"I have it outlined" This made my day ok? I love that series a lot. I wanted to send you a prompt for it but I felt like may be you won't like to write it idk why. But in case you want to write, here is a prompt : champagne diamonds, breath
Bulgari ice
word count: 1115
tags: swarovski crystals compliant, established relationship, daddy kink, could be read as a stand-alone
She can feel it underneath the flat of her tongue; the moment the rise and fall of his abdomen ceases to a halt.
His hand—cradling the side of her face, thumb stroking the plane of her cheekbone, fingers carding through the hair at her nape—tightens in warning.
Sansa presses an open mouthed kiss to his warm skin, meeting his gaze through lowered lashes with a hum.
She can’t see his eyes. Dark sunglasses perch atop his nose, as his phone leans up against his ear. But she can feel it, the weight of his gaze, hot and heavy. The stroke of his thumb, as it drops from her cheekbone to her mouth, presses against her lower lip lightly.
In warning.
Sansa nips at it with her teeth. He responds with a tug at her hair she feels all the way to her toes.
“Have they said what they want?”
His voice is quiet. Brisk. Her stomach swoops low.
Sansa shakes granules of pink Himalayan sea salt onto the damp dips of his abs.
Underneath her, she can feel the impatient shift of his hips. The hardening shape of him through his shorts, up against her chest. The ragged edges forming around his words as frustration erodes them.
“I don’t care what it takes. Don’t let them drag their feet. Finish it.”
Her mouth waters.
Sansa reaches over for her shot glass, sweating with condensation, and knocks it back with little more than a wince.
His hand moves down from her face to her stomach, spreadeagled from thumb to index finger, middle finger hooking onto the tiny bit of string separating the pink triangles of her Dior bikini. He keeps it there; doesn’t tug at it. Doesn’t yank her down to him. He just wants to know that he can.
He wants to know that he’s in control.
Sansa barely allows time for the taste of the lime reach the back of her tongue before she’s leaning down to lap at the smooth expanse of his stomach.
His lips part, tongue touching the corner of his mouth.
She arches her back, and though the salt is long since gone from his skin, she begins to suck.
A fisted grip finds her hair, sending a jolt through her, pressing her thighs tightly together and curling her toes.
“Happy?”
His phone is face down on the bed, discarded. His attention is hers again, as well as both of his hands. The one his phone previously occupied is at the back of his head. The fingers he used to pluck at the center of her bikini span the width of her shoulder blades, rough palm rasping against her skin. His brow is knitted in irritation.
Sansa crawls over his legs to straddle his waist, grinning. “The things I have to do to get your attention.”
His hands are on her hips before she even has time to blink. “I was on the phone for five minutes.”
“You’re lucky you got to answer the phone at all.”
Jon sits up so fast that she jolts back in surprise, only for his arms to wrap her waist, holding her close to him. She giggles, and he takes that opportunity to kiss along her throat. Up her jaw. Along her chin.
Sansa drags her mouth down to his, rocking her hips.
His hand comes down against her ass, sharp and promising, before he kisses her back. The punishment before the reward—to him.
It doesn’t feel all like that much of a punishment to her.
Her breath hitches. She’s distantly aware of the strong purr of a speedboat engine. More than one. Vaguely. But she doesn’t think to pay it any mind until his fingers skim up her back, winding the string that holds her bikini together around his finger—
Right before he stops.
Jon pulls back only a little. Just to say, “Fuck.”
Just over his broad, sun browned shoulder, she can make out three different speed boats. All crammed full with paparazzi with mega lenses.
Sansa sighs inwardly. “We have visitors.”
He snorts at that. “You have visitors.” He takes off his glasses and pushes them up onto the bridge of her nose. “They don’t care about me nearly as much.”
40 feet or so away, the paparazzi are setting up shop. Getting their lenses ready. Some of them are already snapping pictures. The wind carries the shuttering sound across the water.
“Good afternoon!” She calls out with a wave.
They seem almost perturbed at her acknowledgment of them. Still, most of them call out, “Hello!”
“Don’t encourage them.” Jon murmurs into her ear.
“I’m not.” She smoothes her hands over his shoulders. Kisses his nose. “I’m being polite.”
“They’re parasites. Parasites don’t deserve your politeness.”
“No.” She admits, leaning into his ear. “But if I’m nice to them, maybe there won’t be a story about me trying to ride you on the front page of page six.”
His responding chuckle rolls over like a cool summer breeze, making the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. Raising goosebumps on her arms. “Not likely.”
Sansa leans back on her elbows, stretching out. The rest of her still in his lap. She feigns a dramatic sigh. “So much for being domesticated.”
“Domesticated?” His brows raise.
She presses her heel into his back. “You domesticated me, you know.”
That was how a lot of magazines saw it, once word of them finally got around. They’d managed to go unnoticed for more than an entire year before she moved back and shit hit the fan. A paparazzo caught them leaving a restaurant together. Wrong place, wrong time. For an entire month, all anyone could go on about was the heir to the New York Targaryen dynasty taming Sansa Stark; professional poor little rich girl. Way too young, way too flighty, and way too known for her impulsive romances.
This amuses Jon. He strokes her stomach. “Were you not house trained before?”
She was plenty house trained. Plenty well bred. Plenty perfect. And then she couldn’t be perfect anymore, so she just wasn’t for awhile.
She still isn’t. But he’s teaching her how to be okay with that.
“Not according to page six.” She teases.
He looses another one of those heart stopping, world tilting laughs, and she can’t help herself. She crawls back into his lap to kiss him.
Right before his mouth brushes hers again, his phone rings.
“Don’t even think about it.”
The edge of his smile gleams like a knife in the afternoon sun. “Yes, ma’am.”
When she pushes him back down on the bed, he laughs again, and she feels the warmth of it all the way down to her toes.
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