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Twenty minutes ago, Sansa would have sworn she was tired.
She digs her nails into Jon’s neck, breath catching at the push of his body into hers. Inch by inch. His grip on the back of her head tightens. That hot flush spreads. Over her chest. Over the expanse where his body meets hers, as he bottoms out inside of her. She gasps.
The spread of his hands snags strands of her hair, as he cranes his head down to kiss her. Slow, as slow as the first roll of his hips.
“I’ve been thinking about this all damn night. Thinking about you like this.”
“Oh my God,” she pants.
He will have watched her broadcast. He always does if he possibly can. Even if he has to stream it the next day when anything she reports is bound to be old news.
He says she’s smart. With a microphone in his face, he didn’t grimace about being asked about a fiancée at his event. He would have had every right to be annoyed. There was no hesitation there though. He said she was better than anyone else because she’s smart.
He likes other things about her too. Things he won’t say into a mic.
“That’s my girl. You’re so wet.”
She nods frantically once and again, as he asks, “Feels good?”
He knows it does. It always does somehow with Jon.
He kisses her again, slower, inexplicably slower. All that anticipation, while he waited at home and she worked, and he still manages to maintain his grip. Tongue, lips, teeth, slow and tortuous as the thrust of his hips. Waves of pleasure move through her with each meeting of their bodies. She draws her leg up higher over his hip, deepening the angle. He groans in answer and she’s rewarded with one hard slam.
Sharp pleasure spikes up her spine. “Yes.”
“Yes?” He curses, straining.
When she does make tatters of his restraint, the pride she feels unfurling through her blood is all the richer. Her disciplined Jon. She can do that to him.
She can feel it in his body, his muscles strung tight under the play of her hand skimming his back, his side, his ass, back up to his neck into his soft silky hair. She feels it inside of her too, the throb of him. He’s holding back, trying to extend this, even though he’s already made her come with his head between her legs.
Gently relentless, sometimes she thinks he imagines if he stops to look away, he’ll turn back and she’ll be gone.
She’s not going anywhere.
“Don’t stop. Please, okay?” she begs, fingers winding through his curls.
His hair is damp at the scalp. Damp from the shower he must have taken before she came home. He smells like shampoo and their bed and sex, and it’s making her crazy. Her head tips back, arched by the intensity of what’s already winding up inside her.
She bites her lip against it, the building tension, as she rocks her hips up to meet his give and take.
“I’m not going to stop,” he promises, though his face is knit with the pleasure, threatening to swamp him. “You’re going to come again.” Another slow roll that feels like it goes on forever and she’s pulling on his hair. “If I have to fuck you all night.”
“Could you?” she asks, voice hinging on a puffed laugh.
Because it feels like he wants to come now. She loves it when he’s practically vibrating like this.
“I’ll die trying,” he says, smiling wolfishly against her lips. “How do you feel this good? Hmm?” he hums, pushing back on his arms.
That does it. The shift of his weight. He hits something just right and she jerks to grab hold of his bicep. To anchor herself. To prevent him from changing this angle.
Her string of yeses prompts another throaty curse from him and his mouth finds her nipple. Warm and wet. Her toes curl against the sheets, her heel slipping.
“Don’t stop,” she stupidly repeats, all intelligence seeping from her body with each mind-numbing slap of his body into hers.
“You’re my girl. Made for me,” he says, looking up under his brows from her breast. He looks almost angry. The face she mistook once. Fierce with the mounting pressure he’s holding back on releasing, as his hand dips down between them. “You’re fucking made for me, I swear.”
His thumb circles her and her throat gets tight.
She doesn’t want him to hold back, but she doesn’t have speech left to order him around. She digs her heel into his ass. His eyes meet hers, dark and desperate.
He’s so deep. With his last two thrusts, she’s only half in her body, and then her orgasm hits her so hard, so much more violently than the gentle drag of his tongue against her elicited a few minutes ago that she knows only vaguely with her head thrown back that she’s whimpering with it. Actually whimpering as his fingers press into her hip and his mouth hangs just over hers and his rhythm goes to hell. Shallow and fast, a pause, two hard slaps, and then he comes in a pulse she can feel despite the condom.
She strokes his face, peppering his cheeks with kisses, as he sags into her. Affection washes over her. It’s overwhelming in her sudden boneless euphoric exhaustion.
“I love you. I love you,” she says, as he captures her mouth once more.
“Oh damn,” he says, pulling back.
A kiss to her temple, a soft cupping of her cheek, and her heart swells too big for her chest. She chases his gaze and his eyes hold hers for a long second.
He kisses the tip of her nose. She loves that sweet habit of his so damn much it hurts.
“I love you.”
“Yeah?” she says, though she feels the truth of it in her veins.
“More than anything. And I’ve repaid you by keeping you up.”
“That’s okay,” she says, as he reaches down to grip himself and pull free of her in a wet slide. “I’d have been offended if you hadn’t.”
“Yeah?” he says, flopping onto his back. His arm comes up, bent atop the pillow they share. “Why’s that?” he asks, looking down at himself with a frown.
“I wore those black heels. The ones you like.”
He side-eyes her. “I noticed.”
She smiles over at him in the dark. “Good.”
“Fuck,” he says, swinging his legs off the bed. His shoulders hunch, bending over himself. “If I’d known you did that on purpose? I’d have lost my mind waiting.”
She admires the spread of his shoulders, the length of his back, his perfect ass, and then she’s blindly groping for the t-shirt he pulled off himself when she walked through the front door and he looped an arm around her back to drag her into their bedroom.
He seemed more than a little worked up even without knowing she wore the heels for him.
I want to taste you. Now.
Without his competition schedule and demanding in-season training to consume him, she’s his sole hyper-fixation. It’s not a bad position to be in.
“Alright?” he asks, settling onto his back with a rake of his hand through his hair.
“Barely,” she says, tossing the abused t-shirt off to the side to be dealt with tomorrow.
Laundry. It’ll need to be a priority. She didn’t even get through what she’d packed for the honeymoon yet. But Jon is a decent folder.
She glances over and sees the slight pinch between his brows. She reaches over to pat him. “I’m perfect. Perfect.”
He covers her hand with his.
“Just glad I have off tomorrow. It’s been a whirlwind since we got back. Catching up, and I’ve been prepping all week for that interview.”
“Yeah, they can’t get along without you.”
“Arya did a good job filling in.”
“She’s got to be glad to be out of the studio though.”
She hums in agreement.
Tyrion brought something up again tonight not for the first time before they went on the air. He’s got ideas about Sansa’s family that go beyond her sister.
“Tyrion wants you to do special commentary for the Olympics.”
His head rolls on the pillow, brows angled together. “Commentary.”
“I know,” she says, working her way down farther into the sheets. When Tyrion first suggested it, she laughed, envisioning Jon scowling at the cameras night in and night out. The unimpressed meme hero of the 2024 Games. Tyrion didn’t laugh. “He has a vision.”
Her husband scrubs his face. The more than 5 o’clock shadow that developed while he waited for her to come home tonight rasps against his palm. It felt disastrously good between her thighs.
“Got it. I didn’t realize they were already counting me out.”
The edge in his voice tells her precisely what he thinks of anyone underestimating his chances. He’s not wrong. Still, she rolls her eyes as she pushes uselessly at his muscled bicep.
“Jon. You won two golds and a silver at Worlds six weeks ago. No one is counting you out for 2026.”
He makes a low sound.
There’s always someone ready to diminish your accomplishments no matter how high you claw.
She shifts onto her side, insinuating herself against him. A lift of his arm and she fits right into the curve of his body. She bumps his chin with her nose, begging for a kiss he doesn’t deny her. One, two soft kisses, and a third firmer one that makes her leg hike up over his thigh to chase the pressure of his muscle against her center. Despite being well and truly fucked. It’d leave her shaking and weak to come for a third time, but sometimes that’s just how things go.
Jon’s even more of a disaster for her sleep hygiene in his off-season than he is in season.
It’s worth it.
She smiles against his mouth. “Even if you have a new wife getting in the way of your off-season conditioning.”
Their engagement lasted slightly over a year, but there was no time for a wedding during his competition schedule. Life has to revolve around his sport and her career. At least for now.
He snakes an arm around her, palming her ass to rock her against him. “You are my off-season conditioning.” She responds like Pavlov’s dog, and his boyish pleasure at the too-eager roll of her hips hides in the flat line of his mouth. “My conditioning coach has no complaints.”
She pulls his face down to press one quick kiss, as he fights the grin that wants to break on his handsome face in the dark of their bedroom.
She pats his cheek. “He wants you to do Summer commentary.”
He exhales hard. “Okay. That’s quite a vision.”
“I know.”
“Wild, considering I’m a Winter athlete.”
She hums her agreement again.
“And I don’t do commentary or calls. I don’t do broadcast.”
“Yet.” Her head dips from side to side. Her brother’s career flamed out years ago. It’s still a touchy subject in some ways. Competitors want to compete. Bringing it up could spoil the mood. “Not yet you don’t, but eventually.” Before his open-mouthed distress can turn into something, she corrects, “Eventually. Years and years from now.” She reaches down to slap his hip three times. “You have some life in you yet.”
“Thanks for that,” he says, catching her wrist before she pulls back for another slap.
“You’re welcome.” She puffs a laugh at his bemused head shake. “Be serious. Be serious,” she whispers urgently, wriggling as he releases her to return the favor.
His hand lands on her ass with a firm smack. “As a heart attack. I am as serious as a damn heart attack,” he repeats against her ear, as he belts her tight against him with a hard squeeze.
She gives up her fight and sags against his chest. He smells so good. It should be a cologne. Bottled and sold for hundreds of dollars. The first time she visited him, she opened his medicine cabinet and pulled back his shower curtain to see what secret recipe he was hiding.
His hand skates down her spine, drawing goosebumps as it finds a home beneath the rise of her ass. She might be on top, but he’s always ready to flip the balance with devastating ease. A flick of his thumb to the crease of her thigh and she’ll be squirming. All over again.
“It’s nothing you need to stress about,” she says, mouth moving against his warm skin, “but it would be a chance to see what you think of it. If you absolutely hate it. Get the networks thinking about your very distant future too.”
“I’ll coach.”
That draws her up. She pushes up on his chest, propping herself up. “Oh, yeah. Of course. You’d be a fantastic coach.”
The way his teammates respect him, listen to him, Sansa knows he has what it takes to develop and coach other biathletes to victory. Jon could ensure the future of his sport in this country beyond his skiing days. She can picture it: him with a little silver at his temples, arms crossed in a winter coat, busting at the seams with pride over their accomplishments, and yelling like a madman when necessary.
But once Tyrion raised the specter of her husband being on air alongside her in a few months, she hasn’t been able to dismiss it entirely. She’s been playing with the idea of what that could look like for him and what it could look like for them too. Long term.
“But you have a commanding way of speaking about your sport too. People responded to you.”
It’s Jon’s turn to laugh tunelessly. “The terminally online?”
“Not just that demographic. You were a proper hero in 2022.”
He pulls a face, still uncomfortable with the overblown reaction even though he has since let her look at his medals. Even wear them like her colleague, Tyrion’s brother, and on-air personality, Jaime once teased. Naked with them hanging between her breasts, he’d insisted they look a lot better on her than they did him.
“Underdog.”
“Underestimated.”
And he’s shown the biathlon world time and again since then that no one should underestimate him. Ever. She’s watched him chase down the best in the sport. Watched him level a rifle and go clean time and again and heave for air on his knees after near-inhuman feats. It’s a ridiculous turn-on. There’s something slightly wrong with her maybe.
“A famous athlete can elevate the sport when they turn to commentary too. People pay attention.”
“Fuck. Famous?” he grimaces.
She tilts her head to contemplate his impossibly dark eyes and pretty, talented mouth.
Her voice dips. “And I like to watch you. I always like to watch you.”
He scans her face, tongue testing the inside of his cheek. “You’re honestly not discounting this.”
“It could be fun to work together. Don’t you think?”
“Yeah, but I’m coming with you without having to embarrass myself.”
He is coming. Flights are books. Plans for his training are in place.
As soon as she was announced as one of the two hosts for the Late Night broadcast for these games, she asked him whether he’d like to join her. July and August are off-season, but it’s not so far off from the November start of his season that it wouldn’t be a disruption in his training.
You want me there?
Course I do. Why not?
Could get in the way of some archery asshole who wants to breathe on your neck while showing you how to shoot.
Cocky little twinkly-eyed idiot.
“Either way,” she says, trying not to sound hopeful. “I’m looking forward to it. Paris is romantic.” Jon competed at Annecy in December 2022, but that close to the holidays, she wasn’t able to attend. Sometimes—more than she’d like—their schedules just don’t mesh. In that case, her parents wouldn’t have been thrilled at her absence, and without a ring on her finger yet, she hadn’t wanted to do anything to turn them against Jon. Her family is fiercely loyal and prone to being just a hair judgmental. And territorial. “But there’s no way you’d embarrass yourself. You’ll deep dive whatever sport and know more than the professionals by the time you do your thing.”
His thumb worries that spot she knew he’d find. She narrows her eyes at him until he stops what could quickly turn into a distracting torment.
“Okay, I’ll bite. What sport?”
There’s no Summer Biathlon.
“It’s special commentary,” she says, fixing her face, because she knows how he’ll take this. “So, any sport really.”
His chin tips up as he cranes his head back toward the ceiling. “Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me. Like Kevin Hart special commentary? Martha Stewart? Sweetheart.”
“I know,” she says, smoothing his hand over his chest. “I know.”
“I am not a sideshow.”
“Neither is Martha. She’s a treasure, Jon,” she says, poking his sternum. “A treasure.”
“Yep, yep,” he agrees with a heavy sigh. “And they made an unfair example out of her when rich guys do it every day,” he says, familiar with her opinion on the woman’s insider trading conviction, one of Sansa’s many opinions.
“And she looks amazing.”
“Without question,” he says, cuffing the back of her head.
Sometimes he doesn’t agree with her strong opinions. Jon manages to disagree without being disrespectful, which is more than she can say for most men. Most women too. It’s given her the permission to assert them in a way she never did before in a relationship.
He doesn’t think she’s ugly for having opinions. He doesn’t need to diminish her.
“No sideshow,” she insists. “You’re an Olympic athlete. You can provide insight there. You know, interact with the athletes like Arya does, as one of them.”
“Compare me doing inane special commentary to what Arya does where she can hear you and she’ll never speak to you again.”
Arya likes Jon a lot, but she probably wouldn’t speak to him again either.
“Oh, I know, she’s absolutely without equal. A pro. But there’s room for more excellence, and Tyrion has won awards. His ideas aren’t terrible.”
It was his idea to throw Sansa Stark at Jon Snow, the biathlete the internet was thirsting for. Which was barbaric. Offensive. But not a terrible idea after all.
“They’ve used winter athletes in summer and summer in winter before. It’s fun,” she says, sounding chirpy and ridiculous.
“We both know my being an Olympic athlete isn’t what appeals to him.”
It isn’t. During the Olympics, viewership expands to include people who don’t know their Pursuit from a Sprint but who do want an update on the Late Night host and the angry biathlete who looked at her like she was a whole meal. Some people will have kept up. Her follower numbers play that out. But there are people who don’t know they married after this Worlds. People who don’t know they honeymooned in Figi even though Sansa did get Jon to submit rather good-naturedly to a couple of stories on her IG without location tags. One cropped picture of her leg slung over his in a hammock after two piña coladas prompted a vomit emoji reply from her sister.
I don’t want to see this.
It’s just legs.
The implications though.
Then maybe log off. ♥ you
His fingers drum against her flesh, mindless of the effect. “He just wants us on set together.”
She reminds him of his touch with a rock of her hips. “Well, sure. We’re good together.”
His mouth quirks. “I won’t argue with you there.”
“I’m more than a little nostalgic about our onscreen moments.” She watches them back on YouTube where they live for posterity. He doesn’t have a social media presence, but she shares them in texts at least half the time. Only when she’s fully prepared for his response, which tends to end in a horizontal workout. “I wouldn’t mind a do-over.”
There’s a soft something that comes over his face. He tightens the band of his arm around her back.
“And whatever he thinks the appeal will be, you can bring your special something and wow them. Tyrion, the network, all your fans.”
“That’s a tall order.”
“I believe in you.”
That’s no joke.
He’s never disappointed her. Not in any way that counted. And when there is a misunderstanding or frustration, he apologizes without her having to demand it or act petulant. He makes amends in their relationship in the same straightforward way he carries himself in every other aspect of his life.
That tender thing spreads, as he cups her face with a reverence that makes her feel like she’s cracking open.
She flattens her hand over his heart. Its steady beat is her favorite source of comfort. Even more than the shirts she steals to sleep in when he’s traveling for training or competition without her.
“Will you think about it?”
“Yeah, I’ll consider it.”
“Thank you.”
“You’ve completely thrown me.” His thumbs sweep her cheeks, as gentle as they are rough. “You do that.”
“Yeah?”
“Since day one,” he says, as she moves to cover his mouth with her hand. He snaps his teeth, and she just escapes the bite as his teeth clack together.
“You know, you give that man an inch,” he says as he draws her down for a kiss to her forehead. “He’ll take a mile,” he says against her brow. “With this. Then with the next thing.”
“Oh, I know,” she admits, eyes drifting shut. “I’ve known him a lot longer than you.”
“He’ll want to announce a pregnancy on air.”
Her laugh is bright and quick. “We’d have to give him one first.”
In one smooth motion, he rolls them over, trading her lofty position for his. His knee spreads her legs wide, opening a home for his hips.
She yelps his name.
“It’s been a few minutes. I can give it the old college try.”