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The sun is setting, and it’s quieter than it has been all day, all weekend really. This is Sansa’s favorite time at the track; there’s always a little bit of magic to it, especially when things have gone well as they have this weekend, that feeling of exhaustion mixed with accomplishment.
Sansa sings as they clean up and flits around, telling people to go enjoy the night, that whatever else they’re doing can wait til morning. It’s not far to Oldtown, where they’ll set up this whole circus and do it all over again. That part is routine by now; the feeling of winning is not.
The last rays of light fall as the sun sinks beyond the horizon, and Sansa closes the shades around the garage. Even though it’s getting dark, unlike back in Winterfell the night air is still warm in Dorne, and she pulls her dress away from where it sticks to her skin. It’s an unconventional fashion choice here, sure, but it has everything to do with her comfort and nothing to do with the fact that she anticipated perhaps Jon would stop by tonight, no, nope, nothing at all.
She glances over her shoulder and sees Jon remains among the dwindling crowd. He’s long since changed out of his race suit from earlier, and he’s now even shed the glaring, bright yellow hi-vis shirt he wore as most of the larger equipment was moved to the trucks outside, and he’s left just wearing a thin white t-shirt with the Direwolf name across the chest and dark shorts.
Sansa knows she should be doing about ten other things at the moment—there’s never a dearth of things to do after a race, not with the kinds of schedules they keep, every second meticulously planned. But instead she stands there, riveted by the sight of Jon talking and laughing with the crew, cleaning and loading crates, even though she should be used to it by now.
She supposes for him it’s a habit that is dying hard. Jon hadn’t had a dad to work on his car or money to hire someone or replace parts when things went wrong, so he’d learned to do a lot on his own until Robb had befriended him and then the Starks had taken him in as one of their own. Maybe he thought now he could repay them some this way, as though today hadn’t been enough. Still, she’s surprised to see him here late tonight of all nights.
Jon’s just a driver, she reminds herself. It was so cliché, truly. They’ve had a lot of those race for their team over the years, and Sansa had sworn off them after her brief fling with Waymar years ago. She’d been utterly besotted the first time she saw him in the grey and white Direwolf colors, and he’d been all she wanted—cool, worldly, exciting—at least for a little while. She should have learned her lesson then, after she’d caught Waymar’s interest with such ease, but unfortunately it took until she discovered so did every other girl who threw herself at him and that he had no qualms about returning their affections despite what he’d promised to another.
That’s not the Jon she knows, though. The Jon she knows has worked his whole life to reach this point, and she knows he’s not willing to risk his career for anything, especially not those kinds of distractions, not when he’d grown up watching Lyanna work several jobs just to keep him racing and waiting for the day funding would run out, when no more sponsors would be willing to lend their support.
So sure, maybe she doesn’t see Jon the same as everyone else since he had been Robb’s friend first, but there’s been a few of those around before, too. He seems more at ease discussing strategies and performance and taking a car apart than conducting interviews or vacationing in exotic places or partying on one of the boats bobbing out in the harbor, and he seems to like driving in and of itself, for what it is rather than what it can give him. If Sansa hadn’t caught how many times Jon keeps glancing over at his trophy, making sure it hadn’t gotten swept up with all the tires and spare parts and the rest of the things they’d be hauling off to the next track in the morning, she would have wondered if he really cared about winning either.
It isn’t the first time a particular thought has occurred to her, a wild thought. It’s been a long dance over the course of this season, ever since Jon moved over from Night’s Watch and started driving for Direwolf Racing instead. She thought about all the hours they’d spent huddled together in front of a screen, watching footage in meetings or in the garage, Jon looking on over her shoulder. She’d grown to like the way it felt to have Jon seek her opinion as they traded analyses, accepting her advice with as much seriousness as anyone else’s.
She remembered their pre-race track walks too, when they were supposed to tour the circuit and talk about racing lines and different surfaces and the impact of the weather, but somewhere along the way she and Jon always somehow seemed to separate from Robb and the rest of the team. Once they were on their own, they spent more time sneaking glances at one another than studying the hills and kerbs, and they talked about other things, about the places they wanted to go and the things they wanted to do as they wandered along the roads that curved through miles of wooded forests or admired the buildings of King’s Landing towering in the distance.
And of course, there’d been the moment that had earned him some notoriety on her behalf.
Joffrey’s black eye has faded by now, where Jon punched him in the paddock weeks ago when, his eyes lingering on Sansa for far too long and with far too much intensity to be considered even remotely polite, he commented how unfair it was some were apparently still permitted to have their grid girls around to keep them company. Jon had nearly taken a penalty for that, and he had been fortunate to instead have only received a stern talking-to from her father about managing his temper.
When Sansa had gone to check on him after, finding him holding ice over his own cheek where Joffrey had attempted to retaliate but managed no more than a scrape, Jon had told her Ned fought hard during their discussion to suppress a smirk of his own, and if her father wasn’t so serious about his business, he probably would have given him a wink, too. And then Jon told her no matter what happened, it had been worth it, and there’d been a moment where things shifted between them, the air filled with a kind of current, but then it dissipated before it could turn to more, and they ended up laughing over the pathetic whimper Joffrey had let out when Jon’s fist had connected with his nose, and how that was sure to feel less than lovely beneath his helmet in the next race, every wince a reminder of his own stupidity.
Each of those times makes her think maybe, maybe…
But then again, maybe she has it all wrong.
Sometimes she wonders if it’s just the adrenaline, if anyone besides her actual brother could be sitting in that seat and she’d feel the same watching them. It’s easy to get swept up in the emotion, to feel bold and reckless in the midst of exhilaration, high tensions, the highs and lows of a race, but then it strikes her out of nowhere sometimes, even at quiet moments like this one. Her adrenaline should have spiked and come down hours ago, yet she feels it coursing through her now more than ever.
No, this, whatever this is, has gone too far, and now she’s forced to admit to herself that she’s well and totally smitten... or something like that, anyway.
She makes her way over to Jon, realizing he’s been doing the same as her, dismissing all the rest of the team with a thanks and a fist bump as he finishes fitting the pieces of his car into their foam cutouts so they can be packed into their shipping crates and sent across the continent tomorrow. The last few leave with a final couple of jokes and a good night sent her way, and then it’s only them.
Well, them and Ghost, who lays curled in the corner atop a pile of rubber mats, asleep after a long day of activity in the blistering heat. The dog is Jon’s constant companion, and it has worked in their favor since he’d become a mascot of sorts, a team and fan favorite in the right of his own for his resemblance to the Direwolf logo. Jon’s helmet even featured an image of Ghost in the reverse colors of their team, white on grey.
“You know, we do employ mechanics for a reason,” Sansa says, hoping her voice sounds more teasing than breathless, unable to suppress the need she feels to let all the air in her lungs out in a rush.
“I know.” Jon reaches out and wipes a hand on his shorts. Sansa tries to divert her eyes from that, and the way the muscles in his arms flex as he places another part delicately into its foam packing. She tries to ignore the thought of what those strong hands would feel like on her waist, her hips, somewhere else. “I just… you know I like to take care of things myself. Then I know it’s just right.”
Sansa nods. Jon told her once he always thought he’d make it maybe as a team mechanic, that he tried to learn as much as he could to have the option to still be able to do something he loved, that he’d always hoped but never dared to truly think he would have a chance at driving until he’d gotten his break with Night’s Watch. “You didn’t want to go celebrate?”
The trophy sits beside him, glinting in the fading light. It’s somewhat garish, gold like the Dornish sunshine and topped by the kingdom’s signature sunburst. It looks out of place here, surrounded by tools and tires and bits of carbon fiber. Even if those parts don’t look like much themselves, Sansa knows most of them cost more than the trophy itself, gilding and all, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t belong here.
“I am.” He smiles weakly, lifting the oversized bottle of champagne lingering next to the trophy again. Surely it has long gone flat by now, hours after it was opened as Jon stood on the top step at the podium ceremony, and she’s pretty sure most of it ended up being sloshed down Robb’s back anyway as they sprayed each other in honor of Direwolf’s first one-two finish.
“Maybe you could find something a little better to drink than that.” Sansa wrinkles her nose. She had taken a sip herself once they’d returned to the pitlane for the team photos and to pass around the trophies to the rest of the crew. The champagne hadn’t been great, really, and it had been too dry for her palate, but with the excitement, the satisfaction of success, and finally seeing the result of all of the time, all the money, and all the work that had gone into it, it still tasted like the sweetest thing. “You deserve it.”
“So do you, and you’re still here, too,” he points out. She’s gotten good at reading his body language—she’s had to, when so often his expressions are hidden behind a visor—and the way he stands now, with one hand tucked into the pocket of his shorts and his other arm bend so he can scratch behind his neck, has a kind of sheepishness and sense of self-deprecation to it that she rarely sees when he’s chasing down rivals or refusing to concede a position on track.
“I know,” she says in response to that show of sincerity, and she searches for a reason to give, anything besides the truth that she’d wished all day, maybe all year, to steal the right moment with him like this, where there are no other eyes, no ears listening, just them. “It’s a big win for my dad, too. He’s worked his whole life for this. And the same with Robb. Someone had to stay behind to keep an eye on things.”
“Well, in that case, is this up to your standards, boss?” he asks, sweeping his hand across the nearly empty garage. His eyes don’t leave her all the while, and she doesn’t know why he can make her feel that way just with a look, doesn’t want to question why she likes it so much, that earnestness he wears plainly, like he wants nothing more than to please her.
She considers teasing him again just to deflect from facing that fact, but it’s something she’s thought about more often these days, and she wonders if he’s thought about it, too. It’s entirely possible, maybe even likely, that one day this will be hers—her garage, her cars, her team. Robb had no interest in business or strategy; he only liked going fast, and Arya already followed in his footsteps there. Bran preferred tinkering with the technological side of things, and no one, maybe least of all himself, quite knew what Rickon wanted.
But Sansa has been learning all her life, watching from her father’s side, and only this year, only since she started working closer and closer with Jon, has the idea began to excite her more than intimidate her. Ned Stark has taught her well, and she won’t let that go to waste, even though she still says, “I’m not the boss.”
Jon smiles, and his eyes light up and the corners of his mouth crinkle the way they never quite do when he puts on a face for the interviews, the broody racer who the media more often than not assumes he takes himself and all this maybe a bit too seriously. “Not yet, maybe.”
“Maybe I’ll surprise you one day,” she says, letting her imagination spiral. After all, after today, it feels as though anything is possible. “It’ll be me on the radio instead of Tormund.”
“I’d like that.” His smile broadens, and he would look absolutely dorky that way if he wasn’t so hot, and oh, somehow she likes that even more than before.
She knows all about how Tormund had taken Jon under his wing at Night’s Watch and convinced the team to give him a drive, and how when that had gone well and Direwolf had a seat open, Jon had joined the Starks and his oldest friend Robb, and he had been in a position to return the favor to offer a job for Tormund to follow him over, so the fact that he would even be amenable to considering her taking over as his race engineer is high praise. “You would? Really?”
He nods. “Really. I think you’d be great. And I’d give anything to never have to hear Tormund’s rendition of ‘The Bear and the Maiden Fair’ ever again.”
Sansa laughs, then cringes at the memory of Tormund’s most recent version he’d sung earlier, when he’d replaced the actual lyrics with ones all about Jon. “I think we’d all be grateful for that.”
Jon sifts a hand through his hair, and she remembers plucking the confetti from it after the podium earlier. He showered after the race to rid himself of the rest of it, and the strands are just beginning to curl again. It’s what Jon’s known for, his most defining feature—besides being so sullen, of course—and she rues the number of articles she’s scrolled through before with ludicrous titles like, “Does Jon Snow Care More About His Hair Than Winning?”
She smirks. “I know why you’re really still here.”
He turns to her with eyes wide. “What do you mean?”
“You’re avoiding Robb so you don’t have to pay up on that stupid bet you agreed to. The one where first one to a win has to shave their head.”
Jon laughs, something like relief flashing across his face, and then groans. “Don’t remind me. It was easy to make when I didn’t think it had a chance in hell of it happening anyway.”
“And now? You don’t fancy yourself bald? Or is it the part about Robb doing the shearing that has you worried?”
He sighs and shakes his head. “Maybe it’s time for a change anyway.”
“I don’t know.” She appraises him as though she’s admiring his locks for the first time rather than maybe the five hundredth. That probably means it’s not exactly the right time to tell him all the other things she’s noticed about him too, like how she thinks his serious expression—brow furrowed as he talks with the engineers and strategists during a race debrief—is actually rather handsome, and how she can never get over the way he looks half undressed after a drive, sweaty with his race suit stripped to his waist and his skin-tight fireproofs beneath clinging to his body. “I quite like it.”
He looks back at her over his shoulder as he scrubs his hands clean in the sink. “Oh yeah?”
“Yeah.” It’s no different than telling him he had a good drive that day or that he’d had some quick thinking out on track, or at least it shouldn’t be, so why does it make her feel all aflame like this?
“Well, in that case, I guess it’s team orders to keep it.” His eyes crinkle as he flashes her a grin again, and she knows there’s something special about seeing him like this, carefree and a little silly, not at all surly, solemn, cold, or any of the things those who only see him from afar accuse him of being when she knows it just means he cares.
“Don’t let anyone convince you to shave either,” she blurts for good measure, as though she hasn’t given enough away already with the blush she’s sure is coloring her face. Before she might have pictured herself relaying data to him on telemetry readings and track positions and tire degradation, but now it’s all she can do to avoid picturing herself telling him to push harder, to go faster, to give it everything, and for some reason the mere idea of those common directives in perhaps an entirely different context sets her heart racing and sends her breath quickening.
“I won’t,” he promises. “This heat might be enough to convince me to do it myself, though.”
“I know, I couldn’t stand it anymore,” Sansa says, gesturing to her hair she had swept up in a high ponytail and her dress she’d changed into after the race to excuse her lack of team uniform. He’s only looking at her, not even touching, but already she imagines how the scrub of his beard would feel against her hot cheeks, the way his hands, warm and expansive, could span her waist…
“It’s a nice dress. I like the wolves.” From far away they look more like polka dots, so clearly Jon is close enough to be able to determine that the pattern actually consists of running wolves just like the Direwolf logo, and even though they’ve worked alongside each other, spent hours in meetings sitting shoulder to shoulder, and she’d had her arms around him in a celebratory hug just hours ago, somehow in the context of the vast expanse of the garage the nearness of his proximity seems an entirely other level of intimate.
“Thank you, and thank you for keeping me company tonight,” she says. His gaze still pins her to the spot, and she wonders if that’s why he lingered too long, finding something to compliment her on in turn, or if it’s something else, the very kind of something about which she’s spent an inordinate amount of consideration.
And in light of that extremely distracting thought, everything else that comes to mind is trite—pleasantries, congratulations, even the weather again—anything to stem the tide of words that threaten to push this over the edge into a dangerous territory.
“I don’t mean to keep you—” Jon starts just as she moves to close the lid of the last open trunk at the same time he does.
The miscalculation is clumsy as they try to maneuver around each other, both dodging left, then right, then left again, each step part of a graceless dance that inch by inch makes the remaining distance between them disappear. This might be the most awkward situation they’ve found themselves in yet, and that’s saying something considering Sansa also found it difficult to forget the time she caught Jon emerging from an ice bath and he’d turned around and jumped right back in before she could catch more than a glimpse, both of them turning red and not just from the chill of the ice.
Sansa ends up getting there first, and when she turns around again, she finds herself facing him, caught between him and the shut crate. He’s so close she notices everything about him now—how long his eyelashes are as he glances down at the space separating them or the lack thereof, the way he smells clean from his shower still, the curls coming loose from where he’s tied his hair up. She can see the faint scar scratched across his eye, the one he’d gotten only a couple years ago when he and Robb had stupidly taken out their childhood karts for a quick run at the test track back in Winterfell. “Do you think we should go join… ?”
“No.” His voice rumbles in his chest, deep and molten. She feels the smooth skin of the burn on his hand as he curls his larger one around hers. She’d also been there that day, when he’d climbed from his stricken car just as the overheated engine burst into flame, singeing his glove before he could leap clear away. She knows it’s not an apt comparison, not at all, yet in this moment she can’t help but feel as though she is on fire too, heat radiating from the inside out. “I don’t think we should.”
“No,” she repeats in agreement. Is this it? Is this what she has been waiting for all those times she’s stood here nearly bursting with pride as she watched him get ever so nearer to standing on the top step of the podium, and all those she spent fretting as she watched him ease around a rain-slickened track or spin around into the path of oncoming cars?
She is tired of waiting, tired of watching.
Jon is solid and hot when he finally collides with her, or perhaps she moves first, she isn’t sure. She gasps, shocked by the contact at first and the force of it, and then she settles into the smooth, soothing glide of his lips against hers.
Sansa is certain, though, that this is nothing like the chaste kisses they’ve shared over the years—not at all like the air kisses she’s used to wish him luck before a race, or the one she’d dropped on the crown of his helmet once when he’d had to go back out on the track after a perilous crash, or the congratulatory one she perfunctorily pressed to his cheek earlier after he stepped off the podium. This is anything but chaste now; in fact, this could probably be more appropriately labeled as positively indecent with the way Jon’s tongue swipes across her lower lip and then slides into her mouth.
Her hand twists in the front of his shirt, dragging him closer, and Jon obliges. He nudges her backward, or maybe she pulls him, but either way she knocks into one of the other packed crates, full of front and rear wings or tools and tires or whatever, and it serves as her lifeline now, propping her up as he presses her against it.
Sansa has never been one for the thrill of driving—she’s left that to Robb and Arya—and while of course she loves the excitement of racing, the tension of on-track battles, and the joy of victory, she’s always preferred to rely on her self-preservation instincts and avoid any kind of peril, always thought herself above that insane urge to gamble life and limb that seemed to plague all the best who made it to the top. But this is a thrill all its own, the way she teases Jon with her tongue and he reciprocates right back, and with how he reacts she becomes bold, kissing him harder, then slower and deeper in turn, each time she feels his breath hitch an encouragement.
This is its own kind of danger, too. Sansa knows once she touches Jon, she won’t want it to be just once, that every time after this that she sees the grey of his eyes go dark, those hands, his pouty lips, she’ll be reminded of how they felt against hers, what they looked like reddened by her kisses. And still, she takes the risk, lets go of where she’s been gripping the lid of the crate and reaches up to skim her hands across the planes of his chest, to feel how pleasantly warm he is through the fabric of his shirt even with the sweltering heat, to see if his hair really is as soft as it looks.
It doesn’t last more than a moment, though. She’s so far gone, already disoriented, disconnected from anything that isn’t Jon, so it takes her a second to realize she’s falling, actually, truly, and not just metaphorically falling.
Sansa has seen his wicked reflexes at work before—catching tennis balls, tapping lights, and swapping from one exercise to another all with a reaction speed that seem humanly impossible—and those same reflexes snap into action now to save her before she can melt to the floor as the wheeled cart slides out from under her.
Jon lifts her and her legs automatically go to wrap around his waist, and she marvels at how he isn’t hindered at all as he shifts her onto the counter. It’s a decidedly unsexy option, really a space more designed for its usual functions of holding a host of computer screens and monitoring car vital signs, but at least it’s sturdy. Maybe that little mishap had been a warning from the universe that this is enough, that this is too much too fast in a place where there’s almost no such thing, Sansa doesn’t know, and at the moment she can’t seem to bring herself to care.
Instead, Sansa giggles at the disaster averted and Jon laughs too, sending reverberations through her that set her already overwrought nerves alight. Seeing him happy like this for the second time that day is heady, exhilarating, and it gives her the motivation to kiss him again, and this time she slides her hands beneath his shirt.
It fits him just on the side of too tight, even though it’s practically baggy compared to the tight white fireproofs that left little to the imagination that she’s used to seeing him in. It’s still loose enough that it’s easy for her to sweep it off over his head in her haste, and she can’t help the strangled, embarrassing sound of want she gives once he’s free of it.
Sansa’s seen him train before, of course, day in and day out, in every kind of spare moment—doing pushups in hotel rooms and other temporary quarters, running and biking out on track, and neck training with devices that look straight out of some kind of torture scene. He made it look effortless when he drove, but here was evidence of all that hard work. She knows better than anyone what it takes to compete, and while she’s admired him from afar many a time, never before has she had the opportunity to touch, and it takes a second for her jumbled thoughts to resume some semblance of coherence and manage to allow her fingertips to trace down his biceps, across the muscles of his chest, and trail down his abdomen, until they brush up against the waistband of his shorts that cling sinfully to the deep V of his hips.
He seems to want to touch her just as much though, and she welcomes it, leaning into him. The thin dress she wears still feels like too much as Jon palms her breasts through it, the fabric clinging in all the wrong places. Her legs fall apart and he slides between them, keen to take up any space she’ll give, and when Jon rolls his hips against hers, inviting her to rub against him, and it makes her feel utterly wanton to take advantage of that offer.
The shorts Jon’s wearing don’t hide anything at all, but that’s just as well since realizing he’s this hard for her after their fevered kisses makes a sense of giddiness and accomplishment swirl up within her. She lets her hand drift lower, and Jon groans when she glides over him, and she’s already addicted to that sound, so she slips her hand beneath the waistband of his shorts and curls her fingers around his hot, hard cock.
This is stupid, Sansa knows, reckless. Anyone can walk in, really, but it feels so, so good, the sensation of his smooth skin in her grasp and the way Jon is kissing her neck, that Sansa pushes that possibility far out of mind. She redirects her attention, focusing on trying to tilt her hips in time with her hand until she quickens her pace, and then she finds herself now the one propping Jon up.
She’s seen Jon drive for hours and climb out of the car hardly winded, but here his breath turns to sharp pants, he’s sweating, and she can feel the rapid beat of his heart against where her other palm holds up his chest. Watching him like this, carried away and undone by only her touch, is a powerful feeling, and Sansa doesn’t think she’ll ever be able to get enough of it as he spills suddenly into her hand and across his stomach.
“Shit. Sorry.” He looks mortified as he apologizes, but it gives her the strangest kind of thrill that for someone with such a level of fitness, who has such a sophisticated amount of control over himself and can execute the most minute of movements and make incredibly precise decisions at ungodly speeds, that she can make him come apart so easily.
Jon grabs his discarded shirt and wipes up the mess, careful to avoid her dress, which is sweet but unnecessary given how she’s certain between both the post-race clean up and this dalliance with Jon, she’s already sweated through every bit of it.
“I can still… I’ll make it worth it for you,” he promises, as though he worries about disappointing her, and Sansa can’t pretend it’s not an incomprehensible sight for someone who seems so unflappable, who’s spun out, hit walls, flipped upside down, and has gotten back in the car after a quick fix without so much as a moment’s hesitation, that Jon would fear not living up to her expectations of him more than anything else. “If you want?”
“Yes,” she says, instantaneously, immediately, and she tries to tamp down the over-eagerness in her voice until she sees Jon grin again, and she’d do anything to put that expression there even if it didn’t benefit her as much as this is sure to. “Yes, I’d like that.”
“Tell me if I should stop,” he says, and as he sinks to his knees, Sansa can think of a hundred reasons why he really should, but one very, very good one for why not, and that’s what looking down at Jon kneeling between her legs and the feel of his hands tracing up the inside of her thighs to take off her underwear does to her.
If anyone had interrupted right up until this point they could have merely looked kiss flushed—something about hoisting equipment surely would have sufficed there—and they probably could have come up with a reason for Jon being half naked too—showing off proper technique for his ab workouts or something along those lines—but this would be a bit harder now to explain away. She doesn’t know why out of everything she finds the sight of her underwear on the floor of the garage the most embarrassing, but it’s shameless, it’s obscene, and somehow it turns her on even more.
“Good?” Jon murmurs, and he takes her frantic nod and breathy exhale for an acceptable reply as he continues his descent. Sansa has seen the intensity he wears before, his brow scrunched in concentration and his eyes dark with a single-minded focus, discussing strategies, completing his pre-race preparations, pouring over post-race data, but now that gaze is leveled at her, and if not for the sturdiness of the counter, she thinks she would have dissolved into a puddle on the floor.
She’s pretty sure it’s not going to take much to make her come like this, not with the way her skin is already simmering like heat rising from the track on a hot day, but she manages to hold on as Jon runs his tongue over her clit, completing one pass and then another. He’s back in control of himself now, or at least it seems like he is because she isn’t sure how else he manages to get the pressure just right or hit all the exact spots that make her gasp and her back arch.
Sansa tugs his hair free and threads her hands through it. It’s not the first time she’s admired it—she’s never sure how it can somehow always look so good after he finishes a drive—but still, even with the curls sticking to the back of his neck in this heat, she’s impressed by how soft it feels flowing through her fingers. The scrub of his beard doesn’t tickle like she anticipated it would, and she rather likes the contrast between it and the smoothness of each stroke of his tongue.
Jon moves away and she whines—that really is the most embarrassing thing out of everything—until he fits himself back between her legs, and this time his hand is there too, skating along the inside of her knee, higher and higher. She’s accustomed to seeing Jon be fast, but now he’s slow, so torturously slow, as he drags his tongue over her again and fits one finger into her and then a second.
And she can’t think anymore, but that’s just as well since she can’t stop this tide she’s edging towards either. It’s too good, sharp and overwhelming and irresistible, and it only increases in intensity as he curves his fingers. She must have kicked off her flats somewhere along the way, and her heels slide down his back, holding him close.
She doesn’t have to tell Jon twice to be quick now. They’re used to measuring things in fractions of seconds, and still it feels fast with how soon he pushes her to a peak. The sensation washes over her, the fluttery feeling drawn out in one wave after another as he doesn’t let up, leaving her boneless and exhausted in the most pleasant kind of way.
Jon straightens when she recovers enough to pull half-heartedly at his hair, and he kisses her forehead before resting his against hers. It seems reverent after everything else, that along with how gently he cups her cheek and the way he tucks the hair that escaped her ponytail behind her ear.
“I could have continued,” he insists, always ever the competitor, even if it was only with himself.
“I don’t know if I could survive another,” Sansa confesses, dulled but persistent lingering pleasure still winding through her, and her legs shaky as she tentatively attempts to stand again.
Jon huffs out a laugh and seems to come back to himself when he turns to scan the garage. Ghost hasn’t even moved, still soundly asleep and none the wiser to what has transpired during his slumber, and the rest of it is still empty, thankfully, except for the trophy that sits there, abandoned when he put her up here on this pedestal.
“Do you think it’ll feel real in the morning?”
She’s not sure if he means the win, the entirety of this day, or this thing between them, so she just shrugs. “I don’t know. Sometimes I don’t think any of it does.”
“D’you…” Jon looks so vulnerable, so exposed, standing there, just him, not hidden behind the layers of a racing suit, his helmet, even the car, and his expression conceals nothing either. “Do you maybe want to be there when I find out?”
It’s a tempting idea. A bad one, maybe, to risk putting themselves in view of ever-present eyes. But she wants to know, too, what that feels like and so much else—how Jon lets go of a day like today and manages to fall asleep at night, what he looks like when he wakes up in the morning. That, and she can’t fathom what it would be like seeing him for the first time again tomorrow at breakfast, surrounded by the rest of the team, or back at the track to move onto the next one. It seems so much better to face that together.
So before she can say something else, something Sansa already suspects just might be true, she smiles and says, “I’d love to.”