Archive of Our Own

It sucked watching them. I wished I could leave, but Arya would have killed me. As the company bookkeeper and marketing executive, respectively, of Stark Industrial Security Services, she said if she had to be at the company Sevenmas party, then so did I. She always did love torturing me.

I suppose it would be different if I had told her why it was so hard, but even I hadn’t really come to terms with it myself. I mean, I've had crushes before, you know? Heck, I had a crush on my dad when I was four. Ned Stark would make a wonderful husband--he tucked me into bed, sang to me, called me his Lemoncake, and was the most handsome man my young four year old eyes had seen. But then I'd asked him to marry me, and he laughed at first but then he hugged me when I got sad about him telling me no, and he said he loved me but that he was married to my mom and that someday I would find someone gentle and brave and strong.

Theon was none of those things, but he was my next crush. He came to Winterfell the summer I turned nine and I thought he was the cutest little gangly boy I had ever seen. But he was mean to me, in a brotherly tease-your-sister sort of way. Still is, actually. But I love him, though not quite as much as I love Dad.

There were others--Joffrey, my first kiss, when I apparently thought young teenage boys with pretty faces and a soft touch would make ideal husbands. He disabused me of any notion that he would have made a good husband the first time he teased me in front of his friends. I was fifteen and he said my boobs were small. I cried into my pillow for an hour that night until Arya found me and told me Joffrey was a little shit but I didn't listen, and he teased me publicly a lot the first year were together. The end of the second year saw the inclusion of Margaery Tyrell into our circle of friends and--thank the Gods--the diversion of Joffrey's attention. Our relationship came to its natural, long time coming, end.

He was my first kiss, though I didn't really perfect that until I dated Harry. Good, kind, though not so brave, Harry. He was an excellent kisser and I even let him touch those boobs Joffrey had said were too small. But Harry was boring, not at all exciting, and he came in his pants the first night we were together. So it actually ended up not being our first night together, since he finished and I was left a virgin.

There were others, though after that night with Harry I sort of smartened up and realized sex with anyone inexperienced just wasn't worth it. I decided that when I gave away my virginity it would be to someone who could knock my socks off. As it turned out, I never heeded the advice given to me as a young teenager by my mom in one of her finer moments as a mother of seven. She told me shortly after I turned fourteen that when I gave my body to a man, make sure he fit that description of what my dad said would be a man worthy of my hand--honorable, brave, gentle. Because once I gave that away there was no getting it back.

What she didn't tell me was that the man to whom I gave away my coveted virginity would take a chunk of my soul with him; that the connection made during that time would prove as concrete as any other. And that's how I ended up sitting at that godsforsaken company Sevenmas party, desperately trying not to stare across the room at Sandor Clegane.

• ℘ •

Six months before the party I was moving out of the dorms at Winterfell University, having just completed my graduate program in marketing. I had been dabbling in the family business but have only taken on the full time position now that I'm not in school anymore. And it does feel good to use my degree--it really does. I totally understand why people get so frustrated to spend so many thousands of dragons on their education, only to gripe about not being able to use that investment. And mom and dad pay me fairly, and they treat me fairly. Plus my boss brings me chicken noodle soup if I'm sick.

Anyway, moving out was a chore. I had spent four years in the same dorm, living on a small stipend meant to pay my way for food and necessities, with a part time weekend gig at the family business. So my whole life was wrapped up in that dorm room--knick knacks, photos on the wall, my collection of all lemon-related items like my unused salt and pepper shakers, my family of lemon yellow dog figurines that I had collected over the years, and a company photo in a yellow frame with clay lemon slices on one corner. My favorite color is yellow--can't you tell?

But I also had all my books, bedding, clothes, my mini fridge and my microwave, my hot plate (totally contraband but come on--some things just could not be microwaved). It was a lot, and with all my brothers working and Arya off doing whatever it is Arya does, that left slim picking amongst the Stark ISS, Inc. employees to ask for aid in moving my things.

I went to Sandor first, of course, because he's the biggest. He's also probably the nicest, but he hides it behind a perpetual scowl and those crazy scars. He rarely has a kind word for anyone, although when he looks at me, even now, he tends to be more flat faced. Like, not angry at me but also merely tolerating my presence. It may have something to do with how I have hidden cotton balls in his office and occasionally re-saturate them with lemon essential oil. He's so fun to pick on. And I know he knows it's me. I've been doing it almost the entire two years he has been CEO of my parent's company, and there's nothing funnier than sitting next to him at dinner--which, by the way, often includes the employees since they always seem to be around and mom and dad have never shied away from getting to know the people with whom they trust their business--and having everyone around the table ask when there will be lemoncakes, not knowing it's actually residual fragrance that has somehow seeped into Sandor's clothes from the cotton balls.

It's a joke that he and I still share, even after what happened all those months ago. Not that he ever actually smiles, but I know just by the way he looks at me, that he’s chastising me with good humor by the look in his eyes.

Anyway, where was I?

Oh yeah, moving. Sandor of course said yes, because it seems like no matter what I ask of him, he always says yes to me. It’s almost like I’m his “favorite” Stark, which is kind of silly because it’s Dad who signs his paychecks. But I suppose I don't give him as much grief as Arya, who seems to irritate the crap out of him, or even Mom, who hovers over him as though he’ll do something wrong at any moment--run the company into the ground or kill Arya or something.

Being his favorite isn’t so bad. He really does have a terrible scowl, which is just a bit softer when he and I are together. Alone, I mean. The scowl is there all the time when we’re around other people, but on the occasions when it’s just me and him, it’s there but not so… harsh. As though my presence is enough to calm the beast, so to speak, if only just a tiny bit.

So I wasn’t really surprised when he said yes to helping me move, and that Sunday we decided to get it all done in one fell swoop.

(Isn’t that such a funny saying? One fell swoop ).

He brought his truck since all of my things would fit in the bed but wouldn’t in my little compact. That’s not to say I didn’t initially suggest my car simply because I wanted to get a good laugh at the expression on his face when he imagined himself folding his body in half to get into the passenger seat. He’s so big I would have had to take out the seat and have him sit in the back so he could stretch his legs out beside me.

And oh , his face--hilarious. For one moment in time the scowl was gone and was replaced by something entirely more four year old boy eating peas for the first time . Adorable.

I know, I know, scars and scowl and man-with-a-mass-comparable-to-the-moon, but it was still utterly adorable. I’ll never forget it, and it just made me laugh twice as hard.

But the scowl soon returned as he suggested we use his truck, which I didn’t mind at all. After I’d had my fun I eventually got to ride in that big black beast he called The Stranger (blasphemous, but one doesn’t just correct Sandor Clegane when he wants to be blasphemous). That truck is like testosterone on wheels--twin stacks coming out from the eight foot bed, tinted windows, a lift kit that proved so ridiculously tall that when Sandor opened the passenger door for me to climb in, he apparently got tired of me trying to figure out how to get my leg up onto the “step bar” (I use the term loosely because the darn thing was at level with my waist), that he grabbed me about the waist and plucked me off the ground, setting me up into the truck.

Did I tell you he’s strong? Yeah. That strong.

Once inside he waited until I was buckled and then shut the door for me, but my body was tingly where he’d gripped me and I brushed it off, thinking it was just that no one had done that to me since I was perhaps eight years old. Silly. Bodies do silly things sometimes.

He, on the other hand, climbed up into the truck that seemed to have been made for him, as he was able to comfortably slide into the driver’s seat and clip his own seatbelt on. A turn of the key and the beast roared to life, even though I’ve grown accustomed to the roar of the engine going down the driveway. Up close and personal was a whole different can of worms. It rumbled --like, shaking beneath me as the diesel engine shook the truck upon ignition.

I think my toes curled a little bit when he revved the engine, before he slid the gear shift into reverse.

He put his arm on the back of the wide bench seat to back out and kept it there as he drove, even though several times of course he had to remove it to switch gears. A couple times his finger tips grazed my bare shoulder and… Yeah, it did funny things to my heart rate, now that I think of it. I guess I couldn't just describe it as the experience of riding in his truck.

Which, incidentally, also smelled like his office. Oh man, I’m laughing so hard right now at that little detail.

Okay, so we got to the dorm and how it ended up working was Sandor was pretty much my pack horse. I packed the remaining boxes and he carted them down the elevator to the bottom floor where his truck was parked. I gotta say, seeing his arms flex as he lifted some of those heavier boxes was truly inspiring. It made me want to exercise the middling drawing skills Art 105 had taught me all those years ago.

We were nearly done but I still had the contents of my dresser to go, and the shelf holding all my lemon knick knacks so we ordered in--some type of Pentoshi hole-in-the-wall restaurant near the campus who offered delivery. And lunch was good, but it became apparent quickly that something was off between Sandor and I. Like, I had watched him come down the hallway from the elevator after he’d retrieved the food from the delivery driver downstairs, and then I could feel him watching me--my butt, maybe--when I had my back to him and I was dishing out the food onto two paper plates on the dorm’s desk.

Then we sat together on the edge of the bed, eating with me carrying the nearly one-sided conversation, until I noticed that Sandor had used his silent time to plow through his plate of food while mine was still only half gone. I offered what was left of mine to him since I was already full and then carried on talking about nothing in particular as I emptied my dresser, although I did watch him set aside his own fork and plate and then used my fork --which had been in my mouth --to eat from my plate. I don’t know why but that made me nearly choke on my breath.

I turned away quickly and started with the bottom drawer, and when I looked back at him I caught him staring at my butt. Like, it wasn’t even embarrassing, but hot . Surprisingly hot. I probably should have crouched down to empty the remaining drawers but had been having some trouble with my knee when I ran lately and it just wasn’t a comfortable position.

So I resumed, knowing full well he was staring at my ass, figuring he was probably getting a good look at the pattern of colorful embroidered stitches on the pockets. I moved up to the next drawer, and the next, and finally stood straight so I could get the top drawer.

I don’t even know what I was talking about--Bran’s new video game idea, or Rickon’s skateboard competition coming up that weekend. I probably said something about how Jon had been teaching Arya some Second Sons fighting moves, much to the chagrin of my parents, but I really couldn’t tell for sure.

All I know is I realized I was folding my panties in full view of Sandor and he was sitting stock-still on the bed, fork in one hand and plate in the other, as he watched what I was doing.

When I looked at his eyes--goodness, if looks could turn a woman on , because his did, in an instant. But I didn’t want him to know, so I finished with the pair I was holding and set them in the box, then turned my back to him so he wouldn’t see the bras I was pulling out and folding.

But my heart was beating a league a minute, and I was really glad I hadn’t eaten the rest of that food because my stomach was in danger of going flip-flop-spew. This was a new sensation for me--being turned on from a man watching me. I mean, I’d been turned on before, but this was completely different.

Harry had been decently good at it, enough that I had let him touch me above the waist. And Joffrey’s kiss had done what I thought would turn me on. But I think that was just a girly crush that fluttered my heart and made me feel good--like a woman, sort of. Or as close to a woman as a young teenage girl could feel.

But Sandor was different. His entire presence was a turn on, and I think I knew it long before then and had just ignored it. He was… well, he was everything Dad had said a man should be. Brave and gentle and strong. He was kind to me in his own way, and he let me mess with him--not actively collecting a bin of lemon cotton balls to dump in my car when he was tired of the joke. And he had said yes to countless favors I asked of him, this one being the most current.

I hadn’t realized I had stopped talking until I felt him behind me, and it startled me but somehow I had been waiting for him--waiting for him, subconsciously perhaps, to make a move that until that moment I hadn’t known I really wanted .

Two dark, strong hands came to rest on the edges of the drawer at my waist, but he didn’t touch me. No, there was no touching but there was smelling , and as ridiculous as that sounds it was so hot .

Have I used the word hot enough to describe him? I mean, I could use it more, I really could. It totally applies.

I felt him move my ponytail away from my neck and, knowing where his hands were, decided he was doing it with his face, maybe his nose. And knowing his mouth was so close to my skin was absolutely insane.

I remember saying his name, remember the sound of him smelling my neck, my shoulders, my upper back. It was similar to being caught by a feral hound who wasn’t quite sure if he wanted to eat you or walk away--the quiet snuffling at the angle of my neck where my scent was probably stronger, the deeply inhaled breaths over the expanse of exposed skin on my back above the line of my tank top…

And the whole time I watched his hands clenching the front of that drawer--knuckles alternating between white with a tight grip and relaxed as he lifted away and came closer, lifted away and came closer still. They were sprinkled with black hair, though it grew thicker on his forearms, covering tightly corded muscles that quivered as he strained to keep them on the dresser.

I think I might have bit my lip almost to the point of drawing blood, but it was hard to tell, because as with what a shadowcat attack would generate within the human body, I think I had gallons of adrenaline coursing through my veins and it all has a sheen of fog over it, as though I was so overcome by the sheer lack of his touch that my whole body was coiled and ready to explode at the barest contact.

But it didn’t, when that contact came--when I felt his nose push into the back of my ear, his tongue come out to taste the incredibly sensitive skin beneath it. Well, it was sensitive then, but I suspect it wasn’t usually--not until Sandor was behind me treating me like a decadent dessert he wanted to savor. Similar to what happens when my mom brings out her lemoncakes and I just want to sit and draw their fragrance into my nose for a while before eating them.

I had read about the phenomena somewhere--the way the brain anticipates consuming the treat; how the mouth salivates, the stomach churns, and even the nerve endings in your fingertips can tingle with expectation; the excitement of feasting on the prize enough to drive up heart rates and release pleasure endorphins into the bloodstream.

I think my blood in that moment was so chocked full of those damned endorphins that instead of blood I had a dangerous cocktail of adrenaline and hormones raging through me. When I dropped the bra I was holding and put my hands on his, he scraped his teeth over the curve of my shoulder and I was a goner .

From then on I can remember it just being a blur of being whipped around as his mouth came crashing down on mine, clothes coming off, and us tumbling onto the bare bed. Somewhere in the deep recesses of my brain it felt like I had chosen Sandor a long time ago to give my virginity to, and I’m glad I did. I doubt anyone else would have gone as slow as he did, would have been as attentive to my needs, as cautious with my body as he was.

He spent so much time readying me for the act itself that I don’t even know how long we were in that room--long enough, actually, for him to get two parking tickets… but that’s neither here nor there.

He worked me over good--which is just a funny way of saying that man’s mouth needs its own holiday. Like, the second Tuesday of the seventh month needs to be declared Sandor’s Tongue Day. He has a talent I didn’t even know any man possessed--nor a talent I realized a woman might want in a man. But holy smokes, did I ever get a lesson about what can happen between a man and a woman that day.

Like I said, top to bottom--he left no area of me untouched, and when he was done and he left off with pressing his thumbs deeply into the sole of my foot, I was just a puddled mess of arousal and want and need and desire.

Who knew the bottom of the foot could be an erogenous zone? ‘Cause I didn’t.

I wanted to return the favor but honestly, I don’t think I could have. It was all I could do to welcome him into that cage of my arms and legs after he put on a condom, and when he lowered himself over me, hovering over my body with such care and hesitation that I realized what I could do for him was to kiss away the worry I saw etched in the unscarred side of his brow.

The act itself--well, I won’t go into details. The pain was there, yes, but I suspect he turned me into that gummy pile of woman-flesh on purpose so it wouldn’t hurt as bad as if we had just jumped into it. The feel of him inside me was only eclipsed by the warmth of him above me, which was only eclipsed by the feel of his fingers entwined with mine--so possessive, so claiming . This was then eclipsed by the way he kissed me as he moved within me, and so on and so forth. Or was it the other way around? His kiss eclipsed by the fingers, eclipsed by…

You know, I don’t even know right now. Like I said, a puddled mess of arousal and want and need and desire . It’s right up there, four paragraphs ago.

So two orgasms down and then boom, I was hit by another just before his own fairly slammed into him, and we-- he , actually, because I was incapable of movement by that point--collapsed onto the bed.

And here’s where it gets sappy. He held me. Like, really really held me. After getting rid of the condom, he pulled me into the circle of his arms and let me nuzzle at his slick chest, feeling none of the self consciousness I thought I would feel. It was the most amazing moment of my life, and I was so very glad I had waited until the ripe old age of twenty six for it to happen.

So why, you might be asking, why was it then six months later and he and I were not together? In short, hell if I know . It just happened that way. We eventually rose from the bed and dressed, and it felt like the moment was over. He was actually a bit grumpy, which I attributed to his having just slept with his boss’s daughter. But we finished the move and after I thanked him, he just left--drove that rumbling truck down my parent’s driveway and out of my line of sight.

The odd thing is, I didn’t feel any panic over it. I mean, I knew I had feelings for him, and by that time I was thinking--without any shred of regret--that he did in fact feel something for me, although neither of us wanted to say anything.

I don’t know--it’s hard to explain. It was c’est la vie, I suppose. Or, it is what it is (or was what it was , rather). But I was as confident six months ago as I was during to the Sevenmas party that Sandor Clegane did indeed hold a piece of my heart, a chunk of my soul, that I willingly gave him that day in the dorm room.

I thought everything would be fine. But there I was, sitting across that stupid meeting hall from the man who over the previous six months had grown in my mind into this elusive creature that I wanted to capture, only I didn’t know how. And if that blonde wrapped around Sandor had her way, I’d never be his.

• ℘ •

Okay, back to the party.

The jealousy in my heart was surprising, seeing as how I’m not the jealous type. But… it went deeper than that. Soul-deep. Like, I was imagining myself doing everything that woman was doing to Sandor, as well as imagining that it was me in his arms instead of her.

I didn’t even know who she was, and I wanted her gone.

I didn’t realize it would be like that, seeing him with another woman. Truth be told, he has never dated anyone to my knowledge since working at Stark ISS, Inc., so seeing him with anyone was quite a shock.

I know I said I was okay with not being with him, but everything changed with the addition of her . I didn’t know I would feel such a rush in my heart, watching him as she slid her arm around his waist, so much so that it began to feel almost like a… girl crush. And believe me, I was embarrassed to feel that way. I was one hundred percent straight, one hundred percent into Sandor, but found myself watching her instead of him.

Seeing the way she laid a hand on his chest in that way people do when they’re intimate, even though he seemed to barely acknowledge its presence as he spoke with one of the other employees--it made my heart clench and I wanted it to be my hand. I wanted to be tucked under his arm, resting against his side, claiming him.

Everything about her seemed perfect, even though I didn’t even know her name. Nor did I want to, really. Learning anything about her, after all, might mean learning that she was a nice person who would be good for him. And I didn’t want to think that anyone would be good for him except me. I didn’t want to see that amused press of his lips he shot down at her as she laughed at something he said.

When she got up on her tiptoes and beckoned him down for a kiss, I imagined what her lips would taste like--beer, as he was drinking one at the time, and something salty--Pentoshi chicken mash like the one we ate that day in the dorm. Because I could remember so clearly how his mouth tasted, and found myself at the party pressing my fingertips to my lips at the memory, imagining her mouth to be mine despite the way he turned from her at the last moment and she kissed beard, instead.

His direct gaze caught me watching them and I looked away, guiltily. He didn’t need to know I was thinking these thoughts, feeling these emotions. But when I saw in my peripheral vision that he went back to his conversation with the other employee, I continued my watch out of the corner of my eye, vigilant and aware of the nuances to Blondie’s movements, her body language.

She wanted him .

I watched as he leaned down--whether to whisper into her ear or to nuzzle her temple, truthfully I couldn’t tell. But I imagined him inhaling her perfume with his face that close to her and wondered, if I wore the same perfume, would it be my temple he was nuzzling?

And did he prefer blondes? Her hair was longer than mine, a bright cornsilk blonde, and not that I was an expert or anything, but it looked natural. I tried to picture myself with hair the color of hers and thought I would look like a broke, out of work actress.

I rose from my seat but didn’t see Arya anywhere, and I remember wondering what lackey she had managed to sequester in a closet somewhere, and whether he would need rescuing. But even though I had the thought, I knew Arya could handle herself. It struck me as funny that it was the men who answered Arya’s siren song who I worried about.

The bar was open but I just asked for a Iron Island tea--not enough alcohol to get me drunk but if I drank it fast enough I’d get a good buzz. It was gone before I walked away from the counter with my second.

Reclaiming my seat, I could see that Sandor was still there, with her arm still around his waist, as though she had claim to him.

Bitch .

Oh gods, I’m sorry, I didn’t just think that and I-swear-I’m-not-a-bad-person .

I felt bad that I was thinking badly of her without knowing her. It was true--she could have been Sandor’s soul mate, as much as it galled me to think that. I left out any thoughts, any possibility, that I was his soulmate-- me ; Sansa--because I really didn’t need a third tea.

But thoughts assailed me unbidden--the restless nights I hadn’t wanted to acknowledge. I could look back and see that those nights where I sat at the edge of my bed in the beam of moonlight coming in from the open window, that it was Sandor’s face on my mind, his face that I could see even when my eyes were closed and my face was covered by my hands. It was his hand I imagined running down my side when I slid my hand beneath my nightgown and felt the sweeping curve of my waist.

The dreams plagued me even during the day--daydreams, as it were--but I passed them off, at least to myself, as the ramblings of a bored mind.

But they weren’t. I knew that at the party, watching him with her, watching her hand skim down his chest to his stomach and her other hand tuck itself deep into his back pocket.

They weren’t ramblings, but desires.

He and I had never even been in a bed with bedding on it--did he find that one experience lacking, knowing he could have her under his bed sheets? Wanting and longing for him, reaching for him? Did he like it when she whispered in his ear seductive things, things I wasn’t worldly enough to know to whisper to a man? To him? Did she reach for him in bed, accept him into her arms as I had done so willingly, and respond with a greater fervor than he had with me?

Did he even remember that day?

Because it was seared into my brain, as though that day he not only took part of me--part I chipped off myself and tucked into his pocket--and left an indelible imprint on my heart, my body, my mind. There was not a day that went by--six months worth of days, in fact, if I’m going to be honest--that I hadn’t thought of that dorm room and the memory we made on my last day in that small room. Not a day that went by, that I didn’t think of his mouth on me, his hands, his body, and how he brought me to levels that far surpassed anything I had ever read in paperback romance novels.

My first time. My only time. And I was pretty certain it was a thousand times better than the next thousand women’s first times. They hadn’t had him--they hadn’t had Sandor Clegane to usher them through the final gateway to womanhood.

I remember that I finished my tea, and I set the tall, slender empty glass heavily on the counter. I was at the empty bar, set up on the other side of the room so people could mingle at the faux bar-like setting, though I did no mingling that night. And when Sandor led the blonde to a table and they sat for the door prizes, the speech by my dad, and the various awards that went out for service, I watched them.

The thing was, I saw him watching me too. And, although I am embarrassed to admit this, I was bitter about it. Like, how dare he look at me while he had another woman tucked into his side? How dare he focus those silver gray eyes on my own drab blue ones, looking at me as though daring me to look away.

Well, he had another thing coming. And it was in the form of alcohol-buzzed, naive Sansa Stark.

I stared, and I stared and I stared. I stared so long Arya finally came over and clapped her hands-- loudly --in my face.

“What the everloving fuck , Sansa?” she’d said. I’m laughing now, because it’s so like her to talk like that when anyone could overhear her.

Finally, I broke eye contact with him, disgusted with him, disgusted with myself, and disgusted with Arya and the Iron Islands tea that hadn’t erased my memories of the way his eyes had roamed over my body and appreciated it inch by inch, worshipping--yes, I said worshipping --it as though I was a foreign landscape he was exploring for the first time. The mountains were my breasts, the valley between my legs, the river--

Well, I don’t need to get too detailed. I do seem to recall him saying something about seeing stars in my eyes. Or maybe that was me just seeing stars when he made me cum. I don’t know.

Either way, I didn’t have a chance to dwell on it as Arya had kept talking while I wasn’t paying attention.

“-- for Dad and you need to get your head out of your ass--Sansa. Sansa! What the fuck happened between you two?”

A hard, small fist knocked me in the shoulder and I remember trying to focus on her but it was hard to know which one of her I should be looking at.

Then I heard my name and thought my life might be over.

• ℘ •

My acceptance speech for winning Best New Employee --which, if I’m going to be honest, meant little since I was the only new hire the previous year--had potential.

Let me say this so you understand it--it had potential , but that potential was probably not realized. I know somewhere on WestTube there’s probably video of me slurring my words just an itsy bitsy, tiny amount. But I haven’t seen it.

Thank the gods!

I remember saying it might have been my first time-- year --but that it had been fantastic, and… Okay, I’m laughing again but I also think I might cry. I said that if there was ever an opportunity to come again--come… cum!... --that I would do it in a heartbeat, and that that was because the connections I had made--in the company, I think I said; hope I said--meant more to me than any previous job experience. And then I went on to explain that I had had zero previous job experience--

--But years of personal, hands on practice.

People, listen. I said that. I said that in a room full of people, including my mom and dad , who I saw on a regular basis, every day, often for meals, often in passing in the halls of my family home.

Okay. Floor, please just swallow me whole right now. I cannot believe I said that.

Well, correction--I actually can believe it because Arya told me some of it as she led me out the door off to the side and out to the cab that was waiting to take me home.

And when I got home I threw up in the toilet, all the while imagining there was a certain blonde’s face deep in the bowl getting covered in puke. Classy, right?

Did I say I had somehow gotten drunk off two Iron Islands teas? I may have left that out.

But thank the gods I threw up that night (sarcasm alert) because the following morning I was able to wallow in self pity and remorse and regret and embarrassment while stone cold sober. Wonderful .

So, what happened, you might ask? Well, that was a month ago, and as much as I would like to tell you and have you believe that I got over my jealousy and purged my ill will towards that unnamed blonde woman, I’d be lying.

I didn’t.

I didn’t vomit them up that night as much as I had hoped I would, nor did I get them to fade over the following days when I had to walk past Sandor’s smouldering gaze as he watched me go about my business.

No, every time I saw him was a reminder of how his dark brown hair, hanging long and loose about his shoulders in that utterly sexy way it did, perfectly contrasted with the woman’s pale blonde color.

Every time I walked past him and smelled the fading scent of lemon, I was reminded that the joy I once had in pranking him in such a way was becoming lost to me. Because I realized I had been--and this is super pathetic--saturating his office with my favorite scent, which just made me want him more.

And every time I sat across from him, down from him, next to him at the massive dinner table, I was so aware of his presence and so overcome within my own body with it--so delirious with want of him--that I eventually stopped coming to dinner. I took a plate from the kitchen and ate in my room, telling my parents I was just wanting some space from everyone for a while.

• ℘ •

Where am I now, you might ask? Well, this very minute I’m in bed, writing on my Goldbook laptop. This is a story I’ve been wanting to tell for, oh, I don’t know--two weeks now at least. Ever since Sandor caught up to me where we all parked our vehicles outside the wing of our Stark home that had been turned into the company headquarters. He cornered me against his truck, out of sight from everyone still in the house.

That conversation--I remember like it was yesterday.

He began by asking me why I had started avoiding him, and why I no longer came to dinner. Somehow I just barely managed to squeak out a lie of some sort before he stepped into my bubble and tilted my face up to his.

That look in his eyes--I’ll never forget the way they burned into mine when he called me a liar.

And for once in my life I didn’t cower. I didn’t hide from anything, I didn’t back down, even if I had already admitted defeat a long time before that moment.

But I did want one thing, if it meant this was my last chance to feel what I had felt that day at the dorm. And I was willing to embarrass myself yet again-- again , if you can believe it--and the words just fell out of my mouth like one of those cartoons where the tongue rolls out and out and out, like a red carpet for my admissions.

“I’ve been jealous and I want to kiss you and you’re all I think about--”

Or something like that. I actually can’t remember the last things I said because he was already kissing me by then, and some of them were said against the crush of his lips.

I was caught so off guard that I pulled away. Good. Freaking. Lords-- I pulled away. And I looked up at him and I kid you not, I said, “What about Blondie?”

Sandor--scowling, grumpy, smouldering eyes Sandor--allowed his mouth to split into a grin that had me audibly gasping for the sudden lack of air in my lungs.

“You named her?” he asked me, and then he laughed. Dark, scarred, sexy as all get-out CEO of my dad’s company...

The bastard laughed, can you believe that?

This scowling, smouldering, adorable man laughed at me, at my embarrassment and my jealousy and my predicament.

Affronted--because who wouldn’t be?--I explained, “I couldn’t call her what I really wanted to call her, so I had to name her something that wasn’t a bad word.”

Then I shut my trap. Yep, only after uttering that damning sentence did I decide to shut my lemon cake hole. For crying out loud, someone remind me never to speak my mind around this man. Arya! Arya! She’s the ticket--she could smack me like a conscience every time I was tempted to. That girl can read me like a book.

He was on me again, though, his husky laugh that I couldn't even remember if I had heard before sending shivers through every layer of my skin, down through my muscles, and embedding itself into the thickened marrow of my bones--a sound I knew I would never forget as long as I lived.

But he confused me, because I didn’t know why the heck he was kissing me. Wasn’t he with Blondie? Wasn’t I just the one-afternoon stand? The girl who had signed her heart away to the first man she’d had sex with?

Yes, yes, and yes, I had insisted silently. But Sandor was shaking his head, spanning my waist with his hands and pressing himself against me, nipping at the skin of my neck and confusing the crap out of me. I pushed at him, but he answered my need for clarity with a rasping whisper right into my ear.

“I needed a date,” came his voice, and when I pulled back he let me. “She’s the daughter of a client and I knew she’d say yes if I asked.” I felt his thumbs sweep my sides, an affectionate touch that made my diaphragm stutter as I struggled to draw in a breath. He added, leaning close, “I wanted to ask someone else but she was giving me the cold shoulder.”

I looked into his eyes and saw absolute resolve, as though he had made a decision a long time ago and that I was it.

“Me?”

That was a squeak.

Sandor nodded and smiled at me, his voice a deep murmur as he affirmed, “Only you.”

And while I stared at his lips, thinking of the things he could do to my body with them--the memories of things he had done, in fact--I whispered back, knowing he would know exactly what I was talking about, “Why did you leave me?”

And I’ll never forget, or let him live down, the words he spoke to me next.

“Because I’m a damned fool.”

There was so much emotion in that simple declaration--anguish and regret and desire and lust, all wrapped up into one heavily muscled, big-as-a-tree man who was lifting me even at that very moment up against the side of his truck.

Then he kissed me again, but this time my arms were around his neck, my legs about his waist, my body pressing into his, even as my torso was sandwiched between him and the unyielding metal at my back. I think I may still have bruises from that day, but rest assured, he has kissed them all so that they don’t hurt anymore.

• ℘ •

Sandor is asleep beside me. I have it on good authority that he went in to talk to my dad at some point, though he denies it when I bring it up. But there was a suspicious green velvet bag on his dash the other day when he helped me into the truck. And the way he grabbed it from me and shoved it into the glovebox made me very curious what was in it.

I think I know. Heck, I know I know.

And I have one for him, too, one of those silicone things that men like to wear these days, in a ridiculous size that I felt silly asking the jewelry store clerk for. It’s black, but inside--where it’s hidden, pressed against his finger--is a strip of yellow, because he knows it’s my favorite color.

He loved me tonight so thoroughly that he’s tuckered out, but I won’t let him rest for long. I just wanted to get out this story, to post it to my blog before I woke the hound and encouraged him to play with his wolf.

I am faithful to Sandor, and he is faithful to me. I have a crush on him, and I’m pretty sure he has a mad crush on me.

I love him. And he loves me.

Every night.

Sometimes twice.