He leaned into her ear, his voice dropping to a low, vibrant rumble that hummed through her very bones. "I really am fortunate," he muttered, his breath ghosting over her skin as he took in the vision of her. "My bird is gorgeous."
Sansa's back arched instinctively against the furs, her copper hair tangling in the silk pillows as a broken, needy moan escaped her lips. She didn't look away; instead, she reached up, her small, warm hands knotting into the dark strands of his hair to pull him closer. The "Little Dove" was entirely gone, replaced by a woman who looked at him with a raw, hungry relief, crowning her savior in the silence of the North.
"Mmm... a wolf... bullying a poor bird," she whispered, her voice a low, melodic friction of breath and want. The words were punctuated by a shaky, rhythmic hum in her throat—a sound that was half-protest and half-invitation.
Alaric did not leave her waiting for long, his focus shifting from her ear to the perfect, pale curves he had just unveiled. He leaned down, his mouth finally claiming one of the hard, pink peaks he had been teasing through the velvet moments before. The sensation of his warm tongue swirling around the sensitive tip sent a jolt of liquid fire through Sansa's veins.
He was relentless, his mouth moving from one breast to the other with a slow, agonizing rhythm that made the ancient wood of the bed frame let out a sharp, rhythmic creak. Just as she thought she might shatter from the sweetness of it, he grazed the aching point with his teeth, a sharp, possessive nibble that made her breath hitch violently. He caught the peak between his lips, scraping lightly, testing her resistance until her toes curled into the furs.
Sansa's fingers tightened in his dark hair, pulling his head more firmly against her chest as she fought to keep her moans trapped behind her teeth. "Alaric..." she gasped, her voice a frantic thread of sound that vibrated with total surrender.
He looked up at her, his lips glistening in the amber hearthlight, a dark, satisfied grin spreading across his face. Alaric leaned over her, his large frame casting a shadow that blocked out the flickering firelight as he continued to play with the soft weight of her breasts. He used his thumbs to roll the sensitive, aching centers once more.
Sansa's spine snapped taut, her auburn waves spilling wildly across the bedding as she struggled to suppress another desperate cry. Alaric ignored the noise, his focus shifting lower as he moved to prepare her for what was to come. He reached down, his hand settling on the inner curve of her thigh before he slid one finger, then slowly two, into her humid heat.
Sansa's lungs seized, her fingers gripping his hair tight as she tried to brace herself against the sudden, heavy stretch of him. Her heart thudded hard against her chest, and she bit down on her lip to keep from screaming. She was completely overwhelmed by the "brute" who had finally made his way into her bed.
"Mmhmmmmm!"
Alaric froze. The sound cut through the room like a bell, vibrating against the stone walls. He stayed braced on his forearms, eyes locked on hers as the silence turned heavy. Outside, the wind howled, but inside, every second stretched. His [Mini-Map] flared, scanning for red dots—guards or Septas—approaching the door.
Ten seconds. Twenty. Only the hearth crackled.
He slowly withdrew his fingers, the wet slide amplified in the quiet. Sansa watched him, chest heaving, her eyes wide with terror and heat. Before she could whisper an apology, Alaric grabbed a discarded silk scarf from the nightstand. With a swift, clinical motion, he folded the silk and pressed it into her mouth, knotting it firmly behind her head.
"We were almost caught," he whispered, his voice cold. "If your father's guards find me, I lose my head. You lose your honor. If you can't control that voice, I don't know what happens when we reach the main course."
She tried to speak, but only a muffled "Hmm-hmmm!" escaped. Her face flushed crimson as she grabbed his wrists, her glare a silent death threat for the indignity of the gag. He leaned down until their noses touched, that predatory grin returning. "Don't look at me like that, Little Dove."
Alaric didn't let her fury linger. He leaned back on his haunches, eyes locked on her glaring blue ones as he reached between her thighs. Sansa's muffled protests—a series of sharp "Hmm-phmm!" sounds—faltered as he pushed back inside. He didn't use two fingers this time; he used three. His hand was broad and steady, stretching her with a slow deliberation that forced her hips to lift off the furs. The glare in her eyes shattered, the fury drowning in a glassy, overwhelmed haze.
He wasn't finished. As his hand worked with wet precision below, he leaned down to reclaim her breasts. He swirled his tongue around the left nipple, drawing the sensitive bud into his mouth with a low, vibrating growl. On the right, his free hand mimicked the pace, his thumb and forefinger rolling the peak into a hard point.
Sansa's hands stopped pushing at his chest. Her nails dug into the leather of his jerkin, her head thrashing against the silk pillows. Her muffled cries turned from anger into long, desperate whines behind the gag. The silk dampened with her breath, her face flushing a feverish pink that made her hair look like spilled blood against the white sheets.
The tension snapped. Sansa's back arched violently, her heels digging into the furs as a second climax shattered her. Behind the silk, her voice rose in frantic, muffled wails—"MMMM-PHHH! HMMM-MMMM!"—before she dissolved into a trembling heap. Alaric pulled his hand back, the slick friction making her twitch involuntarily.
"Enough playing," he muttered, his voice dropping into a dark, gravelly register. "Time for the main course."