[ Sansa tries to laugh — light, so the sound carries proper, the way a normal laugh would — but the air gets caught up in her throat as she pulls the thin fabric of her underwear to one side and feels the cool air tickle against the wetness there. She wants to giggle at the sensation, but she can't, her head fizzling with both adrenaline and arousal as she teases herself with the suggestion of slipping an overeager finger inside (these days she doesn't touch herself unless Petyr's watching, doesn't allow herself that kind of satisfaction unless he's given it to her or wrung it from her). It's nearly enough to derail her, her foot stilling against Petyr momentarily before finally starting up again.
Though she doesn't ask for permission, her eyes beg for it regardless. (Even when she vies for the upperhand, Sansa still needs his approval, his unmitigated ugliness and desire. At the end of the day, that was the whole point and without it, she had nothing.) ] I'll take care of Bran— [ Another caught breath, her hand still teasing, teasing. ] —if you take care of me.
no subject
Though she doesn't ask for permission, her eyes beg for it regardless. (Even when she vies for the upperhand, Sansa still needs his approval, his unmitigated ugliness and desire. At the end of the day, that was the whole point and without it, she had nothing.) ] I'll take care of Bran— [ Another caught breath, her hand still teasing, teasing. ] —if you take care of me.