Chapter Text
Sansa stands before Jon, nervously pulling down the hem of her red dress.
It’s higher than what she’d usually dare to wear, designed with women younger than her in mind, but she’d put this prototype on to show Jon because she loves the bateau neckline of it and wants to know if the dress is as nice as she thinks it is.
Or, well, sexy, really, is what she’s actually going for. That’s why she’d brought up the hem of it.
Wearing it now, that feels like too bold a move, and she wishes she’d kept the original just-below-mid-thigh length. But she’d wanted to do something a little more risqué, something out of what she’s used to, because Louis Vuitton had had a specific image that Sansa – or any other designer – couldn’t deviate from. Now she’s running her own little business, that’s going pretty well, she can design whatever she wants.
“Stop fidgeting,” Jon says, frowning at her and reaching over to push her hand away from her legs. “I can’t see it properly.”
She straightens up, resisting the urge to cross her arms across her stomach because even though she’s still going very strong at Arya’s gym, she never wears bodycon dresses, or tight shirts, or anything as figure hugging as this. It’s . . . been a while. A long while. And some days – and in some outfits – it’s harder to ignore the occasional niggling voice of her ex-husband telling her she looks like shit in something.
“Turn around,” Jon tells her, still frowning.
“You hate it,” Sansa groans, not bothering to turn around. She pulls at the hem again, then sighs heavily. “I’ll just take it off and start working on something else.”
“I do not hate it,” Jon responds vehemently, pulling on her hand again to release her grip. “But there’s just something . . . missing.”
Sansa sighs again. “I don’t know what else to do with it. I think I will just scrap it.”
“No, I don’t think you should,” Jon disagrees, shaking his head and pillowing his chin in his palm. “I’d say if I thought that.”
“Yeah, I know,” Sansa replies on a sigh, and she does, but it’s not exactly helpful.
“Put some shoes on,” Jon suggests. “Heels.”
Sansa bites the inside of her cheek, thinking that she really should just stop wasting her time on this design and move on to another, one that she can very happily put up for sale on her little website and trust that any customer who buys it will be ecstatic. But Jon is being so adorably helpful that she can’t bring herself to say anything.
He’s just too cute.
Still, she drags her feet to her closet, a walk-in robe that she’d considered not putting in during her renovation but that brings her joy every morning, then closes the door behind her. She avoids looking in the mirror, and goes straight to her rack of shoes, already knowing that her Louboutins will go fantastically with this, the red sole of them matching the red of the dress.
She hasn’t bought a new pair of Louboutins in years, and hardly ever wears the ones she brought home from King’s Landing with her, but she loves them. She loves them a lot. Maybe her customers will have their own set, maybe they won’t, but she’s putting on a show for Jon so she’ll pick something nice.
And if he wants heels, Sansa will bring out her favourite pair.
She slips them on, then sets her shoulders back and juts her hips forward, like she was taught is the best way to make clothes look good on anyone, then struts out of her wardrobe like she’s on a runway.
Jon looks up from his phone, and it slips between his fingers and into his lap, while his mouth parts and his brows shoot up.
Emboldened, Sansa turns on the spot, putting one hand on her hip and using the other to pull her hair over her shoulder.
Jon groans, and then he says, voice deep, “Keep it. Definitely keep it.”
Sansa can’t help but laugh and turn back to him, dropping the posture as she does.
“ Gods I love your legs,” Jon says, no laugh to him at all.
His eyes are focused on them, and just to tease him she points out one leg, toes down, gracing her fingertips over the dip in her thigh. Sansa grins widely, insanely pleased with herself.
Yeah. She loves telling that stupid voice of her ex-husband to go fuck itself.
Jon reaches out for her, curling his palms around her legs and pulling her to him. He nudges his nose against the line of her dress, and Sansa is smiling at his enthusiasm, right up until he opens his mouth, breath hot on her skin, and pushes her dress up with his thumbs.
She’d not put any panties on, in an effort to make the dress look as good as possible, and it gives Jon the opportunity to swipe his tongue straight up her slit. Sansa leans into him, fingers spearing through his curls and pressing his face closer to her.
Jon resists her, pulling his head back and looking up at her.
“Keep the heels on.”
His breathless instructions make a smirk play on her lips. She so rarely is the one in charge in bed, because neither of them prefer it, but every now and then the urge strikes her, and his request has sparked such an interest.
Sansa pushes back on his chest so that he’s laying flat, then crawls up his body, brackets her elbows either side of his head, knees either side of his hips, feet stuck in the air and crossed at the ankles.
“You like these heels, baby?” Sansa whispers, following the curve of his cheekbone with the tip of her nose.
Jon’s hands fly to her waist as he pants against her mouth, nodding eagerly.
“Ah, ah,” she tuts, leaning all her weight onto one elbow and using her spare hand to push his grip from her body. “No touching yet. Otherwise I won’t fuck you. Don’t you want my cunt, my love?”
“Yes,” he replies on a strangled croak. “I do, so badly, Sans.”
“Then drop your hands.”
He groans but does as he’s told, and she smiles against his cheek. “Good boy. Keep them there and I’ll reward you.”
Sansa pushes herself up onto her knees then walks herself forward, spreading her legs further apart to lower herself onto his mouth.
“Make me come, baby.”
And oh Jon doesn’t need to be told twice.
He swipes his tongue against her, flat and slow, and then sucks her clit into his mouth. Sansa’s eyes slip closed, a breathy sigh escaping her mouth as her head falls back. Jon sucks, hard, then circles his tongue around her clit, ‘round and ‘round, ‘til she’s groaning and rocking her hips.
His hands find her thighs, fingers digging in to her skin, and then one slides up and up, fingernails dragging over her arse, and then up further, to her waist, thumb tracing the bone of her hip.
Sansa bucks her hips, once, twice, feverishly remembering why she prefers Jon being in charge – because now he’s disobeyed her, and she has to follow through on his punishment, even though she wants nothing more than for him to keep his mouth on her pussy.
With a deep breath, Sansa lifts onto her knees, opening her eyes to watch Jon blink up at her with glazed eyes, an indignant, “ Hey,” dropping from his wet mouth.
“No touching,” she tries to command, but it sounds weak, even to her.
Her legs are shaking, quivering from the pleasure Jon had been giving her a moment before, and Jon takes the opportunity to lift his head up, brow raised at her as he takes a long, deliberate lick of her pussy.
“I disagree,” he murmurs, setting his gaze back to her cunt.
Jon lifts both his hands to her hips, and then he sets about turning them over; pushing her over until she’s on her back, then settling between her splayed legs.
He puts his mouth back on her clit with no objection from her – damn him and his penchant for this – and then she’s right back when she left off before her doomed attempt at following through on her words. She feels herself on the precipice, back arching as Jon works her in that way that he is so familiar with now, and then she is crying out loudly as he pushes her over the edge.
Pleasure rolls through her, tightening the muscles in her stomach, opening her mouth into a long, gasping moan, and making her clamp her thighs either side of Jon’s head.
He slows down as she starts to come out the other side, not as fast and purposeful with his movements, and it’s not until he stops entirely and pulls his mouth away that Sansa slumps down onto the bed.
Her legs fall open a little further as she wets her lips, lifting one hand to wipe her hair away from her damp forehead.
“No touching,” Jon repeats with a little scoff, though there’s no real heat to it. She can feel him moving, and then hears his belt unbuckling. Sansa slowly opens her eyes to look up at him, biting her lip when she sees him kneeling above her, slowly pulling at his cock as he looks over her body.
“Gods, you look so perfect like this Sans,” Jon murmurs. “All dressed up for me, but so messed up, too.”
He leans over her, propping himself up on one elbow, sliding his cock over her wet cunt. Sansa gasps, still panting from her orgasm, and then he’s pushing inside her and her back is arching again. Oh, she’ll never get enough of this, of the way he feels inside her, the way he always groans and immediately starts to breathe harder, she’ll always want this, for the rest of her life –
Jon shifts, pulling out slightly, only to ram back into her. A strangled cry escapes her, and then she winds her fingers into his hair, pulling at it until he leans down to bite her shoulder.
“This dress is perfect,” Jon says, then licks over his bite and thrusts into her again. “Perfect to bite at your shoulders . . . your throat . . .”
He sucks on her skin, still only rolling his hips slowly, and her eyes roll back, whimpering again.
“Oh, gods, Jon,” she moans, “harder, harder, please.”
“Could do with easier access to your tits, though,” Jon says, as if he hadn’t heard her, reaching down with one hand to palm at her breast, squeezing and rolling.
“ Jon ,” Sansa gasps, pulling at his hair again, “please, gods, fuck me, fuck me!”
That seems to do the trick, because Jon nibbles at her throat again and then starts to really fuck her, hard and fast, pounding into her with such ferocity that each thrust shifts her back up the bed until her head is hanging over the edge.
That doesn’t deter Jon though, he just sits up, pressing his palms down on her waist hard enough to keep her in place, his belt buckle and waist of his pants hitting the backs of her thighs with each hard thrust.
Jon comes quickly, but so does she, on a gasp and with his deep voice groaning, “Gods, yes, come for me Sansa, come for me.”
He lays atop her for a few long minutes, the two of them panting and letting their bodies cool down.
“I can’t sell this now.”
Jon laughs, a cute little thing, which makes Sansa smile.
“Fine with me,” he says. “Now you can keep it and I can fuck you in it again.”
Sansa laughs this time, rolling her eyes at him. “Should I keep the design, do you think?”
“I think it looks great, honestly, and I do like the simplicity of it, but if you wanted to add something more you could do a belt. Or a bow or something.”
The suggestion immediately makes a million ideas bloom in her head; a black sash around the waist, a giant bow across a shoulder, lowering the backline and putting a bow at the small of the back.
But –
“Thanks for your help, Jon. I . . . You’re always so thoughtful.”
Jon lifts his head to press a gentle kiss to her lips, and then he rolls off her, laying his head on her shoulder.
“Well, why wouldn’t I be?” he says finally, resting his arm over her waist. “You’re asking my opinion on your work. It’s important.”
Sansa turns her head, letting her lips brush over the top of his head.
“I love you.”
“I love you, too.”