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The hour grows late- he watches the lanterns wane, the tremulous light closer to death with every passing moment. In spite of her concentration, he suspects that the girl is tired; it’s the tension in her shoulders, the way her throat expands as she tries and fails to conceal her yawns. And indeed, he feels weary himself. It surprises him, when he lowers his left hand and lets it ghost over his cock, that he’s managed to stay hard so long- he is a Man of Certain Years, after all.
But there is to be no sleep, no rest, no end. Not until she has it exact…not until she has it right.
Her tiny hands trace the pattern he’s shown her, again and again and again. He had to guide her for a time, grasping her right wrist with his left hand and expecting her to mirror the motions on the other side (he had tried with the golden hand, tried holding her left hand in place and pushing it along the path, but it proved ineffectual, and he gave it up with a cross huff, leaving a lavender bruise on her wristbone). But she does it on her own now, brushing the pads of her thumbs over his cheekbones before moving down to caress the column of his throat and the grooves of his clavicle, then raking her nails through the hair on his chest (gently, carefully, never enough to leave marks or draw blood- that’s a lesson for another time). Then she pinches his nipples between her thumbs and forefingers, rolling once, twice…then dipping her head down to suck the right nipple into her mouth….tongue flicks once, twice…light scrape of the teeth, then up again.
Jaime combs his fingers through her hair- the wrong color, of course, but she’s taken direction so well, has tried so hard…he has to give her something. She looks up, blue eyes eager and anxious, and when he inclines his chin in a slight nod, her face splits into a painfully childish grin.
(It puzzles him, her constant need for validation. Cersei would never, Cersei would know without being told, she wore him like a second skin, understood his body, his desires, every bit of flesh and bone and blood- his breath her breath, his heart her heart…)
He lies naked beneath her; he can feel the burgeoning wetness of her cunt on his lower belly, and he’s sure she can feel his stiff cock prodding the softness of her arse. She hovers for an uncertain moment, wetting her lips with the tip of her tongue. But when she starts to shift downward, he wraps his fingers around the base of her jaw, a thrill rippling in his belly at her breathy, startled gasp.
He makes her practice on his fingers first. She sucks the long index and middle fingers into her mouth- he keeps the golden hand on the back of her skull, ready to push her forward and guide her back, to correct her rhythm until it’s perfect, until it’s right. But there’s no need- she takes to this task with great aplomb, with the knowledge that can only come from experience. And it vexes him to realize that he has something in common with one as base and vile and despicable as Petyr Baelish.
Before that thought can nestle too deep into his mind and put him off altogether, he drops his hand and nods his acquiescence. And in an instant, she slides down his body and takes his cock between her lips.
Jaime’s head falls back, and he releases a low groan as he grasps the rough-spun coverlet and drapes it over the girl’s body, obscuring her from view.
(She doesn’t bristle anymore, makes no peep of objection- she knows now what to expect.)
Yes. This is right. The pleasure heats the space between his temples, heady and buzzing and immediate and intoxicating. The long sweeps of the tip of her tongue over the underside of his shaft….the way she suckles the head like a honey sweet…the way she wraps her hand around him and pumps up and down in perfect time as she licks and teases his balls…
He thinks of Cersei, humbled before him, her knees grinding into the parapets as she kneels and lets him fuck her mouth- she could be accommodating, his willful sister, when it suited her fancy. He feels his cock pulse beneath the girl’s tongue- but then his mind darts away, landing elsewhere, returning to a day not so long ago, when he’d put down his tankard of ale and unlaced his breeches and spread his legs wide, his lips shaping barbed words of invitation to the wench. And oh, how Brienne’s face flushed, how her hands twitched, how her words faltered…
But she passed the test (and it was a test), rejecting his advances. Dear Brienne, the one paragon of virtue in this faithless world, where everyone else falls short, where everyone else disappoints. Cersei, Tyrion, Father…
And, of course, the fair maiden, the lost princess, the innocent damsel. His last chance for honor kneels over him naked, sucking his cock like a whore would (exactly like the only whore he’s ever known, the only woman he’s ever taken into his bed).
There are no words of warning before he shoots into the girl’s pretty pink mouth. She squirms out from under the coverlet, her cheeks puffed, eyes darting about in search of a basin.
And he usually lets her spit, for he knows how little she likes the taste of seed. But not this time- this time, she will choke it down as a slattern would do (as Cersei had always done).
He presses his palm to her mouth and holds her in place until she swallows. And when he kisses her, he tastes his pleasure on her lips and licks his shame from her tongue.