Petyr glanced at the clock on the wall – four-fifteen to the second – before grunting a simple, “Come in.” She was always so punctual, one of her many qualities that at first irked him. Along with the way she had an exact place for her pens and papers on the desks, or the way she would collect her hair (left hand first, up and around the ear, then the right) into a loose braid just before essays. As if her hair would be a distraction to herself as she wrote. Her letters were just as neat, a pretty little cursive that made Petyr groan how neat her spacing was.
The door opened and closed without a sound. Her footsteps short, weaving through the rows of desks. He didn’t stop pretending to read through student essays. Hells, he didn’t even start, realizing the one in his hand was the same as the one at three o’clock. Thursdays did that to him, the anticipation of this lovely straight-A student coming for help on a subject she well-surpassed any other. Even with her neat cursive, each I dotted and each T crossed. Petyr couldn’t deny the girl had a wondrous mind and way with words.
“Mr Baelish?” she repeated when she approached his desk. The strap of her shoulder bag was strangled beneath her grip; the same went for the edge of her sweater. A clean and dark navy that matched the pleated checkers of her skirt, the tautness of her socks, and the ocean of her eyes. This close, Petyr could almost see the waves of the Blackwater cresting and crashing. He could taste the salty air, not nearly as sweet as the salt from his little temptress as she writhed beneath him.
At least, in his dreams.
Petyr leaned back in his chair, lacing his fingers together over his chest. “What is it, Miss Stark? School and clubs have been over since four. I think you best be on your way home before your parents worry.” Not that Petyr had any intention of send his little Sansa home early. Imagine! One night with her – hardly enough to satisfy himself, or her – but one night filled without the all the depravity of the devils writhing in their fiery pits below. Would it be better to take it slow? Fast? Some sort of combination in between? Though, no matter how often (and often was being kind, it was practically a never-ending fantasy, from waking up to rubbing himself to sleep), Petyr had a feeling he wouldn’t be able to contain himself once he got Sansa alone. There would be plenty of time to take it slow later, later. Plenty of time after he got her sweet virgin cunt adjusted to the feel of his cock.
“I was hoping, Mr Baelish,” she began, adjusting her hold on her bag. “If I could have your opinion on the book assignment?” A brief pause before she continued, “I wasn’t sure if we were allowed to pick a book that wasn’t on the list? Or if we were to stick to it?”
Sansa trapped her tongue between her teeth as she fished through her bag, looking for the assignment paper (what else would she be looking for? Idly he hoped for something salacious: a love letter written in those neat curly letters, or even her panties, with further proof that she entered his room without them). Petyr couldn’t help it; he was transfixed by that little sliver of muscle. Transfixed by how it would feel licking the length of his cock, tip to balls. Lapping up the spurts of come from her face. Tasting her own desire from his fingers after he fucked her good.
He coughed again.
“It depends.” Petyr waited until Sansa found the paper tucked in a plastic folder tucking inside another folder. There wasn’t a single crease to it. There was, however, a series of underlines and crosses over the various books on the list, and a few circles with question marks. Most of them were the cliche romances – everything by Jane Austen, The Phantom of the Opera, Wuthering Heights. It almost made him groan like he had the first time he saw her looping L’s. So typically girly . “What’s wrong with these books you’ve circled already?” Petyr looked back up at Sansa, who (unless his imagination was playing tricks with him, again) was standing much closer. Her thighs (unfortunately skirted) pressed against the edge of his desk, one hand fidgeting with the edge of the calendar mat.
Sansa shrugged. “Nothing’s wrong with them, Mr Baelish.” She realized she’d been picking at the calendar and tightened her grip. “I am excited to read them. At least, the ones I haven’t already.”
“Which Austen books haven’t you read yet?” Petyr chimed in, glancing down at the paper. Back up to Sansa.
Her lips pursed, one edge tilted slightly. Quietly, she admitted, “I’ve, um. Read them all already.”
I thought so . Petyr tried to contain his own smile at Sansa’s predictability. “Then how about you read something new? It wouldn’t be fair to other students if you’ve already read the book, would it?”
That got to her. The idea of unfairness always sat uneasy in Sansa’s stomach. Once, Petyr just happened to leave the room during an exam from a summons from the headmaster. He made enough noise walking away from the room, creeping back quiet enough to listen to his students beneath the open window. ‘What are the main themes?’ someone had asked. Others answered, others asked questions. So oblivious to the ruse, Petyr would have flunked them then and there had Tywin not been so anal about making sure students passed. To make the school look good .
Peeking just through the corner of the window, practically everyone was looking over at others’ papers. Someone was straight up copying sentences.
Except Sansa. She sat there, ignoring the rest of the students, and kept her pencil moving.
What a good girl .
Petyr tried to be as subtle as possible in lowering everyone’s grades for that exam except for hers. He couldn’t give her a perfect mark when the rest scraped by with half-marks. Which was even better: Sansa knocked on his door that following Thursday (after her club meetings, which he knew ended just at four). Petyr was too horrible a man to deny that he longed for her alone in his room, even if all they talked about was school.
“No, it wouldn’t be fair,” Sansa admitted, pulling Petyr back to the present.
“So.” Petyr handed her back the paper, leaning back in his chair with a soft squeak . One leg crossed over the other in a feeble attempt to hide his need. “What book have you in mind?”
She bit her lip again as her fingers dug into her bag. It took no time at all before Sansa gingerly placed the book onto his desk. “This one. Or, I hope, if you’ll let me?”
It was from the school’s library (the worn edges more of a giveaway than the sticker on the spine. No way would Sansa manhandle her books like that).
He wanted to laugh. Hysterically. None of that covering his mouth with his hand, none of that swallowing chuckles or biting his lips to keep quiet. A loud, raucous laugh that rattled the windows.
Was this Sansa’s way of tempting him? More so than the school uniform (which wasn’t in her control). More so than when she ran her fingers through her hair, twirling a strand of it around and around her finger. More so than when she peeked up over the papers during silent reading to see if Petyr was watching her. He was, always.
But, Petyr kept that laugh inside his throat. He leaned forward, lifting up the book and flipping through it as if he’d never seen it before. “Lolita, hm? An interesting choice.”
Sansa blushed. Finally realizing what she was doing? Oh, to say she didn’t know already was foolish! Why else would such a good girl swing by her teacher’s office this late, when few (if any) other teachers were in their offices, and even fewer students? Why else would she show up in the morning five minutes before the bell, before the rest of the students piled into their desks, and pretend to read whatever book she had tucked away in her bag as Petyr scribbled out notes for the lecture? Why else would she never take her eyes off of him as she did so?
She knew exactly what she was doing. Even if she didn’t, she did.
“I– I don’t have to– To read it– It’s–" Sansa stammered, trying to remember why she was here. It was adorable. Especially the pink flush that spread across her cheeks. How far did it spread? Down her neck, her chest, over lovely breasts tipped with perky pink nipples?
Petyr forced his gaze on hers, trying not to imagine those nipples and whether they were aching for his touch beneath her sweater. “There’s nothing wrong with expanding your horizons. Although, I suppose it’s not so much that. I would be surprised if you came in with, say, All Quiet on the Western Front, or Lord of the Flies, or Catcher in the Rye.” Petyr wasn’t fond of that whiny boy coming-of-age story. Even if he shared gender with them, those authors had a certain eye-rolling view of the world that he couldn’t quite get into.
“So…” Sansa was twisting her hip, hands clasped behind her back. Petyr wanted to tell her to stop, it was to fucking cute. Worse was the way her teeth dug into her lower lip, as she contemplated her plan . “So, I shouldn’t read it, then?”
“I didn’t say that.” Petyr set the book back down, fingering one of the worn corners. Someone thought it would be hilarious to draw a mustache on the girl’s lips. Classy. “There’s nothing wrong, too, with finding a genre you like and falling in love with it.”
“Don’t you think it’s…” Sansa pursed her lips, pretending to find the words. “...not appropriate for a school report? Since, you didn’t put it on your list originally?”
Is that her excuse? Pathetic. Petyr would have to chide her about it later (much later), but for now, he didn’t care if she pulled a ‘my parents wouldn’t let me read it even though I’m nearly a grown adult, and I’ve likely read or seen much worse than what’s in the book’. Which only made Petyr think (again) what other unsavory media Sansa consumed?
He pushed the thought away. “Miss Stark. There are many inappropriate books, depending on who you ask. I’m sure you know of the banned book list? Nineteen Eighty-Four, To Kill a Mockingbird, Brave New World, Sophie’s Choice. Seven hells, even some schools have banned Harry Potter for it teaching pagan witchcraft . Or, Lord of the Rings for being satanic .” That got a smile from her. “Doubtless, this book–" he tapped on the cover, "–is on many of those lists.”
“I see.” Sansa was biting her lip again, her eyes focused on his finger lying atop the book. Petyr would be lying if he said he was merely absentmindedly tracing the girl’s lips, watching Sansa follow his movements. So damn predictable.
“Still,” he continued, pulling his hand away. “More reason to read the books, I say. They’re banned for a reason , and those reasons are – if I may? – stupid.”
She giggled at that, and Petyr hated how much he loved that sound. Sansa spoke up often (and correctly) in class, but he always had the inkling notion that she was trying too hard. To prove herself, her knowledge. That she belonged her, among the savage court of children and adults who didn’t see the point in a Northern girl learning.
She was stalling for time, Petyr knew. Any other time she came in for help, Sansa went straight to the point (even as she unsuccessfully hid her stares, or the way she cautiously leaned in a little too much as Petyr marked up outlines and notes). And as much as he wanted to egg her on to a satisfying arrangement (one that Petyr was determined to make happen tonight, because going this long into the semester, with her teases and stares, was killing him. There was only so much pleasure to be had with his hand), he waited. Waited for Sansa to admit what she wanted.
“I…” Licking her lips, again, one of her many nervous habits that Petyr picked up on. The same with the way she organized her pens on her desk, the same with the way she flattened out papers or her skirt. Was it presumptuous of him to think all of the nerves came from being around Petyr? Came from all of the lovely little thoughts she must have, swirling in her head?
“Yes, Miss Stark? You’ll need to speak up.”
The quieting blush grew, complimenting the ivory of her skin. It wasn’t an angry red or messy red. It suited her. Almost like how the stain of his desire on her, in her, would suit, too.
“I was hoping, if you want, you could help me, um, understand some of the themes and actions and meanings of the story? Since it’s...not exactly like the books I’ve read before.”
Everyone knew how astute Sansa was in her writing. The other students in the class hated how on point her analyses were, that was obvious. They’d think Petyr was favoring her had she not caught on to themes that no other students did. And her writing itself. Far above the level expected. She was going to make a brilliant professor or writer one day.
More obvious was Sansa’s little game. Petyr placed his chin in one hand, as if bored. Nothing could be further from the truth – just look at the hardness between his thighs. “You want my help, is that it?”
Sansa nodded. “Yes, please. But only if you’ll have me.”
I’ll have you any which way, over and over again until you can’t walk .
It was Petyr’s turn to pretend to think. As if he hadn’t a million and one ideas of how he could help Sansa, none of them involving literary analysis and symbolism. He scratched at the line of his jaw. “How about… Well, you want some help with the themes, is that it? With getting into the characters’ heads and understanding their motivation?” Sansa nodded, her face perking up at how easily Petyr understood her. If only she knew. He made a show of snapping his fingers in an A-ha! sudden moment. As if he hadn’t already imagined this little fantasy of his. Several times. “I think I’ve an idea, Miss Stark. Although, I’ll be needing your cooperation , if you will. At least, for the first chapter. A bit of a–" he waved his hand in the air, "–realistic experience.”
Maybe it wasn’t exactly what Sansa had been expecting. Her brows creased, her tongue slowly working over her bottom lip (Petyr simultaneously hoped she was as slow and much faster as she worked over his cock). “A... realistic experience ?”
Surely Sansa knew what Petyr was alluding to. Surely Sansa knew what she was getting into the moment she knocked on Petyr’s door and carefully set that damning book on his desk.
She could say no . Walk away and pretend that the last several minutes didn’t happen. Return the book to the library and pick a more sensible one for a girl her age and stature.
But Petyr knew she wouldn’t.
“I…” Sansa trailed off. Her thinking it over didn’t mean she was against it, even if she wasn’t entirely sure what Petyr had in mind. She could ask. But those truths might actually make her run away. Gods knew Petyr wanted anything but that.
What ? He wanted to scream, watching Sansa debate. The morals hammered into her since before she even knew how to walk, against the desire that had her sneaking glances of her teacher and choosing to come to his office (alone!) long after most other students were gone. Tell me, Sansa, do you imagine all the wicked these I want to do to you, too?
Sansa looked up at him, startled by his brusque words.
Petyr wanted, needed , Sansa to say what she wanted him to do to her. All of the things she imagined – where his hands would roam over her body; where he would kiss her, tasting the growing saltiness of her skin; where he might take her for her first, here in his office, or sneaking between bedsheets in his room?
“Say. What. You. Want.” Petyr enunciated each word, leaning closer towards her. Reaching with a hand to where her thighs pressed against the edge of his desk. Not touching her, not yet. But feeling the lovely heat emanating off her through her skirt. Watching as she (involuntarily or no) pressed just that much harder into the desk. Because if he was wrong? If Sansa actually was a good girl with pure intentions and a chaste cunt, well, Petyr didn’t feel like updating his resume right now.
“ Please what?”
Even though this was as much her idea as it was his, Petyr couldn’t deny the pleasure he felt at watching Sansa squirm. Gods, what he wouldn’t give to see her squirm, beneath him, naked, and urging him deeper .
She inhaled, holding the breath for a long while as though it gave her courage to admit that she was yearning for this, too. “Please, Mr Baelish. Can you… Can you please tutor me?”
“Of course, Miss Stark.” He didn’t need a mirror to know the look he gave her was dark and full of dark anticipation.
Petyr moved to lock the door, peering out through the little window beside it. The hall was clear. He didn’t hear any footsteps or voices, though he knew there were still other teachers around. Petyr wasn’t the worst when it came to staying late, no matter how hard he tried. Ever the atheist, he sent a prayer to the Stranger to let them pass this night without being caught.
“You may begin,” he said once he reached Sansa. She sat with her legs uncrossed on his desk. The hem of her skirt high enough to reveal half of her lovely, milky thighs. Unmarred, save for a beauty mark on the inside of the left one. And only several inches above that sat the gem of his student. How wet was she? How weak would she be the moment Petyr caressed her lips through her underwear? Or skin to skin, dipping inside her and devouring her sounds, her taste?
Strike him down now – Petyr wasn’t going to survive this.
Sansa (he realized once he dragged his hungry gaze back up to her face) had been watching him all the while, the book limp in her hands. She watched him, too, as he approached her. Standing such that her knees brushed lightly against his thighs. He Petyr nodded again, afraid what unkind sounds might fall from his lips should he open his mouth.
She licked her lips again, cleared her throat again. Broke contact as she began. “‘Lolita, or the Confessions of’–"
“Skip the foreword,” Petyr interrupted. “For now. It’s important you go back and read it after our session , but I’d much rather begin with chapter one.” He smiled at her – a smile – as though he did have the purest intentions in the world right now.
What would his lovely Sansa Stark think of him later? Anyone who’s actually read the book would know the only truth of it comes from those two pages of foreword. The truth of one mister Humbert Humbert. An imaginary monster who – in the words of the imaginary psychologist – was abnormal , who was not a gentleman . Whose confession written as eloquently and tenderly of the girl in question does not absolve him from sins of diabolical cunning .
Petyr tried to ignore that. For now.
She cleared her throat again, shaky finger flipping ahead until a big black 1 sat on the top of the page. There was a coffee stain on the bottom of the sheet. Sansa cleared her throat again, again, stalling. And finally: “‘Lolita, light of my life’–"
Petyr touched her knees, brushing his fingertips against the seam between her socks and skin. He gently tugged one down, hardly half and inch. Sansa gasped, the sound filling the room rather than her sweet words.
Petyr (loathe as he was to do it) pulled his hands away. Sansa blinked her eyes at him, half in a daze and half in confusion. The very tips of her knuckles were white already, clutching the book tightly. Petyr slowly licked his lips before saying, simply, “If you stop, Miss Stark, I stop.”
She looked perturbed by this sudden predicament she found herself in. A bit of logic and reason worming their way through this brash fantasy of hers. But Sansa nodded all the same.
“‘Lolita’–" she began again. If Sansa thought she was going to get through one paragraph without interruptions, oh, she was more foolish than Petyr was to do this sort of thing on campus. "–’light of my life, fire of my loins’.”
He brushed over her knees again, relishing in the softness of her skin. The warmth. He would have loved to slowly peel off her clothes – her socks, along with her shoes; the dark navy sweater and the ironed shirt, one button undone at a time, sloughing it off to reveal porcelain skin and breasts covered only by a simple bra; the zip of her skirt, one tooth lowered at a time until Petyr could easily slide it off her now-bare legs. His lovely student, sitting in just her underwear, awaiting his touch and depravity.
Unfortunately, the first chapter was short. Too short, now that Petyr was racing against her words. The slowness would have to wait for another time.
“‘My sin, my… my soul’.”
Petyr trailed up the tops of her thighs, reaching the skirt he too-often imagined pulling down her legs, or bunching up around her waist as he dipped his cock in from behind. Too many fantasies to admit to them all. He circled his right hand to brush over the mark on her skin.
“‘Lo- lee -’” Sansa shuddered. "–’ta: the tip of the,’–" Petyr grabbed hold of her skirt’s hem, rising it up along her thighs inch by agonizing inch. Stopping as per his rule (though he suddenly hated it now). Waiting for Sansa to understand the agony of her own desire was in the hands of her words. She looked down at his hands pressed against her skin – how often had she imagined the same scenario? – before looking back up to Petyr. Her cheeks were pink, eyes dark. "–’the tip of the, tongue taking a trip of three steps down the palate to tap, at three, on the teeth’.”
Petyr silently motioned Sansa to lift her ass, pulling the skirt up to rest bunched up around her waist. Sansa wore simple white cotton between her legs, the front of which was considerably dark with desire. He loved how much he felt the corners of his lips tug up into some wicked semblance of a smile.
His fingers trailed from her skirt down the outside of her thighs.
Up the inside, feeling Sansa’s legs tremble the closer he got.
Pressed against the damning wetness of her desire. Petyr loved even more the breathy moan that replaced her words, her reason. He felt his cock twitch, loving the sound too much, loving the way Sansa’s eyes half-closed in desire. Loving the fact that his touch (and so brief a touch it was!) did this to her.
Petyr asked her (though is gaze was understandably caught on the sight of his thumb against her), “Do you still wish to continue your lesson , Miss Stark?” Because he would regrettably understand if she had a sudden realization that the Petyr Baelish of her nighttime desires should have stayed there in her mind as her fingers explored the different sorts of moans elicited against breasts or inside cunt.
“Y-yes,” Sansa managed, and it wasn’t until Petyr finally deigned to look up at her did he realize this studious, bookish, gods-fearing student of his (who never forgot her please’s and thank you’s) had more difficulty pulling her gaze away from Petyr thumb against her cunt. He decided to reward her for her lovely darkness, running the pad of his finger up her slit to the hard little nub of her clit beneath her underwear. Sansa’s breath hitched.
“Yes what , Miss Stark?” Because he was an asshole like that.
“Yes, I want to continue. Please , Mr Baelish.”
He dug into the cotton just enough, until her thighs clenched around his hand. The sharpness of her desire filled his nose. “Good girl. You may continue.”
Petyr knew Sansa was (somehow) continuing their little ruse. He caught wind of a word here and there. But more he caught wind of the way Sansa’s breath would catch, of the fact she often had to start sentences over (and over, and over) again. There were four little paragraphs to the chapter, and gods if it didn’t feel like an age.
He moved forward until the front of his legs dug into the edge of the desk, preventing Sansa from closing her legs (in modesty or despair). His left hand wrapped around her thigh, fingers dipping beneath the edge of her underwear, as his right continued to slowly torment Sansa.
Running up and down the length of her slit, feeling the cotton grow wetter and wetter with each pass. When Sansa’s hips began to roll in tune with his hand, Petyr would move up and toy with her clit, earning a surprised sigh and the feeling of her legs pushing against his sides. Back and forth between those actions, never staying with one for long enough for Sansa to work his hand towards a steady orgasm.
The fabric of her underwear was slowly, gradually, pushed in between her lips, revealing the outside of her sweet cunt to Petyr. Dark auburn curls to match the silky tresses of above (ones that Petyr would be a liar to say he never once thought about tangle his fingers in as he guided her head down between his thighs, as he tossed his own head back and fucked her mouth with a certain wild abandon that rivaled monsters).
The fingers of his left hand rolled around her thigh, cupping her ass, pulling her against his other hand as he continued to torment her cunt. He heard it in the way Sansa’s words were less coherent and more breaths, hot against his face and tasting like citrus. Petyr wanted nothing more than to swallow her moans. But even that – despite what he was currently doing to her – seemed like a violation.
Next time, and away from any prying eyes.
Petyr leant in to bit her jaw, brushing away the tangle of her curls with his nose. Her skin here was soft, too. He smelled the orange of her shampoo and the lemon of her lotion. And beneath all that was the sweet saltiness of Sansa.
He moved his head away, afraid what he might do.
Petyr pulled the soaked bit of her cotton aside, loving the way her lips were pink and glistening. Aching for him. For the truth of fingers she imagined whilst in bed, covering her sighs in her pillow. Who was he to deny this lovely creature a dip into fantasy?
Sansa had time enough to catch her breath. “‘You can always count on a murderer for a fancy prose style’.” And you can always count on a mad school teacher to drag the prettiest girl in his class down through his darkest desires . It did help that the girl in questions was just as willing to take his hand for the long, long, long descent down.
Oh, what a wonder Sansa Stark was!
Petyr watched as his dipped one finger into her cunt, listening to the growing sigh escape Sansa’s lips until his knuckles pressed against the lips. She seemed to forget the book in her hands, and the dim hall behind the window hardly fifteen feet away, and whatever niceties her Septas and parents droned into her head about avoiding desire and staying the pure, chaste thing until marriage.
None of that mattered as Petyr pulled his finger out to the tip, moving to circle her clit, before diving back in all the way. None of that mattered as Sansa rolled her hips when she understood the rhythm (a rhythm Petyr was willing to keep steady, all for the sake of her release, growing in the way her breaths were shorter). The fact that she was underaged. The fact that he was her teacher. The fact that Petyr had to rub himself against the desk to ease the ache in his cock else he abandon all regards for propriety (or what was left) and sink himself in.
None of that mattered.
Petyr bit at her jaw again, up to her ear. “Keep reading, sweetling,” he whispered into her, hearing his desire in the ragged way the words fell from his lips. “I won’t let you come unless you finish.”
Those printed words must be foreign to her. Sansa could hardly make sense of what was on the page, especially when Petyr pulled back his hand enough to push a second finger inside of her. He relished the way her cunt squeezed around him, relished in the fact she moaned right against his ear. He could come from that sound alone.
“Come on, sweetling,” he urged, emphasising it with a quick thrust of his hand.
“‘Ladies and...and…’” Sansa tried to say. Too lost in the feel of Petyr’s fingers, too lost in the growing numbness before an orgasm. The weightlessness. The way nothing else mattered except for reaching that warm, exploding peak. Oh, how Sansa tried to focus on her goal, but her body desired nothing else save for the warm rush of release.
Still, she tried, and it was admirable enough. “‘Ladies and gentlemen… of the, the, the, jury…”
Petyr released his left hand from her ass (hoping there were five dark circles in the morning, a lovely reminder of their shared sin), snaking its way beneath her sweater to grip at her breasts. Through her shirt and bra, Petyr felt how hard her nipple was. He toyed with it, pinching it until it grew even harder. Sansa closed her legs tighter against his.
Marks on her ass were one thing. Nibbling on her jaw, her throat – leaving an angry red and purple spot to show Sansa was claimed – was something else entirely. A thought that had his cock aching worse than it was already. And as much as Petyr yearned to leave bits of himself on her (bruises, the scent of his own come), Petyr yearned not to get fired for this. Especially not before he had his fill.
So Petyr traveled down her neck, biting her shoulder through the thickness of the sweater. Enough that he would have claimed her. And really, some dark part of him hoped he did leave something, the shadow of a mark gone by tomorrow, to prove that this horridly wicked thing between them was alive and wonderful and fucking amazing.
Sansa was still working to get the last few words out (she was on the final paragraph already). He worked at her breast, her cunt. Loving each word she broke off midway in favor of a moan, of a half-spoken plea for more and yes and please .
She was so close, so close, Petyr could feel it. The desk creaked from their combined motions, the wetness of her cunt wrapped around his fingers. Her hips weren’t rolling in tune with him anymore. Moving as a means to an end. Frantically searching for her release, determined not to stop until she crested it and relished in the overwhelming bliss.
Who was Petyr to deny his student something like that?
The torment was enough, he decided. Petyr continued to thrust inside of her. Maneuvering his hand to rub her clit with his thumb. Her short moans caught in her throat. In less than three frantic heartbeats before Sansa was moaning her release, her cunt clenching around him as she let it overtake her.
Petyr slowly continued his thrusts, helping her ride out her orgasm for as long as possible. He realized she’d been gripping onto his wrists with one of her hands, the other lolling atop the desk with the book forgotten.
He moved his head back and looked at her. The flush to her cheeks (almost a match to her hair). The fact that it was too much work to keep her eyes open. Beneath the sweater, her chest heaved; Petyr felt her her heartbeat through his hand, still gripped around her breast. Still brushing against the nipple as he loved the way she looked.
Used. Spent. Content.
Because of him.
Oh, nothing quite inflated a man’s ego as much as the power of bringing a woman to orgasm. Especially if he did it without his cock.
Sansa’s breath was hot and heavy against his skin. The waves of her release subsiding into a numb peacefulness. Quietly, hardly words in the air, she finished the chapter: “‘Look at this tangle of thorns’.”
He did. The tangle of her underwear – thoroughly soaked – and his fingers. The glint of her come on her lips, her hair, his desk. The sharpness of it filling his nose, urging him to dip his head down and taste the divine nectar from the source itself. Petyr knew how wonderful she felt. And Petyr knew how wonderful she would taste.
He didn’t, not now. Petyr untangled his fingers from inside her and licked them clean, not letting a single drop of it go to waste. Eventually, Sansa had the energy to open her eyes. She watched transfixed as Petyr cleaned himself of her come. Imagining (he was sure) the way his tongue would feel against her cunt. Inside it.
A task Petyr was oh too willing to do for her.
Gods, she tasted divine.
Gods, she was so beautiful. So beautiful, beautiful, beautiful.
His cock was still hard, the friction against the desk enough to simultaneously stave off the desire to plunge inside her, and work him to the point where a few jerks of his hand would have him coming, too. As much as he wondered if Sansa thought about touching him, too (and with more than her hands?), Petyr knew it was best not to tempt fate. The gods were kind enough to let them go unseen now. One more foray into wickedness, and Petyr was only asking to be fired. Or worse.
“You were wonderful, Miss Stark,” he said, knowing full well how much Sansa relished in praise. Her cheeks flushed again, and it was just as lovely as when they were full of desire. Petyr adjusted her skirt down her thighs, not wanting or willing to let her go. His fingers hovered over her knees, the left sock was still pushed down that half inch. Petyr fixed that, too.
He watched her, acting as though he wasn’t fazed by what he’d done at all. It only took one look at the pitch darkness to his eyes, or even the hardness between his legs, to know otherwise.
“If you ever come across any other difficult passages, Miss Stark,” he began, thankful that his voice sounded as normal as possible. “You’re welcome to come in for more tutoring. Does this time next week work for you?”
Sansa was still in a daze – the calming emptiness after an orgasm, the sudden realization what she (and Petyr) had just done. But her mind was clear enough to nod, to smile at him as she collected her bag and the damning book. “Of– of course, Mr Baelish. I think I can, um, make time for tutoring next week. And...”
He smiled at her, knowing full well exactly what sat on the tip of her tongue. “Yes?”
“And…” She pursed her lips, looking away. Embarrassed now ? After she writhed and mewled beneath his touch like a whore? “Would future tutoring sessions include, um. More lessons?”
He continued to smile, but it was far from kind now. “I think we could make time for that, yes.”
She was smiling now, and gods strike him down – Petyr could die the happiest, wickedest man right now. “Then I look forward to the next lesson, Mr Baelish.”
Always so studious and eager to please, his Sansa. Always so willing to learn new things.
Like the shape of his cock, or the way it felt as he took her for the first time.
Oh yes, Petyr couldn’t wait until their next lesson.