[ She isn't certain what it's meant to mean at first, that soft wet pressure against her lips, the slight exhale of warm breath from Mr. Baelish's nose. Startled and uncertain she draws back for a moment, fingers lifting from his shirt as if caught in the middle of some shameful act. Sansa feels the whole of her face flush in response — not the pleasant tingling rush that kissing Mr. Baelish had brought her, but an overwhelming kind of embarrassement. Had she done something wrong? Was her mouth meant to be wet?
Her blue eyes wide she looks at him for a long moment, her hand moving to touch that wetness as she swipes at it once with her tongue. He tastes of mint and something else, more pervasive, like an undercurrent of sadness. Those pleased prickles return again, replacing her fluster with a more modest blush.
Sansa smiles slowly and then tastes her own lips again. Amazed, she giggles. ] I'm happy, [ she says, such a simple statement and yet — for her kind — nothing short of a miracle. Then, without warning, she claps her arms around Mr. Baelish's shoulders and kisses him again. ]
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Her blue eyes wide she looks at him for a long moment, her hand moving to touch that wetness as she swipes at it once with her tongue. He tastes of mint and something else, more pervasive, like an undercurrent of sadness. Those pleased prickles return again, replacing her fluster with a more modest blush.
Sansa smiles slowly and then tastes her own lips again. Amazed, she giggles. ] I'm happy, [ she says, such a simple statement and yet — for her kind — nothing short of a miracle. Then, without warning, she claps her arms around Mr. Baelish's shoulders and kisses him again. ]