As the pressure in his loins reached the breaking point, Sansa's own climax hit her like a Northern blizzard—sudden, blinding, and absolute. She lost all sense of caution, her mind fracturing. In a final, desperate act of possession, she threw her legs up, locking her ankles firmly behind his lower back to pull him deeper, demanding every last inch he had to give.
"Now," Alaric growled, the word more a snarl than a command.
He drove home one last time, bottoming out with a blunt, bone-deep thud. He held himself there, pinned against her womb, as his release finally tore through him. Sansa's eyes rolled back, her jaw locking onto the silk in her mouth as she felt it—a sudden, torrential wave of liquid fire filling her to the core.
The sensation was unmistakable. It was thick, searing, and impossibly deep inside her. For a long, breathless moment, they were fused together, the only sound in the room the heavy, dying crackle of the fire and their own shattered gasps for air.
Alaric didn't let the silence linger. While the heat of his release was still cooling inside her, he withdrew with a slow, wet slide that made Sansa whimper into the silk she still clutched. He didn't let her rest. Grabbing her by the waist, he hauled her upward and off the high mattress.
Her feet hit the cold stone floor, the sudden chill a sharp contrast to the furnace of the bed. Sansa's legs were like water, trembling and weak, but Alaric's grip remained iron. He spun her around, forcing her to lean forward until her chest was pressed flat against the rumpled furs and her face was buried in the pillows.
It was a position of total vulnerability, her hips hiked high and exposed to the amber glow of the dying fire. Sansa let out a muffled sound of protest, her face burning with a fresh wave of highborn embarrassment as she realized how she must look—the Lady of Winterfell, the future of the Seven Kingdoms, bent over like a common tavern wench.
Alaric stood behind her, his shadow towering over her on the cold stone wall. He didn't enter her immediately. Instead, he took his thick length—still slick with the evidence of her lost innocence—and began to rub it against her. He traced the vertical line of her heat, the broad, velvet head of his cock sliding through the nectar and crimson that coated her inner thighs.
He moved with a maddening, deliberate lack of haste. No longer fueled by the frantic drive of their first encounter, Alaric was now a man savoring a meal he had waited a lifetime to taste. He pressed the tip of himself against her entrance, not pushing in, but merely hovering there, letting her feel the twitching, insistent heat of him.
Then, with a low, primal groan that vibrated through her skin, he began the slow descent.
He entered her inch by agonizing inch. It wasn't a thrust; it was a steady, heavy invasion. Sansa's breath hitched, her fingers digging deep into the furs as she felt every ridge and the sheer, overwhelming stretch of him filling the space he had already claimed.
"Alaric..." she gasped, the name muffled by the pillows. It was a plea, though she wasn't sure if she was begging him to stop or to finally, mercifully, finish the motion.
"Look at you," he rasped, his voice dropping to a gravelly whisper near her ear. "The Little Dove, pinned down and taking all of me."
The rest of the night became a blur of heat and shadow. Alaric was relentless, fueled by a hunger that seemed to grow the more he took. He moved her to the heavy wooden chair by the hearth, sitting her atop him so she was forced to look him in the eye as he drove upward, her pale skin glowing like marble in the firelight. Then, he had her against the cold stone wall, the contrast of the chilled masonry and his burning skin making her head spin.
Each time, he was careful, pulling away at the last possible second to mark her skin instead of her womb, maintaining a silent pact of protection amidst the carnal chaos.
As the first hint of grey began to bleed through the heavy curtains, signaling the approach of dawn, exhaustion finally began to set in. Alaric sat on the edge of the bed, his chest heaving, his body a map of sweat and tension.
Sansa, her hair a wild, tangled halo of copper, sank to her knees between his legs. She was no longer the trembling bird she had been at the start of the night. There was something hardened in her gaze now—a dawning realization of her own power over the man who had just spent hours trying to break her. She reached out, her fingers pale against his skin, and took his weight into her hand.
Alaric let out a low, shaky breath, his head falling back as she leaned forward to offer her final tribute of the night.
She began slowly, her eyes never leaving his face, watching the way his jaw tightened and his knuckles turned white as he gripped the bedsheets. It was an act of submission, yes, but also one of total control. She moved with a rhythmic, wet heat, her tongue tracing the length of him, savoring the way he winced with a pleasure that bordered on pain.
Alaric's breath hitched. "Sansa... enough," he rasped, his voice breaking even as his hips bucked instinctively toward her.
She didn't stop. She wanted this final taste of him, a way to ensure that when he left this room, the memory of her would be burned into his very soul. She used her hands and lips with a desperate, newfound expertise, driving him toward a final, shattering peak.
When it came, he didn't roar. He simply groaned her name—a broken, worshipful sound—as he finally broke. He slumped back, completely spent, his dominance traded for a raw, vulnerable exhaustion. Sansa wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, looking up at him with a tired, triumphant smile. She was still the Lady of Winterfell, but now, she knew exactly what it felt like to have a lion at her feet.
Sansa let out a soft, playful "Humph," her breath warm against his skin. She shifted her weight, propping herself up on her elbows so she could look down at him, a faint, teasing light returning to her tired eyes.