The Harlot and the Hound

3

 He grabbed her wrists hard, harder than he meant to, but she didn’t cry out or shrink from him.

She simply waited. Fearless.

Maybe he should have blindfolded all the women he fucked.

Even so, Clegane knew this one was different. She was just as bruised and battered as he was, only it wasn’t obvious on her unmarred skin.

By the gods, she was beautiful. He hadn’t seen her eyes, but somehow he knew they would be blue. Not the chilly blue of waterways, but blue of the sky in the long summer. There was a delicate grace to the alabaster arc of her cheek, an elegance in her limbs as if her very flesh had been sculpted by a master artist. Her breasts were heavy, but firm, just right in his hands. The curve of her hip was rounded and soft, and her sweet quim had been wet after his touch. She’d arched into him, demanded more and by the heat coming from her, she actually wanted him. If it was an act, it was a damned good one. He’d definitely have his money’s worth.

It unmanned him to think that rather than take the fuck he’d paid for, he simply wanted to look at her. To bury his face and hands in that cascade of hair that smelled like roses.

Part of him that he’d believed to be only soot and ash breathed again, it wanted to take off her blindfold and kiss her in the light—wanted to believe she’d let him and still press her body against his, that her slit would still be wet for him instead of waiting for it to be over so she could take her coin and move on to another.

Disgust at himself bloomed hot and black at the base of his skull. And he hated the beautiful woman in front of him for making him feel these things, acknowledge them. For making him admit that he was a stupid dog who’d forgotten his place.

“Get out.” He let go of her and retreated from the bed back into shadow.

Her little chin lifted in defiance. “No.”

Clegane was sure he’d misheard her. No woman had ever disobeyed him. Especially not a whore.

“I don’t want you.” He knew in that moment there were no gods because surely they would have struck him dead for such a lie.

“No?” she asked, unfazed. The woman reclined back on the bed, her thighs open like some kind of sacrifice to the old gods.

The light haloed her pearly skin, sliding over her like the lover he wanted to be. Her slick folds were bare to his view and then she did the unthinkable. She dipped her fingers into her own honey and flicked over her clit.

His cock was so hard, he could drive spears through brick.

“I said to get out.”

He could see the bruises he’d put on her wrists and he felt both a sense of possession at seeing his mark on her and shame for having hurt her. Clegane knew he was lower than a dog for having bitten the only hand that cared to pet him.

“It feels so good, but I liked your hand better,” she said as if he hadn’t spoken.

He sank to his knees on the floor, unable to process what was happening to him.

She’d left the blindfold on. She was frigging herself and begging for his touch. These things were a mace in his gut.

Clegane crept over to her like a dog on his belly, waiting to be kicked again, for surely that was the only outcome here.

His mouth descended before he could think better of it and tasted her. He pushed her hand away, but instead of dropping to her side, her fingers twined with his.

Perhaps she was some demon conjured from the seven hells to give a man what he desired and suck the life from him?

In that moment, he believed it to be true. This whore was all things woman—both primal and ethereal. She was the maiden, still bearing her veil. She was the mother, sheltering him from the cruelty of his memories. Finally, she was the crone because this blind acceptance would be the death of him.

But for all of his injuries and twisted features, the Hound had a talented tongue.

He laved at her flesh, tasted her, suckled her and kneaded her swollen clit with the strong tip of his tongue. She thrashed beneath him, her small hand still twined with his.

Sandor moved his grasp to the small of her back and drew her forward toward his mouth, anchored her against his lips so she couldn’t squirm away. He pushed his tongue inside the seam of her, tasted the salt-sweet of her and wanted more.

Her other hand wrapped around the back of his neck and her fingers knotted in his hair. She jerked to pull him away as her body tensed and she grit her teeth, but he wouldn’t stop. He’d make her spill her bliss all over his face and he’d lap it up and make her do it again.

A hound is nothing if not dogged in his persistence.

Her fierce tugs on his hair only spurred him on, made him want her more.

She came hard, but he didn’t stop, only slowed his ministrations—softened them.

“Are you ready for me then?” he demanded in a brusque tone.

“Yes.”

He pushed a finger inside of her and her slit tightened around him, pulling him deeper into her wet heat. She was so tight. Sandor eased another digit inside of her and thrust in and out, pleased when evidence of her need coated his fingers.

Then he felt it. The little bit of flesh he’d traded his hard won gold for. Her virginity.

Intact.

He was so sure it had been a lie.

But he wasn’t noble enough to stop now, he’d told her to leave, he’d given her an escape and she’d chosen to stay, the seven hells take them both.

Sandor pressed against her channel, she was slick for him, but it was an impossible task.

He’d heard knights talking about fucking virgins, how tight they were, how big their eyes got when they cried out about how it wouldn’t fit… the maid had no such reservations, but Sandor did.

Her hot little cunt was just that, she was so delicately made, he’d rip her apart.

This was a woman fully grown, if he’d done this to Sansa in King’s Landing, he would have left her broken and bloody. And this woman had told him he should have.

He closed his eyes against his memories, all of this sensation. It was too much.

“I know it will hurt. Do it,” she whispered and dug her little claws into his shoulders.

Sandor entered her in one solid thrust and felt that bit of flesh tear and she shuddered against him.

“Kiss me,” she pleaded softly.

He tasted her lips again and when her hand came up to rest on his cheek, he allowed it.