His kisses were getting sloppy, fevered, like she might flit away between his fingertips if he didn't keep a firm hold of her hips or his tongue in her mouth. Sansa can't say she didn't like it.
"Mmm," she purrs, pulling away and gazing down at him from her perch, straddling his lap. "You are meant to be packing."
"I'm working my way up to it," Jon rumbles, voice deep and scratchy as he nips at her lips, a strong, warm hand at the back of her neck, urging her back down to him, sending tiny lightning bolts down her spine.
Sansa halts his guidance with a hand to his chest. "Our flight leaves in two hours, Jon."
He pouts. It's not an intentional, cutesy sort of pout but one he just simply cannot help and Sansa can't blame him really. They have to fly back home for Robb's wedding. They have to pretend again.
Jon whines, stretches up to put his mouth to her throat. She swallows beneath the scrape of his teeth and the hypnotic swipe of his hot, wet tongue. "Just one more time, sweetheart," he whispers, fitting that tight hold on her hips again, gently rocking them into a torturous grind. "Please, baby. Just to keep me going."
She's lost - she's lost. She's utterly swept away by him when he's like this.
"Just-... just quickly," Sansa says, relenting, tugging off her t-shirt and returning his hungry kiss. "But you better keep your hands to yourself once we land on northern soil."
"I will-I will," he rains promisses all over her skin with his mouth. "No one will suspect a thing." Deftly, Jon pops the buttons down the front of her little denim skirt. "It'll be-" his lips devour hers again as she cradles his face in her hold, " -strictly-" he shoves his big, warm hand down the front of her panties, cupping her with groan at the back of his throat, "-brotherly touching only."