Welcome
Despite being located in a licentious Babylon, SFO is as miserable as any airport can be.
Jaime can tell Cersei is gritting her teeth, very uncomfortable--and Jaime’s been around long enough to know that if Cersei is acting like Stannis Baratheon, something must be done. Immediately.
A quick nod to Sansa and everything is managed; Sansa starts discussion of Madame S., absinthe bars and visits to Dark Garden and Nordstrom’s. Cersei visibly relaxes and chats as they are dragged with the crowd to the baggage claim.
As if planned in an elegant dance, Ser Jaime glides over to the claim while Sansa with a graceful half-step turns Cersei away from it, keeps her talking so her lioness doesn’t have to look at the roundabout. Sansa catches Jaime’s jade eye with her sapphire one and he smiles, relieved.
Such a good cub.
Before the screeching noises that greet the turning of the roundabout can get any worse, Sansa looks at her Lady. “Shall we go fix our makeup?” Sansa smiles, seeing herself reflected in the surface of Cersei’s tortoiseshell sunglasses. “I can rub your temples with lavender oil if you want. It’s been a long flight.”
Cersei’s smile is suddenly relaxed, unforced. Suddenly she realizes she’s miles away from anyone who knows her and if anyone sees her--well, they won’t want her mentioning where they’ve been either. “Yes. Thank you, little dove.”
Sansa’s smile is as bright as the gold chain locked around her slender neck.
Sansa catches Ser Jaime’s eye as they walk off to the ladies room, arm in arm, winks.
Inside it’s an airport bathroom; Cersei looks twitchily at the water puddled around the sinks. Sansa dabs it dry with a paper towel, washes her own hands, dabs on hand sanitizer, then hands the clear purple gel to Cersei.
Sansa knows her Lady is going to feel much better when she has her own bathroom.
Sansa hops up to sit on the makeup counter so Cersei can remove her sunglasses, lean back into Sansa’s bosom and close her eyes. Sansa takes the oil, starts rubbing it on her Lady’s temples so she can breathe easier.
“My good girl. Good girl.” sighs Cersei, almost unable to speak from relief, the soothing scent of the lavender oil, the brief moment of respite from the hideous clanking, screeching of the machines and agonizing crowds by the baggage carousel.
She closes her eyes, feeling Sansa’s heartbeat, her girl’s soft breast, Sansa’s tender cheek against hers and can’t help but turn for a long, slow kiss. There’s no hurry and Sansa always tastes sweet, honeyed with the most delicate, luscious lips. Sansa is daring, her rosy tongue brushing at her Lady’s lips, hungry for Cersei’s mouth, every part of her. Cersei turns to face Sansa so her little dove can slip her tongue deeper inside her mouth, thrust slowly. Sansa locks her ankles around Cersei’s back, her violet pumps shimmering like flower petals against her Lady’s elegant black cashmere travel wrap.
Cersei doesn’t give a damn if anyone sees, reaches around her girl to slide up her skirt, reveal the sturdy ivory garter belt that holds up her sheer stockings. (There are other ones for later; red ones, Tiffany blue ones, rose, soft lemon and mint and lavender with ruffles that make Sansa look like a confection herself. Cersei’s already thinking about a bite, how tasty her girl will be in pastel frills. Cersei prefers a rare steak and a rich red wine, but loves Sansa looking like she’s spun from sugar and champagne.)
They’re both flushed when the kiss breaks, hungry for more. “Thank you, sweetling.” Cersei purrs, running her fingers through Sansa’s hair, then reaching down. Cersei grins with an arched brow, a smile of triumph.
Sansa moans with pleasure, squirms.
“Seems my girl’s a bit overdressed for this climate, hmm?” Sansa blushes as Cersei puts out her hand. “You know what to do.” whispers her Queen, a wicked smile on her lips.
Red-faced, Sansa wriggles out of her panties, contorting to slide the wisp of cream silk down her legs without dropping them on the floor. She folds them into a perfect square, shyly presents them to her Lady.
“Much better.” murmurs Cersei, slipping the silk into her purse, then helping Sansa down. Cersei tidies Sansa’s red hair, kisses her on the nose to make her laugh. Sansa adjusts her peony lips as Cersei freshens hers with three sharp strokes of red, snaps the gold Dior case shut. There’s a slight noise at the door.
Cersei feels very wicked.
She smiles at Sansa. “Silly me. I forgot to blot.” Before Sansa can react, Cersei’s flipped up the circle of Sansa’s white and lilac skirt, pressed a kiss to her belly right above the waistband of the garter belt. Sansa shivers with pleasure, Cersei’s half drunk on her girl’s scent, leaning to kiss to Sansa's pearl-pale waxed mons Venus, mark her again--
the door opens as Cersei’s brushing down Sansa’s skirt, Sansa’s own sapphire eyes sparkling wickedly as they kiss in a fury of gold and red, tongues sliding out for a brief touch--
and two women in identical blue polo shirts come in, their sensible purses caught on their tour group name tags. They blush, try to look away but can’t stop staring at the golden lioness and her cub as they stride out arm in arm, faces bright with lust. Cersei’s voice floats back on the air twined with a faint breath of lavender:
“Welcome to San Francisco.”