She took the tip of him back into her mouth for a final, lingering suckle, creating a seal that drew a sharp, needy sound from his throat. When she finally released him, he was slicked to perfection, gleaming like polished stone in the amber firelight. The narrow, unyielding threshold of her youth no longer stood a chance against the lubrication she had provided with such fierce intent.
Alaric reached down, his hands trembling with a rare loss of composure as he hauled her upward. He did not reach for the gag; he wanted to hear every raw, unvarnished sound she made as he finally claimed her. He pinned her wrists above her head with one hand, his grip like iron, while the other guided his heavy length back to her entrance.
As he made contact, the heat was staggering. He didn't just slide in; he had to find his way, his weight pressing firmly against her.
Despite the slickness she had provided, her body was narrow and unyielding. The fit was incredibly snug, every millimeter of progress requiring a slow, deliberate push. Sansa's eyes flew wide, her breath hitching in a series of sharp stutters. Instinctively, she wrenched one hand free from his grip and pressed it over her own mouth, her fingers digging into her skin to stifle the cry she felt building.
He applied more force, a slow and steady pressure that felt like it was filling every corner of her. Sansa's eyes squeezed shut, her brow furrowing as she felt her body stretch to accommodate him. It wasn't unhuman, but it was more than she had ever imagined, a blunt, heavy presence that made her feel stretched to her absolute limit.
"Alaric..." the name was a muffled, trembling sob behind her palm.
With a final, focused surge, he breached the last of her resistance. The veil of her innocence gave way with a sharp, stinging finality. Sansa's back arched into a high, trembling bow, her toes digging into the furs as the initial flare of pain radiated through her hips. He didn't stop until he was seated fully against her, his heavy pulse thrumming deep inside her core.
Alaric remained perfectly still for a long moment, allowing her muscles to relax and adjust to the fullness of him. His own heart was hammering a frantic rhythm against her ribs as he waited for the initial shock to fade. He reached down, gently prying her hand away from her mouth so he could see her face.
Her lips were trembling, her copper hair a riot of tangles, and her face stained with the tears of a girl becoming a woman. She looked back at him, and for the first time, the "Little Dove" was truly gone. In her place was a woman who had faced the shadow and found it more honest than the light.
"You're mine," he rasped, the words a vow and a threat.
"Yours," she whispered back, her voice a ragged thread of silver. "Always."
Alaric didn't let the stillness last. Now that the threshold was broken, he began to claim the territory he had conquered. He pulled back slightly—the wet, heavy friction causing Sansa's breath to hitch—and then drove forward with slow, crushing deliberation.
The stretch was absolute. As he pushed deeper, expanding her narrow warmth with his unyielding girth, Sansa's head fell back into the silk pillows. Her blue eyes rolled upward, the whites showing as her consciousness frayed under the twin assault: the sharp, blooming ache of the first time and the heavy, intoxicating pressure of being filled to capacity.
Alaric leaned down, his large frame eclipsing her in the dim hearthlight. He buried his face in the crook of her neck, his teeth nipping at the sensitive skin to leave marks that would soon be hidden by her high Northern collars. His hands, calloused from years of swordplay, moved with a dark, possessive rhythm; one pinned her wrists in a grip of iron, while the other settled over her breasts, squeezing the soft mounds and rolling the peaks between his fingers.
As he reached his full depth, bottoming out against her with a blunt, heavy thud, the sensation was too much to contain. Her back arched violently, her mouth falling open to release a high, piercing wail of total surrender.
"Mmm—!"
Before the sound could shatter the silence of the hall, Alaric's palm slammed over her mouth, muffling the cry into a desperate, vibrating hum against his skin. He leaned into her ear, his voice a low, predatory rasp that chilled her blood even as it set it on fire.
"Control your moans, Little Dove," he hissed, his breath scorching.
She nodded frantically against his palm, her fingers digging into his forearms for purchase.
As Alaric began to move in earnest—long, punishing strokes that utilized the slickness she had provided—Sansa took a desperate measure. She clamped her jaw shut, her teeth grinding until they ached. She squeezed her eyes shut, her face turning a deep, pained crimson as she fought the primal urge to scream against the friction of him filling her over and over again.
Every time he bottomed out, her body jolted, a muffled "Hmph!" vibrating behind her clenched teeth. She was a woman possessed, locked in a silent struggle to endure a pleasure that felt like it was splitting her in two.
Alaric didn't slow. If anything, her desperation only fueled the predatory rhythm he had established. He pulled back until he was nearly out—the slick, wet friction creating a vacuum that made Sansa's hips lurch upward instinctively, chasing the loss.
Then, he drove back in with the full force of his weight.
CLACK-SLAP.
The collision of his hips against hers was a raw, primal percussion—the sound of meat hitting meat. The ancient oak of the bed frame groaned in protest, a rhythmic, rhythmic creak that seemed dangerously loud in the silent hall.
"Mmmph—!" Sansa's eyes flew wide. She felt every inch of his pulsing length stretching her to the absolute limit. To distract herself from the terrifying intensity, she reached out, her fingers digging into his shoulders as she buried her face in the crook of his neck. She bit him—hard—her teeth sinking into the corded muscle of his shoulder, her small, sharp moans vibrating against his skin.
As Alaric withdrew for another heavy thrust, the amber light of the hearth caught a dark, glistening trail sliding down the curve of her inner thigh. It was a mixture of her own humid heat and the bright, undeniable crimson of her lost innocence. The sight of his length, slicked with her blood, only hardened his resolve.
"Alaric... please," she managed to gasp, her voice a broken, raspy thread as he prepared to slam into her again. "The sound... slow... slow down, you're—"
Alaric leaned down, his sweat-slicked chest pressing against her trembling breasts, his voice a dark, jagged rasp. "Don't worry," he muttered, his breath hitching as he felt the incredible, pulsing heat of her clamping down on him. "A little noise is nothing in a castle this old. Let them think the wind is howling."
He didn't wait for her to process the lie. He gripped her hips, his fingers bruising the pale skin of her waist, and resumed the assault.
CLACK-SLAP. CLACK-SLAP.
The sound was rhythmic and violent, a raw declaration of ownership. Sansa's world narrowed to the single point of friction where they were joined. The "Little Dove" was fighting a losing battle against her own vocal cords. Desperate to obey his command, she grabbed a handful of the discarded silk bed-sheet, bunching the fabric into a frantic ball and shoving it into her own mouth.
She bit down on the fine silk, her eyes wide and watering, as Alaric drove into her with a force that felt like it was rearranging her very soul. She was tight—painfully, exquisitely tight—and every thrust felt like a heavy iron stake being driven into the earth. Her body was a riot of sensation: the sting of her torn maidenhead, the stretching fullness of his girth, and the white-hot friction that was rapidly drowning out the pain.
Alaric's pace became frantic. He watched the way her copper hair whipped across the pillows and the way her muffled, frantic sounds grew more frequent as she lost the ability to breathe.