper hair pulled over one slender shoulder. The fabric of her dress – the silk and lace she'd wed him in – fills his vision.

"I'll need your help with the laces," she says, blushing like the maiden she is before presenting her back to him.

Sandor grunts, the corner of his mouth twitching in irritation: highborn cunts wear the most complicated structures Sandor has ever seen.. It isn't that Sandor cannot undo the series of cinchs; neither is it that he cannot undo the lacings once they are revealed to him.

What is absolutely baffling is that Sandor every right to undress Sansa. A blessing, yes, one he never thought he'd have... Sandor will take her to bed. Not because she is his wife, not even because he wants her (though there is no question in regards to denying the depth and breadth of his lust for this girl), but because he must. To protect her from Joffrey's wrath, he must bed his little bird. Strip her bare, reveal every inch of milky white skin. Touch her. Kiss her; not just her ripe mouth, but everywhere. The bends of her elbows and knees. Under her arms. The tops of her feet, as well as the arches. Every ridge and knob of her spine. The delicate skin under her jaw. Her thin eyelids.

A short, shuddering inhale – all he can smell is Sansa – a rough exhale.

He reaches out.

He curls one hand over her hip as he deftly frees the first cinch. The second, the third, the fourth and final. He smooths the fold of fabric back, exposing the laces beneath. Bugger all – Sandor has seen holdfasts with fewer fortifications.

One tug, and the knot at the base loosens.

A second and it falls apart.

His fingers hover over the smooth leather thongs like brutish invaders on the verge of conquest. A man such as Sandor should not so much as lay eyes on something so finely crafted. His touch does not belong here... except by some miracle, it does. He'd draped his cloak of protection across Sansa's shoulders in the presence of her gods and mortal men alike, and now the bindings that shields her skin from his touch is his to undo.

Drawing in yet another shuddering breath, Sandor struggles against his baser urges. If he's this worked up over untying a fucking knot, he's going to spend himself across her thighs as soon as he settles between them.

The force he uses to pluck at the thongs is minimal. He fears busting them or somehow hurting Sansa with his strength. However, the leather is strong and the laces are much tighter than he'd imagined.

The flood of irritation dampens his lust. "Why did that foreign wench pack you in this thing like a bloody sausage?"

Flinching at his harsh tone, Sansa looks over one round shoulder. "What do you mean?" She blinks, as though genuinely baffled.

"Your laces, girl. You're tied in here like a buggering –" Sandor grunts in frustration. "They're too tight for you, little bird. Are you hurt?"

Breathless giggles are Sansa's first response to his question and it frustrates him. Does she think being trussed up like a war captive is amusing?

"Sandor..." She shakes her head, shoulders trembling with unreleased laughter. "Shae tied them looser than normal today, so I wouldn't grow faint."

"Looser – are you out of your buggering mind, woman?" Continuing to attack the laces, Sandor slides his free hand follows his progress upward. Stiff ridges run through the bodice, up and down. There is no way she can move with any sort of ease in this contraption.

A pale, elegant hand takes hold of Sandor's own. She moves his fingers to one hard line, which he briefly traces before she drags them over the softer fabric between each. Although his erection had flagged at the thought of her pain, this intimacy makes him throb. And the girl has no idea of what she is doing to him.

"It's boning," she explains.

"What's it for?"

"Well, it's meant to trim a woman's shape. And keep her from slouching."

Sandor digests this information, eyes narrowing. "That's fucking ridiculous," he announces. He pulls the fully unlaced bodice away, and hurls it across the room. Surprised, Sansa steps further into the protection of his embrace. "No more of that shit, do you hear me? I won't have it."

Sansa's nod is lost on him as he finds himself face to fine silk. Her shift is the purest white and sweat dampens it in patches: the small of her back, between her shoulders, and a spot just above her left hip.

The moisture makes the fabric nearly translucent and Sandor clenches his jaw to stifle a rough noise of hunger.

Redirecting her gaze from the furiously discarded bodice, Sansa turns fully around, giving Sandor a wry look. "Will you be dressing me, my lord?" Her tone is light, teasing. "Every morning from now on?"

A muscle ticks under Sandor's eye. A low buzzing fills his ears. Is Sansa still speaking? He thinks she may be, but her words, "Every morning from now on?"have filled his mind to bursting with flashes of the future: Sansa in the gray stillness before dawn, still asleep and pressed against him in a long line of silken flesh and trust; soft sounds rolling from her throat as he runs his hand down her side and across her stomach; her sighs and moans when he lowers his mouth to her breasts.

"Have you lost your fucking mind?" Sandor hears himself snarl, and suddenly he is pulling and she is falling. Tightening his legs, he traps her thighs; one hand he presses to the small of her back, holding her against him. "Dress you? Woman, I'm going to burn every scrap of fucking fabric you own and keep you in my bed."

Sansa's breathing comes in short, heavy bursts. She twists her fingers into the tunic he still wears. "I could always wear your clothes."

The thought brings a feral smile to Sandor's face. "Oh, aye," he agrees, chuckling darkly. "I'd like to see you wandering about the Red Keep, wearing my tunic as your gown. The things they would say about us, little bird…"

When she shrugs, he can feel the muscles in her back flex. "I wouldn't mind."

The thread of Sandor's control, already frayed, snaps. Sansa squeals as Sandor twists, lying her down across the width of the the feather bed. Straddling her legs, one knee on the mattress and one booted foot on the floor, he looms over her.

By all rights she should be frightened – she must remember the night of the Blackwater, his knife against her throat as he had demanded a song. She hadn't understood then… and she still doesn't, not entirely. Sandor will be enlightening her very shortly.

"You promised me a song, little bird. Have you forgotten?"

"I will sing it for you gladly," Sansa answers, an echo of the not so distant past. Her hand explores his face, tracing the unnatural lines and crags of scars as contentedly as she might touch a handsome man's brow, cheekbone, and strong jaw.

Sansa meets his gaze, a smile turning up the corners of her mouth.

Sandor Clegane kisses his wife as a starved man would attack a feast. And he is starved. He hungers for the way she whines into his mouth. He laps up every touch of her shy little tongue as it follows his own, eager to learn. He basks in the frustrated wriggling of her body beneath his. He savors the feel of her hands threading through the fine, black strands of his hair, clutching with every tug and nip he lavishes upon her lips.

Still, all this is not enough. He is greedy, so fucking greedy, and he needs more. More, more, more: more skin, more sweat, and more of Sansa's urgent whines. Gods above and hells below, Sandor needs more of her, his little bird, his wife...

He hungers for the feel of skin sliding against skin, and her cunt – wet and hot – wrapped around his cock. The thought of being inside her (and knowing he soon will be) is enough to make him groan and nearly peak in his bloody breaches.

He tastes the skin of her neck and presses his tongue to her pulse. It is rapid and hard, echoing his own escalating heartbeat. Sandor shudders, biting down to clench the vein between his teeth. Never before has he so completely slipped into his Lannister-given identity: a dog. An animal. Primal, feral, holding his little bird in place and taking her life between his sharp teeth.

Before Sandor can worry that he is moving too quickly and treating her too harshly, Sansa begins fighting the constraints of her skirts. One leg is all she manages to lift, but soon enough that single foot is hooked behind his knee and she's arching into him. Sansa gasps, jerks, and battles against the heft of her skirts.

"Sandor," she mewls. Coming off her tongue his name is a prayer, a hymnal of lust and desire. Sansa plucks and tugs at his tunic until her hands push inside his collar. She clings to the side of his throat as though desperate to feel his skin.

Bracing himself on one forearm, Sandor releases her to burrow his free hand under Sansa's supple back. He gropes for the laces that hold her skirts in place. If he doesn't have the knot in his hand within the next two seconds, he is taking his knife out and cutting the buggering obstacle open.

Sansa would chirp in outrage over the loss, but he is so close to genuinely not caring that it doesn't matter.

The leather thong snags on his rough fingers and with a sharp jerk the fabric sags her waist, loose enough for Sandor to slide a hand in side. He is so close to his goal. So close! Before he begins pawing at her in a mindless hunger, he breaks her grip and stands. Sansa protests with a wordless whine before pushing up on her elbows. She actually pouts.

Wearing a ferocious grin. Sandor takes fistfuls of the fabric and, with a hard wrench, her skirts are yanked past her knees. Sansa fights free of them, digging her heels into the mattress. She pushes fully onto the bed so that her feet are no longer dangling off the edge.

Sandor crawls after her, hemming her in with his thickly muscled arms and legs.

"And what now, wife?" Teasing her satisfies some urge Sandor hadn't realized he possessed (or perhaps it is more than he possesses it only with Sansa). The flush covering her face and neck heightens, and he takes the time admiring the effect he has on her.

"Now?" she repeats, looking rather lost. "I, um... I don't ..."

He kisses her, and it is a light, fleeting thing. Pride swells in Sandor's chest as, when he pulls away, Sansa tries to follow him.

"What do you want, little bird?"

Sansa shivers, her pupils widening to black voids surrounded only by only the thinnest ring of brilliant blue. "I don't know," she deflects, but her gaze is flickering over the breadth of his shoulders and across his barrel chest in a most telling manner.

"I told you, girl, hounds can smell out lies." To prove his point – to relish in the slide of her smooth skin over his scars – Sandor buries his nose in her neck. "You want, I know you do. I can near taste it." His tongue touches her neck, a brief flick to taste the sweat gathered there.

Sansa moans. "I don't know. But I like – I like your kisses."

Sandor shudders. Beside Sansa's hip, he balls one hand into a tight fist. Oh, aye, only in all his wildest dreams he had fantasied of hearing the beautiful, innocent Lady Sansa Stark saying such things... and truly meaning them. But he never expected that those dreams would become reality.

He has never been genuinely desired before. And for Sansa to be the one who wants him...

"Do you?" He presses an open-mouthed caress to the hollow of her neck, breathing hard through his nose as he fights to keep his composure. "What else, little bird?"

"I – I like –" Sansa's head turns away in shame. One graceful hand lifts, covering her eyes before she blurts out, "I like how you feel on top of me, like this."

The muscles in Sandor's jaw strain. These simple words have driven him to his figurative knees far more effectively than any sword ever has or could. "Anything else?" he somehow manages to rasp out.

A small nod. She does not remove her hand from her eyes, but Sandor decides to fight that battle another time; for now, he wants her admissions. It will take another level of time and experience for Sansa to unabashedly offer her own longings and desires to him.

"I want to feel your skin," she admits in a frantic rush, trembling in a mix of anticipation and shame. "Please. If – if that is acceptable."

For a moment, Sandor is struck dumb. She wants to feel him? He cannot comprehend why, and his shock nearly boils into anger. It is a knee-jerk reaction for Sandor to attack first and ask questions later.

He draws a deep breath. Then another, and another, and one more. An extra, just for good measure. Frightening her would ruin all the progress they've made – and he doesn't want her associating bed play with one of his rages. So he bites it down, accepts his shock (and under it, the acknowledgment of how incredibly humbled he is), and kisses her. Deeply.

"You'll have me bare soon," he attempts to tease, though his words end on a groan. Taking the hand from her eyes, Sansa begins to play with the ties of his tunic, nibbling at her lower lip. "Though not yet, little bird."

Smoothing the hair from her face, Sandor draws Sansa into a series of long kisses. She responds beautifully, pulling at his neck and remaining ear, pressing against his chest and even – much to the determent of Sandor's intent to go slowly – tentatively shifting and rolling her hips. It drives him mad, pushing him beyond logical thoughts. He has only needs and desires now, and all they are focused on seeing Sansa entirely nude. To learn the secrets of her body and discover what will bring her the most pleasure.

Sandor drags in heavy, rough breath while fisting his hands in the delicate silk of her shift. It takes only a small show of strength to rip it down the center.

Sansa yelps, hands fluttering nervously. "My lord!"

"You'll use my name, Sansa," he hoarsely commands, his gray gaze locked on the pale, flesh exposed between the two ragged edges. Her navel is of particular interest. How will she react when he dips his tongue into it? "Or 'husband.' Aye, that will do fine."

With one hand, Sandor pushes the torn silk aside. Her teats are bared to his gaze now, and never has he seen a woman so finely made. Dragging in a heavy breath, he lightly trails his fingers over the flesh now at his mercy. The softness makes him want to weep. She is so delicate, so fragile... he can hardly believe that Sansa is real. Briefly, Sandor is overwhelmed with fear; nothing this pure and wondrous can survive his fierce lust.

Sansa tries to fold her arms over her chest in an attempt to protect her maidenly innocence. Uttering a low, soothing sound in the back of his throat, Sandor captures her wrists. He pushes them down to the mattress, shaking his head slowly. "Don't hide," he rasps, swallowing hard. "Never hide. Not from me. Gods be damned, little bird, you're perfect," he swears.

Shock is written clearly across Sansa's expressive face, and it quickly morphs into pleasure. She's blushing again, so fiercely that it extends down to the tops of her breasts. Watching her strain upward with a pursed mouth, it takes Sandor a moment to comprehend that she wants a kiss. He willing gives it, releasing her wrists to thread to their fingers together.

Holding tightly to his hands, Sansa begins to scatter kisses over the parts of his face that she can reach. "My husband," she sighs contentedly, rubbing the tips of their noses together.

He needs a moment to gain control. She is innocent, Sandor forces himself to remember with every beat of his heart. He must go slowly. Maidens experience pain, and Sandor does not want to hurt her. He wants her pleasure, yearns to bring her such bliss that she spends the rest of her life demanding he pleasure her again and again and again.

And he will. Gladly.

He softly kisses the underside of her breast, and each that follows is lingering and warm as Sandor slowly worships small bits of flesh. First his scars and then his stubble rasp against one taunt nipple when he moves just so, and each time Sansa's breathing hitches. Soft, breathless sounds of wanting well out of her, a bubbling spring of desire. He licks, tasting the the sweetness left in the wake of her perfumed soap. He scrapes his teeth across the exquisite flesh that is now his to enjoy, laughing lowly when Sansa's hips jerk involuntarily at the sensation.

By the time he has worked his way in, by the time his mouth hovers over the rosy bud of her nipple,

Sansa is one tug away from pulling a handful of his hair out. He lifts his gaze, pinning her with his hot, gray stare watching as he swipes his tongue across the taut peak.

Sansa sobs, twisting and rocking closer to his mouth. "Again," she begs, "Please, again. Please – Sandor – oh –"

Sandor feels more powerful than any king as he brings her pleasure. A shiver crawls up his spine, and Sandor fights for breath. She is innocent, his heartbeat recalls. She is innocent. Slowly. Go slowly.

He gives the same tortuous treatment to the opposite teat. Sansa bucks, struggles, and contorts all in an attempt to bring his mouth to where she wants it. Sandor again captures her wrists with one large hand and pins them above her head. He uses his legs and the weight of his body to better hold her in place. Sansa hisses in frustration.

Finally, he sucks her waiting nipple into his mouth. Sansa chokes on words that sound very much like thank you, her nubile body vibrating with pleasure. This simple touch is such a little thing, and yet it drives her mad. It's a reminder that no one, no one, has touched her like this before. Joffrey had been cruel to her, aye, and he'd had his buggering knights beat Sandor's little bird. The brat may hold Sansa's fear and pain, but her pleasure belongs to Sandor and Sandor alone. Each sigh, cry, and breathy beg; every push of her body and each restless squirm – all of this is his, and it is a much finer kingdom than the shit hole that Joffrey rules over.

"May I touch you now, Sandor? Please?" Her wrists twist in his grasp.

He reaches the absolute limit of his patience. Still, Sandor fights to keep a domineering hand on a portion of his control. Conquests are not often won in a single fell swoop, but in smaller battles and skirmishes. Ground is lost, but double or triple is regained.

For the second time, Sandor leaves the bed. By the time he has stripped his tunic away and has begun to hastily kick and fight his boots off, Sansa has only just sat up. "Off," he growls. "Take that buggering thing off."

A squirm, a wiggle, and Sansa holds the remains of her silk shift in her hands. This vision of her in only her small clothes and stockings, is one he will carry into the hells themselves.

Sansa looks around in a daze, as though confused as to what to do with the ruins of her shift.

"Throw it," he orders, moments after freeing himself from one boot. She doesn't comply quickly enough, so he reaches out, yanking it from her hands, tossing it blindly over his shoulder.

"Head on the pillows. Go. Now."

Sansa scrambles to obey, flushed and shining with sweat in the hearth-light. Sandor watches her lie down at the head of the bed, visibly unsure of what to do. Her hands flutter helplessly. Finally they settle on her stomach, agitatedly caressing just above the drawstring of her small clothes.

That single, seemingly innocent gesture sets fire to a great many of Sandor's designs. The only reason he does not lose the last shreds of his restraint is because of the glint of confusion in Sansa's eyes. She is aroused, yes, there's no doubt of it; but she doesn't understand. Not fully.

Returning to the bed once his second boot has been toed off, Sandor gently stretches out on top of her, once again enjoying how perfectly her soft body fits and welcomes his own harder, larger shape. Though this time there is nothing but his breaches and her small clothes between them; this time, there is so much more skin to be explored...

"Do you hurt, little bird? Show me where – is it here?" he asks, replacing the hand on her stomach with his own. He can span the entirety of it with his massive paw. It should make him feel like a brute, but it doesn't. Not in the least. Never has he felt more of a man than he does now with his fingers and palm spread out against her soft, round belly from hipbone to hipbone.

After a moment, Sansa nods. She's biting at her bottom lip again, nervous or abashed. Sandor isn't sure which. Perhaps both.

"Aches, doesn't it?" Sandor's hand moves deliberately downwards, until his smallest finger rests under the band of her small clothes. "It's because you're empty, girl. Empty here." His hand moves further, and hair coarser than that on her head tickles two of his fingers. He exerts a slight pressure on her pelvic bone, mouth twitching as she moans.

"Don't fret, little bird. I'll be fixing that soon enough." It takes an iron will to free his hand from the soft fabric concealing her cunt, and an even greater one to move down to her ankles. Sitting back on his haunches, Sandor places Sansa's narrow foot on his thigh.

He takes the time to admire the shape of her leg and how it looks encased in embroidered silk. He palms the rondure of her calf. He cradles her slender ankle between his thumb and forefinger. She's so fucking dainty. Sandor wonders how she has survived court life and Joffrey... and him. Gods, how the buggering hell is she going survive being his wife?

Sansa regards Sandor in silence as he completes his survey, her graceful fingers curling into the bedsheets. Sandor can't say why he does it, not really, but he gives her a smile. Seven hells, he must look like a gargoyle, but his little bird appears delighted.

Rolling the stocking down her leg is an act of torture for Sandor. Has he ever done this with a whore or a kitchen wench? No. He has never wantedto. He takes care not to tear the sheer fabric. Why? To prove he can. To assure them both that he is fully in control, both of the situation and himself.

Flicking the wad of silk away, he gives the opposite leg the same treatment. Sansa's eyes flicker between his face, his hands, and his chest. Goose bumps break out over the skin he touches, and so he takes care to skim the tip of a finger in the bend of her knee and rub his thumb reassuringly against the dip of her ankle.

She sighs when the stocking is gone.

Only one thing left, now. The last barrier between Sandor and the entirety of his little bird. Leaning slightly forward, Sandor curls the drawstring of her small clothes around his index finger before giving a firm tug. The knot falls away easily, and the fabric loosens. A heady rush overwhelms Sandor, and he rumbles with approving laughter. This is the very same feeling he gets on the battlefield, cutting down knights and sers left and right, overwhelming them all to stand victorious while they fall under his blade.

Sansa instantly presses her knees together. Something new enters her eyes – a glint of fear.

"None of that," Sandor admonishes, but softly. He isn't angry; a maiden is what she is. It can't be helped. Not the first time, at least.

His free hand pushes between her knees. They clamp shut against his invasion, but he strokes her, soothing her as he would any other frightened animal. The panic in her gaze lessens, and while she has to look away, Sansa allows the muscles of her thighs to relax.

"Is this…" Sansa pauses, teeth sinking into her bottom lip. The tapestry across the room becomes the object of her gaze. It is seemingly fascinating, given the way she refuses stop staring at it. "Is this normal? To be… entirely… bare?"

"Aye, it is," he answers. "Didn't your septa explain?"

"Um, well, not… exactly."

Of course not, Sandor grimly realizes. The idiocies they fill a girl's head with – so little of it of any actual use. It's all to keep a girl from expecting too much from her husband; high lords take from their women whatever they please. A wife is only a broodmare, after all. A whore paid in titles, furs, and position. And children. Sons who will one day treat a woman as his mother had been, and daughters who will sing pretty bird songs and never question why they are caged.

Not his wife. Never for Sansa. He doesn't want her caged – he wants her free. In all the ways she possibly can be. He knows what it is to be locked in servitude, to be less than a person. The Hound is for killing enemies, a glorified sword. A wife is for fucking, prized only for the sons her womb will carry. Sansa is more than the sum of her parts, and Sandor will see her treated as such. She has given him the chance to be a man;he must prove himself as such, and give her the chance to be a woman.

Sandor abandons the last barrier, and moves up in the bed to lie on his side beside his wife with his head propped upon one hand. She curls towards him, shyer than she has been the entire night. As the heat of passion cools, Sandor rubs a hand up and down her arm, hoping it comforts her. "What were you told of the marriage bed, girl?"

Sansa shifts onto her side as well. Not even a hand's width exists between their bodies. She takes hold of Sandor's free hand, playing with his fingers, exploring each old scar, ridge, and line. She speaks without look at him, but for once it doesn't provoke Sandor's anger.

"My mother told me that when I was wed, my lord husband would guide me through what he expected of me. She warned me that the first few times would hurt. And to expect blood."

"We'll, that's a fucking encouraging talk," he angrily grumbles. Do the highborn want their women scared of dick? "And your septa?"

Sansa is flushing Lannister crimson now. "Septa Mordane said… she said I am to lie back and allow my husband to perform his duty. I am to think of the Seven and of the sons I will provide." Both of her hands are busy with Sandor's. She strokes his palm while one thumb rubs circles on the thick knob of his wrist bone. "I suppose I've been doing it all wrong, haven't I? I am sorry, Sandor."

Sandor wants to dig that fucking septa up and kill her again. Seven hells, but his palms itch to hold the weight of a blade.

Freeing himself from Sansa's increasingly desperate grip, Sandor reaches up. He takes a firm, though not painful, hold on her chin, and coaxes her to lift her face. Still her eyes remain downcast. She begins to fidget, even folding her arms in an attempt to hide those wondrous teats.

"Look at me."

She shakes her head.

Sandor sighs heavily through his nose. "Sansa, look at me."

Sansa obeys with a cringe, though it is not for his face. No, she looks as though she expects to be hit or cruelly admonished. The sight of it is a knife between Sandor's ribs. Her fear does not belong in their bedchamber.

"Your septa was a cold fucking fish, who didn't know shit about what she was talking about," he announces. "I don't want you to lie back and think of the Seven or sons or anything else, do you hear me? You've done nothing wrong, little bird."

"But… but ladies don't..." She gestures helplessly. The wings of her collarbones draw Sandor's attention as they shift beneath her skin, and he wants to lavish attention on them. Not yet – they need to clear this particular matter up first.

"They do," he refutes bluntly. "The lucky ones, at least. You're no whore, Sansa, fucking isn't your job. Even if it is fucking to have an heir. But this isn't about lying back and doing your duty, either. You want me, little bird, and that's a good thing – the best thing – as I want you, too." Fiercely, he doesn't say, wary of frightening her. More than air, more than blood on my blade, more than life do I fucking crave you, my little bird…

"I'm going to tell you what is going to happen." His hand drops from her chin and moves to her throat. He strokes, then sweeps his palm over her shoulder and down her bent arm. Gentle pressure at her elbow unfolds it, and he follows the slender limb down to her wrist. "I will touch you, little bird, as I was before."

Her breath hitches, and her eyes take on that particular shine of lust Sandor is becoming so incredibly addicted to. "Where?" she asks, voice throatier than he has ever heard it.

A shaky breath. Control, he urges himself. "Everywhere," he answers roughly. "Your neck. I'll lick all the way down your spine and back up again. Your arse – oh, scandalized, are you? None of those dewy eyed knights never told you what a fine, lovely arse you have?" He takes a handful of it, forcing a yelp of shock to escape her.

In an attempt to wiggle away from his hand, she pushes further into his body. Sandor grins, ducking his head to lavish attention on her ear, her jaw, the delicate underside of her chin. Restless movements overtake Sansa's limbs, and soon she presses close. The feel of her delicious teats stiffening against his coarse, dark hair reawakens his cock.

"And then?" Sansa asks, breaking Sandor from his haze. She has curled an arm over his ribs, and is now digging her fingers into the thick muscles of his back. The wool of his breaches is the only thing that keeps his cock from nestling needfully against the soft flesh of her stomach, and he cannot help but thrust against her, seeking relief.

Sandor groans from deep within his chest. "I'll kiss that pretty cunt," he hoarsely answers. Her small clothes fold and wrinkle when Sandor begins to rub up and down Sansa's side, from her ribs to her knee. She sighs, rubbing her cheek against his shoulder. At this, he takes a firm grip on the back of her thigh. One swift tug brings her leg over his own, and leaves her open to his searching touch.

Pressing her face against his chest, Sansa's entire body jerks and trembles when his fingers find their way between her thighs. Sandor's temples throb with the beat of his heart when he discovers damp linen awaiting his touch.

Crying out in astonishment, Sansa's nails dig into the flesh of his back.

"Shh," he soothes, pushing fingers into her hair to grip the back of her head. "It's alright."

"Sandor –" she whimpers, the leg tossed over his own curling in an involuntary movement. "I don't – I've never –"

"I know," he assures her, fingers scrabbling to find their way past her small clothes, which end up bunched awkwardly around her thighs. It is enough. He palms her, sinking his fingers into damp curls and wet flesh.

Sansa rocks into his grip, and it is a smooth, slick slide. Sandor's carefully laid strategies incinerate. A rush of movements and the shriek of tearing clothing rends the air. Sandor sinks down between her bent knees, sliding along her warm frame until her tight copper curls catch on his beard.

"Mother's mercy," she sings in desperation, voice rising and wavering as he opens his mouth on her. "Gods, oh gods, Sandor –"

He could not hope to describe the taste of her, heavy and thick, as her flavor slides past his tongue and down his throat. His shoulders brace her thighs apart while his thumbs carefully open her delicate folds. She is especially beautiful here, as startling as a lush oasis in the Dornish desert.

Sandor explores her with a dedication that surpasses even his devotion to the warrior's arts. Every lad knows of the little nub of nerves that is the center of a woman's pleasure. Even Sandor. Though paying attention to it had been a moot point with whores. With his little bird it is another matter:

with a curl of his tongue and a scrape of his teeth, he can make her howl like a wolf or beg like a wanton.

And he does, over and over again – until she screams as though he has run her through. Until he is drenched in her wetness, and she is on the brink of her first peak. When he pulls back she wails, a thin noise of thwarted pleasure.

"No," she cries. A hand tangles in his hair, pulling and pressing in a vain attempt to guide him back to her cunt. Sandor laughs against her thigh, kisses the flesh and watches her shiver and flex as she falls away from the yearned for pleasure.

"Not yet," he says roughly, rubbing her trembling stomach. "Poor little bird. Aches even worse now, doesn't it?"

Sansa nods, eyes glazed and hair sticking to her sweaty face. "Something was… I don't know, but something was happening…"

Sandor chuckles, awash in a smug male satisfaction he has never quite felt before. "Oh aye, it was. But as I said, you'll not have it yet."

A whimper, long and high, escapes her throat. Her hips move restlessly. "When?" she pouts.

"When I allow it," he answers. His forefinger runs down the wet center of her. Sansa moans, her head dropping back weakly.

He watches her face intently as he presses that finger to her entrance, gauging her reaction. She twitches at this new feeling, hazy eyes finding his gaze. The smile he gives her is feral.

Slowly he pushes, the bottom dropping out of his stomach and goose bumps racing up his back and arms, even flowing over his scalp. She's so tight, so hot, so very fucking wet. Above him, Sansa is gasping and sighing, fingers jerking and grasping hard at the sheets, in her hair, against her own skin.

"What…" she tries to ask, but he is knuckle-deep now and she's never been filled like this before. Her voice dies in her throat, taken over by a hard, shuddering exhale.

"This is for me," he explains roughly, fighting for a lungful of air. Slowly he pulls out, watching as Sansa presses her heels into the mattress and lifts her hips. Again he pushes back in, and Sansa moans, her internal muscles clamping down hard on the intrusion of his forefinger. "I'll fill you here, little bird. I'll make you whole."

He sets a slow pace that pushes deep, stretching muscles and flesh that have never been tried in this way. Sansa rocks with his hand. Quietly, breathlessly she chants, "Please, please Sandor – help me – don't stop, please, don't stop – Mother's mercy, it's good, it's so good –" Her mindless string of pleas and praises drives Sandor's lust to a fever pitch.

The addition of a second finger is a shock to Sansa. She catapults into an almost upright position, propped up on her arms as her chest heaves and her eyes widen dramatically. Sandor stills his hand, allowing her to grow accustomed to the feeling.

"Do you hurt?" he asks, trailing his mouth over her hip bone.

Shaking her head, trembling like a leaf in a strong wind, Sansa answers negatively. "No. I don't – I don't think so – it's good, but strange – I can feel you inside – your fingers –" With another desperate clamp of internal muscles, she he pushes against him. "Move again. Please? Please, Sandor? It feels so – it feels – oh, please –"

Harder, this time. Faster. Soft, wet noises accompany his ministrations, setting Sandor's teeth on edge and seven hells, but he doesn't think this is going to last very much longer. She's crying, tears leaking from the corners of her eyes as she is consumed by the rising pressure.

A third finger makes her hiss and go still, and once again he follows suit. Looking up, he finds her eyes narrowed and her expression pinched.

"It will pass," he promises. "Relax, little bird. There. There you go."

The first thrust and withdrawal drops Sansa to her back. Her legs thrash, while her hands claw against the mattress, his shoulders, and her thighs.

Sandor can wait no longer, not another moment. Withdrawing his hand, he crawls up her body. He kisses her stomach, her breastbone, her throat, finally her mouth. One hand fumbles with the laces of his breaches, and there comes a twang of leather bursting before he is able to push them past his hips.

Kicking the fabric away, Sandor lowers himself onto Sansa. She clings to him, curling under and around his body and welcoming his weight. His cock rubs against her wet curls, and she pushes against him. Curiosity brightens her eyes, and Sandor wishes he had enough patience to allow Sansa the time to explore his body. That will have to wait for another time, however.

Between them his hand fumbles, shaking. She's whispering against his throat – "Yes, yes, yes; don't stop, please don't stop this time…" – but then he's there, and pushing home. There is a slight resistance, but nothing as drastic as he had feared. Sansa stiffens, raising her voice as he fills her.

He can feel her breathing. Her hips shift, her muscles ripple and flex around his cock, and it takes every ounce of self-control he possesses not to fuck her within an inch of both their lives. Instead he grips her hip with one hand, holding her still.

"Fuck," he hisses, unable to breathe. Unable to think. She surrounds him, is a part of him, as he is now a part of her. There is nothing outside of this, nothing beyond Sandor, Sansa, and their pleasure. "Gods be damned, little bird. My little bird."

When he finally moves, it is slowly. He can feel her arm around his back, her other hand pressed against his chest. After a time her foot runs up his calf and hooks behind his knee.

"Harder," she whimpers, straining against him. "As before, with your hand –"

With a snarl, Sandor obeys. His hips snap hard against her, and there is no doubt that she is going to have bruises on her hips from his fierce hold on them.

"Sweet, merciful Seven!" Sansa's pleasure crests without warning. One moment she is reaching for it, biting his arm and sobbing in the back of her throat, and the next every muscle in her body draws as taut as a bow string. Her cunt holds Sandor so tightly he cannot move.

Desperation takes over. Stars explode behind his eyes, flicker in his vision as he watches Sansa find her pleasure. A labored, high sound comes from her throat, her knees pull up, and Sandor finds himself cradled between her thighs and pulled deeper than he has ever been inside a woman. The pleasure of it is so great that it verges on pain, and Sandor shouts. Taking a grip on the headboard, he uses it to brace himself above her.

His peak hits with all the force of a warhorse stampeding over him. He dimly hears a roar, only vaguely realizing it comes from his throat. For a time – long or short, he has no way of knowing which – there is only bliss, darkness behind his eyelids, and Sansa. Everywhere, everything in his world is Sansa.

Before the strength in his arms gives out, Sandor rolls onto his side. He collapses, keeping Sansa pressed tight against him. When he has regained enough air to speak, he asks, in a voice deeper than usual, "Are you hurt?"

Looking down at the top of her fiery head, he watches Sansa rub her cheek against his chest. "No," she answers, soft and breathless. "Not at all."

For a moment he fears she is lying; tears roll down her flushed cheeks. They are warm against his chest and dampen the curling hair. "That – that was – is it always like… that?"

"Aye," Sandor answers, rubbing his thumb under first one wet eye, then the other. "For us, little bird, it will always be like this."

Her smile is brilliant.

For the first time since he'd been a child, Sandor sleeps deeply without the help of far too much wine. And in the morning, he wakes wrapped around Sansa. In her sleep her fingers have twined with his own, and there he leaves his hand, content to let the morning come in peace.