The Hound had often dreamt of this day—when his hands would finally wrap around Sansa's delicate waist and bring her closer to him. And now here she was, pliant and willing and making oh-so-arousing noises from her pretty little mouth.
She was seated on his lap, her plush bottom very firmly planted on his steadily hardening cock. As his lips made his way down her milky white throat, he could feel her shudder in anticipation and, his conscience butted in, perhaps even disgust?
Sandor abruptly broke away, leaving Sansa flustered and blushing a very becoming shade of pink that matched her fiery hair. His eyes scoured her face. The princess' limpid blue eyes were wise and her mouth was slightly ajar, panting from desire.
"What's wrong?" she whispered, slowly and gently placing a slim, cool hand on the scarred part of his face.
He grimaced and involuntarily jerked away, causing her to bite her full bottom lip and look down, slighted.
"No," he growled, grasping her hand in his. "Little Bird," his other hand tipping her chin upwards, "this cannot happen."
Dammit, he cursed inwardly. How many nights had he pleasured himself to just this scene? Her clothes in disarray, hair wild, straddling him… Why must he feel such guilt now?
Sandor had drawn an unlucky lot in life, and his conscience felt this was too good to be true. Why now? Why would things start going well for him now?
Sansa clumsily pushed herself off him, her auburn mane covering her face, trying to look anywhere but at him. "I see," she stated, her voice breaking only slightly. She was always trying to be so strong. "I…I apologize for my forwardness—"
"Little Bird," Sandor rose out of his seat hurriedly. How could he have hurt the most important person to him? "Sansa."
"Why?" she demanded almost petulantly. She whirled upon him "Sandor, I thought after all these years—"
"Don't you understand?" he interrupted, his rough hand clenching his hair as though he were about to tear it straight from his scalp. "I'm the Hound and you… You are Princess of Winterfell. You are Sansa Stark. You are the most beautiful creature I have ever had the fortune to lay my eyes upon." Sandor was surprised at himself for waxing so poetically. Perhaps all his years at court had done him some good after all.
She was angry now. Her eyebrows were furrowed and her former pretty blush was replaced by spots of red. And? she seemed to be demanding. Sansa crossed her arms tightly, daring herself not to break eye contact with him.
"And," Sandor continued, closing his eyes wearily, "I don't deserve you."
He heard a decidedly unladylike snort, breaking him from his reverie of self-pity. Opening his eyes, he saw that the princess was standing before him, arms crossed and her mouth twisted down into a scowl that was still, and this was Sansa's special talent, strangely becoming.
"What drivel," she said, tossing her locks behind her. Sansa stepped forward, placing her hands up and around his neck. "I. Love. You. Is that not enough?"
Sandor could scarcely believe his ears. Instinctively his arms wrapped around her tiny torso. "Little Bird, you don't know what you're saying—"
Now it was her turn to interrupt. "Don't I?" she snapped, eyes flashing. "I've had my fill of men, Sandor, or must I remind you?" Her hands clenched his broad shoulders, forcing him to look at her full in the face. His silence goaded her further. "Joffrey, Tyrion, Petyr… I will have none of them. I want you."
"Impossible," the Hound shook his head, stubbornly refusing to believe her.
"Is it?" she dared. If she were still the little girl he had met so many years ago, she would have stamped her foot. The thought made Sandor's mouth twitch minutely upwards. "I am a woman full grown, Sandor. I can make my own decisions, and I choose you. I choose you."
His heart skipped a beat.
Sansa peered under her tousled locks up at him, and misinterpreting his shock as indifference, her face unexpectedly crumpled. "Unless," she continued softly, her hands lightening her grasp on his shoulders and slowly falling to his chest. "Unless you will not have me."
"Impossible," he repeated, shaking his head violently. How could she even suggest such a thing? He tightened his grip on her. Still reeling from her confession, the Hound could yet hardly form sentences—not that he was ever loquacious in the first place.
"Then," she resolved, "then…make love to me, Sandor. Please."
That did it.
His lips crashed onto hers, his fingers awkwardly untying the laces of her bodice. She fumbled with his breeches, forcing them down to his muscled upper thighs. Her hand was cupped around his cock, stroking and petting.
"The gods," he mumbled, finally undoing her dress and freeing her luscious tits. His mouth descended upon one rosy nipple, causing the princess to cry out.
Her hands were twisted into his hair, tugging almost painfully at his scalp, and Sandor moaned into her chest. He lifted her easily, placing her with a soft thump onto his bed. Climbing on top of her, he pressed his lips onto hers, Sansa's fragrance gracing his senses like an expensive perfume.
One hand lifting her skirts, the other caressing her tit, Sansa arched her back into him like a cat, purring his name.
He could feel her wetness through her smallclothes, his cock twitching in anticipation. Sandor put two fingers into his mouth, thoroughly coating them in his saliva, and then, after removing her smallclothes, slowly eased them into her tight cunt.
"Ah!" she gasped, her blue eyes, framed by elephantine-long lashes, closing in ecstasy.
"If I hurt you," he cautioned, still not quite able to believe what was happening, "you must tell me."
Sansa rocked her pussy into his hand, urging him onward. "Sandor," she began, slightly out of breath, "we both know I am no longer a virgin."
He shrugged. "I could not bear to live with myself if I—"
She dexterously flipped him onto his back—surprising herself by her own strength. Straddling him, she struggled out of the rest of her dress, tossing her prized gown onto the floor in eagerness.
Sansa flashed a wolfish smile. "That's better."
Sandor's mouth hung ajar, eyes round. And then he gave a raucous laugh. "My Little Bird," he chuckled, removing his breeches to match her.
She lowered herself, her breasts grazing his chest, and began to slowly kiss and nip at his neck. Sandor could feel his erection on his stomach, her cunt teasingly dragging up the length of his shaft. He clenched at his sheets. If this continues, he thought wildly, I will be finished before this hour is through.
Sansa knew what she was doing. Smirking to herself, she let the tip of his cock only just touch the entrance of her vagina. She rocked her hips slightly back and forth, knowing it was driving him mad.
She grappled at his arms, pinning them above his head. Her small hands looked out of place atop his thick wrists—they could not even fit mostly around.
The princess then dipped her pelvis lower, letting the tip of his penis penetrate her, but then just as quickly pulling back up. Gods, she thought, he's even bigger than I thought.
Sandor bucked underneath her, yearning for more. "Sansa…" he growled, eyes growing dark.
She smiled innocently, her insides churning in arousal knowing that he was quickly losing his control. "Yes?" This was exactly how she had imagined it.
Sansa removed one of her hands, and, reaching underneath herself, began to stroke his velvety tip with the lightest of light touches.
She's a tease, Sandor realized with a jolt. She enjoys doing this.
Sandor surged up and threw Sansa underneath him, her body squirming. She let out a breathy giggle.
"Feeling frustrated?" she asked, eyes wide in mock virtue.
He grunted, knowing his pride was on the line. Sandor lifted up her firm thighs, revealing her vagina.
"Oh," she breathed, eyes closing, perceiving what was about to happen.
He pushed her legs back and lowered his mouth onto her cunt, lapping and licking as though he had been parched.
"Sandor," she murmured, his name on her lips like a prayer.
He sucked at Sansa's clit, slipping two fingers inside her. The princess arched her back and covered her mouth with her hands in a vain attempt to keep herself from crying out.
Sandor spat into his hand, and then coated his member with his saliva. With her thighs pressed against his chest, and her feet dangling by his ears, he slid into her fully.
"Fuck," he exclaimed, the expletive exploding from his mouth before he could stop it.
Sansa was clenched around him, head thrown back onto his pillow. Sandor paused.
She lifted her eyes to meet his. "Fuck me," she said lowly, the words sounding strange yet arousing coming from her pretty mouth. "Fuck me, Sandor. Hard."
So this was how she liked it.
He drew out of her, letting his shaft drag over her clit, and then penetrated her again, this time with more force. His testes slammed against her anus, making them both gasp in pleasure from the added friction. Sandor lowered Sansa's legs so they were wrapped around him, and leaning over her, pinned her wrists above her head, being careful not to grasp them too hard lest he bruise her.
Sansa was enjoying being dominated. She arched her back into the Hound's well-muscled abdomen, and crossing her legs around his back, drew him further into her.
Her breasts were bouncing up and down from the force of their love making. Sandor found it difficult to look away from the mesmerizing sight. Fitting both her wrists into one of his fists, he reached down with the other hand to stroke her clit. Sansa's responding squeal was cut off by his mouth—their tongues dancing in rhythm with their bodies.
Flipping her over so she was on all fours, he entered her from behind, silently acknowledging the irony of the name of the position and his own title.
Sandor grabbed her long mane, pulling on it at first gently, but as Sansa's moans grew louder, he tugged a bit harder.
His wooden bed was creaking, and Sansa was now holding onto its frame for support.
He grabbed roughly at her tits, pinching her nipples, causing the usually so poised Stark girl to cry out.
Pulling her hair, her head was now level with his. "You like this?" he muttered savagely into her ear. "You like being fucked like a whore?"
Sansa bit her lips but did not respond.
Sandor began to slowly but more deeply penetrate her. Each thrust causing her to jolt forward. "Well?" he demanded harshly, his teeth nipping at her earlobe. "Answer me!"
"Yes," she cried, giving little Ahs! at every achingly slow thrust.
"Yes," she continued, her head hanging low in her aroused state of humiliation. "I like being fucked like a whore."
The Hound yanked her hair back, forcing her to make eye contact with him.
"Say my name."
Sansa gave a shuddering exhale. "Sandor."
"That's right, you bitch," he snarled into her ear.
He picked up the rhythm of his thrusts, his hands grabbing at Sansa's firm buttocks. She was almost doubled over on the bed, not being able to support herself any longer. Eyes closed, mouth open, cheeks flushed, Sansa had surrendered herself to the sensations she was feeling.
Sandor knew he was close. Raising one hand, he loudly slapped Sansa's backside.
"AH!" She threw her head back in equal parts surprise and ecstasy, and then she was coming. "Ah! Sandor!"
Her already tight cunt clenched harder around Sandor's cock, and it took all of the Hound's strength not to come inside her. He pulled his penis out of Sansa, and, stroking it once, spilled his semen on her ass and lower back.
After profusely apologizing and cleaning her up, Sansa's fiery head was lying on his chest, and Sandor thought himself the happiest man on earth, except…
"Sansa, I hope you know I didn't mean any of the things I said."
She raised her head and gave him a bright smile, the skin crinkling around her eyes. "I know that, silly."
The Hound let out a deep sigh. "Good."
Sansa giggled and kissed his chest tenderly. "I meant what I said though."
"I love you."
Sandor caught his breath in his throat. Looking down at the most beautiful girl in all of Westeros, he bestowed on her one of his rare smiles. "And I, you."
And they slept peacefully, entwined with one another.