the edge of all that you know

“Arya,” he says again, against her lips. “Arya.” It sounds desperate and deep and she wonders if he thought of her, if he thought of this. If he thought of it the way she did, all those years they were apart. Shivering, she hitches herself closer, tightening her thighs about his and gasping at the almost-painful grip of his hands that’s surely leaving bruises on her hips, a pattern of dark stars where his fingertips are that she’ll have for days to remind her of how this feels.