The resort's air was thick with frangipani and salt, the humidity curling Padmé's loose hair into damp tendrils against her shoulders. Anakin stood at the open terrace doors, the early morning light catching the gold in his hair, and she watched the way his shoulders finally hung loose—no armor, no robes, no war pressing down on him. He turned when she crossed the room, and that boyish grin she'd missed for months split his face.
"You're staring," he said.
"You're worth staring at." She stopped in front of him, her hands finding the waistband of his loose trousers. "One day, Ani. No Jedi Council, no Senate, no battle droids. Just us."
His breath caught as her fingers slipped beneath the fabric. "Just us," he echoed, and the words came out rough, like he couldn't quite believe them.
She pushed the trousers down his hips and he stepped out of them, already half-hard, the morning air raising goosebumps along his pale skin. Padmé knelt on the woven mat without ceremony, her hands running up his thighs, thumbs tracing the faint scars that mapped his body like a language she was still learning. She looked up at him through her lashes, that senator's composure nowhere in sight, and wrapped her fingers around his dick.
"I've thought about this every night," she murmured, stroking him slow, watching the way his eyes went dark. "On Coruscant, in my quarters, alone in the dark."
"Padmé—" His voice cracked.
She leaned in and took him into her mouth, and the sound he made—a broken groan, half relief, half desperation—went straight through her. His dick was heavy on her tongue, salt and skin and him, and she took her time, lapping along the underside, feeling his pulse jump against her lips. Her hand worked the base while her mouth worked the head, and his fingers found her hair, not pushing, just holding, like he needed the anchor.
"Force," he breathed. "You have no idea what you do to me."
She pulled off just long enough to answer, her voice low and slick. "Show me."
Then she took him deep, her throat opening around him, and the sound he made was a prayer. His hips bucked, a small involuntary thrust, and she took it, her nose pressed against his skin, her throat working around him. Tears pricked her eyes but she held, her hands gripping his thighs, and when she finally pulled back, gasping, a string of spit connected her lips to his dick.
"You're going to kill me," he said, and it wasn't a joke.
She smiled up at him, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. "Not yet." And she took him again, faster this time, her head bobbing, her hand twisting at the base, and she could feel him swelling, could taste the first bitter hint of him. She looked up, held his gaze while she deepthroated him one last time, and he came undone—a strangled cry, his hands fisting in her hair, his cum flooding her throat. She swallowed, and swallowed again, and when she pulled off, she licked her lips clean.
"I just swallowed your unborn children," she said, and the audacity of it made her laugh.
Anakin stared at her, chest heaving, and then he laughed too, pulling her up by the shoulders. "You're impossible," he said, kissing her hard, tasting himself on her tongue.
"You love it."
"I love you." He said it against her mouth, and then he was walking her backward toward the bed, his hands already at the ties of her wrap. The fabric fell away, and his mechanical hand found her breast, the cool metal a shock against her warm skin, and he groaned at the weight of it. "Stars, Padmé."
She arched into his touch, her hands working at his hair, pulling him down to the bed with her. He came over her, his body a shield from nothing, his mouth finding her neck, her collarbone, the soft give of her breast. His lips closed around her nipple and she gasped, her back bowing, her fingers digging into his shoulders.
"Anakin—"
"Tell me what you want." His voice was muffled against her skin, his hand already sliding down her stomach, between her legs. "I'll give you anything. Everything."
She was already wet—had been since she'd knelt for him—and when his fingers found her, she shuddered. He worked her slow, his thumb circling her clit, his fingers sliding inside her, and she was trembling, her hips rolling against his hand.
"I want you inside me," she said, and it came out breathless, almost a command. "I want you to fill me up."
He pulled his hand away and positioned himself over her, his dick hard and leaking, and she reached down and guided him to her entrance. He pushed in, slow, and the stretch of it made her gasp, her eyes fluttering shut. He filled her completely, and for a moment neither of them moved, just breathing, just feeling the impossible heat of it.
"Look at me," he said, and she did. "I love you."
Then he started to move, and she couldn't speak anymore.
He thrust into her with a rhythm born of months of longing, each push deep and deliberate, his hips grinding against hers. Her legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him deeper, and she moaned his name like it was the only word she knew. The teak bed frame creaked against the plaster wall, a rhythm that matched the slap of skin, and the frangipani smell mixed with the sweat and the salt of them.
"Harder," she demanded, and he obeyed, his pace quickening, his breathing ragged. His mechanical hand braced beside her head, the metal cool against the heat of the sheets, and his other hand found her hip, gripping her tight.
"You feel—" he started, and couldn't finish, just drove into her again.
She was close, the pressure building low in her belly, and she could feel him swelling inside her, could feel his own control fraying. "Come inside me," she whispered, and the words undid him. He groaned, a sound torn from somewhere deep, and she felt him spill into her, hot and endless, and the feeling of it pushed her over the edge. She clenched around him, crying out, her body shuddering, and he kept thrusting, riding her through it, until they both collapsed in a heap of sweat and tangled limbs.
But she wasn't done.
She pushed him onto his back and straddled him, his dick still slick with their combined wetness, and she took him again in one smooth motion. He groaned, his head falling back, his hands finding her hips, but she grabbed his wrists and pinned them to the bed.
"My turn," she said, and started to ride him.
She set the pace—slow at first, a teasing roll of her hips that made him beg, then faster, harder, her breasts bouncing with each downward stroke. He was a mess beneath her, his eyes glassy, his mouth open, and she loved every second of it. She leaned forward, her hands on his chest, her hair falling around them like a curtain, and she whispered against his lips.
"You feel so good inside me, Ani. So deep."
"Padmé, I'm—"
"Not yet." She slowed, just to torture him, and he made a sound of pure frustration. "I want to feel you come inside me again."
And she did—she rode him until he was trembling, until his hips bucked up into her, until he spilled into her again with a broken cry of her name. She kept moving, milking every last drop, and when she finally stilled, she was shaking too, her thighs slick, her body humming.
She collapsed onto his chest, and he wrapped his arms around her, his mechanical hand finding her breast, kneading it absently. She sighed, her body heavy and satisfied, and she could feel him still inside her, softening but still there.
"Don't move," she murmured.
"Wasn't planning to." His voice was rough, sleep already pulling at the edges.
His hand kept working her breast, a slow, rhythmic squeeze, like he wasn't even thinking about it, like his hand had a mind of its own. She felt her eyes grow heavy, the weight of the day—the flight, the secrecy, the months of longing—finally catching up with her. She nuzzled into his chest, her lips brushing his skin, and she felt him take a deep breath beneath her.
"I wish this could last forever," he said, and his voice was thick with something like grief.
"It can," she said, because it was a lie she needed to believe, at least for tonight. "Just for today."
His hand never stopped its rhythm on her breast, squeezing and releasing like a heartbeat, and she felt herself drifting, anchored by the weight of him inside her, by the warmth of his body, by the impossible, fragile peace of this one stolen day. The frangipani scent drifted in through the open terrace doors, and somewhere beyond the walls, the sea whispered against the shore, and she let herself fall asleep on his chest, still full of him, still wrapped in his arms, still pretending the war would wait.
She woke to the weight of him still inside her, half-hard but present, and to the slow, unconscious rhythm of his hand on her breast. The light through the terrace doors had shifted, gone gold and lazy, and somewhere a bird called out in a language she didn't know. She lay there a moment, not moving, feeling the soft give of her flesh under his mechanical fingers, feeling him squeeze and release, squeeze and release, like she was something he needed to hold onto even in sleep.
She shifted, just slightly, and felt him stir beneath her. His hand tightened on her breast, a reflexive thing, and then his voice came rough and sleep-worn. "You're still here."
"Where else would I be?"
His eyes opened, blue and unfocused, and he looked up at her like she was the answer to a question he hadn't known he was asking. His thumb traced her nipple, slow, and she felt the heat coil low in her belly again, surprising her. She'd thought she was spent. She'd thought she couldn't possibly want more.
"Padmé." He said her name like a prayer, and she felt him thicken inside her, felt the impossible fact of him hardening again where he was buried. "I'm not—I don't think I can—"
"You can," she said, and rolled her hips, a slow, deliberate grind that made him gasp. "I need you to."
He was still soft enough that the movement was a slide, not a thrust, and she rode that friction, her hands braced on his chest, her hair falling around them. His hands came up to her hips, not guiding, just holding, and she saw the wonder on his face, the disbelief that this was real, that she was real, that the war had actually let them have this.
She lifted herself, just an inch, and sank back down, and this time he was harder, filling her again. The slick sound of it was obscene in the quiet room, and she felt her cheeks flush, felt the heat climb her throat. "You feel that?" she whispered. "You feel how wet I still am for you?"
"Yes," he breathed. "Force, Padmé, yes."
She rode him slow, savoring it, her thighs burning, her body still humming from the last time. His hands moved up her sides, finding her breasts again, and he kneaded them as she moved, his thumbs circling her nipples, and she moaned, her head falling back. It was too much and not enough, the stretch of him, the weight of his hands, the way he looked at her like she was the only thing in the galaxy that mattered.
"I want to feel you come again," she said, and she meant it, meant the raw, greedy truth of it. "I want to feel you spill into me one more time."
His hips bucked up into her, a helpless thing, and she smiled, leaning forward, her mouth finding his. She kissed him slow and deep, tasting herself on his tongue, tasting the salt and the sweat and the hours of them, and she kept moving, kept rolling her hips against him, drawing it out, drawing him up.
"Ani," she whispered against his mouth. "Come inside me. Fill me up again."
He came with a broken sound, his hands gripping her hips, his body arching beneath her, and she felt it—the hot pulse of him spilling into her, filling her, and she clenched around him, milking him, riding him through every last shudder. When he finally stilled, she collapsed onto his chest, her breath ragged, her body trembling.
His hand found her breast again, the rhythm already returning, slow and absent, like it had never stopped. She felt him soften inside her, felt the cum leaking around him, and she didn't move, didn't want to move, didn't want to break the spell.
"You're going to kill me," he said, his voice thick with sleep and wonder.
"Not today," she murmured, her lips brushing his skin. "Today, I'm just going to keep you."
She felt his laugh more than heard it, a low rumble that vibrated through his chest and into her, and his mechanical hand kept its rhythm on her breast — squeeze, release, squeeze — the metal fingers cool against her overheated skin. He was softening inside her now, the slick evidence of him leaking out around the seal of their bodies, and she felt a lazy, possessive satisfaction at the mess of it, at the proof of how thoroughly they'd used each other.
"Keep doing that," she murmured, her lips moving against the skin of his chest. "Don't stop."
"Doing what?" His voice was a rumble, already half-asleep.
"That." She pressed her palm over his mechanical hand, guiding it, showing him the rhythm she wanted. "Like I'm something you're kneading. Like you're holding onto me even in your sleep."
His fingers curled, obeying, and she felt the soft give of her flesh under the metal, the gentle, repetitive pressure of it. She sighed, her body heavy and warm, the weight of him still inside her a familiar, comforting presence. The frangipani scent drifted through the open terrace doors, mingling with the salt of their skin, and she felt the last of her tension drain away.
"I could stay like this forever," she said, and it came out dreamy, half-formed.
"Then stay." His hand never stopped its rhythm. "Stay right here. Don't move. Don't let the war find us."
She smiled against his chest, her eyes closing. "The war can't find us here. It doesn't know this place exists."
"Liar." But he said it with affection, his thumb tracing a slow circle around her nipple. "You're a terrible liar, Senator."
"I'm an excellent liar. I've been lying to the entire Republic for months." She shifted, just slightly, and felt him stir inside her, a half-hearted twitch of interest. "I told them I was visiting my family on Naboo. I told them I needed to clear my head."
"And instead you came here to drain me dry."
"Mm." She nuzzled into the hollow of his throat. "Best use of Senate leave I've ever taken."
His laugh was a low, sleepy sound, and his hand moved from her breast to her back, tracing the line of her spine with metal fingers. She felt goosebumps rise along her arms, felt the heat coil in her belly again — that stubborn, insatiable hunger that seemed to have no end. She'd thought she was spent, thought she couldn't possibly want more, but here she was, feeling him thicken inside her again, feeling her own body respond with a wet, eager pulse.
"Ani," she whispered, and she heard the need in her own voice.
"I know." His voice was rough, awed. "I can feel you. You're clenching around me."
"I can't help it. You're still inside me." She rolled her hips, a slow, experimental grind, and felt him harden further. "And you're getting hard again."
"That's your fault." His hands found her hips, not guiding, just holding. "You're still sitting on me. You're still warm and wet and—" He broke off with a groan as she ground down on him. "Force, Padmé."
She rode him faster, the grind turning into something hungrier, her thighs burning with the effort, her body slick with sweat and the evidence of him. He was fully hard now, thick and deep inside her, and she felt every inch of him, felt the way he stretched her, filled her, the way his hands gripped her hips like he was afraid she'd vanish. She leaned forward, her breasts brushing his chest, her mouth finding his, and she kissed him with all the desperation of the hours they'd already spent, of the hours still ahead.
"I want you to come inside me again," she whispered against his lips, and she felt the shudder that ran through him. "I want to feel you fill me up until I'm dripping with you. Until I can't tell where you end and I begin."
He groaned, his head falling back, his throat working. "Force, Padmé. You're going to drain me dry."
"That's the plan." She smiled, slow and wicked, and she rolled her hips in a figure-eight that made his eyes roll back. "You said you'd give me anything. Everything. I'm holding you to that."
His hands moved from her hips to her breasts, cupping them, kneading them as she rode him, his thumbs circling her nipples, and she moaned, her head falling back, her hair brushing his thighs. She was close again, the pressure building low and hot, and she could feel him swelling inside her, feel his own control fraying at the edges.
"Ani," she breathed, and it came out broken, desperate. "I'm going to—"
"Do it," he said, his voice rough, his hands tightening on her breasts. "Come on me. Come all over my dick."
She did, with a cry that tore through the quiet room, her body clenching around him, her thighs shaking, and she felt him lose it beneath her, felt him spill into her again, hot and thick, filling her, and she kept moving, kept riding him through it, milking every last drop until they both collapsed, trembling, spent.
She slumped onto his chest, her breath ragged, her body heavy and shaking, and she felt him soften inside her, felt the cum leaking out around him, a warm, wet proof of everything they'd done. His hands found her breasts again, the rhythm already returning, slow and absent, like the squeeze and release of a heartbeat, and she sighed, her body melting into his.
"I think you broke me," he said, his voice thick with sleep and wonder.
"Good," she murmured, her lips brushing his skin. "Then you can't leave."
He laughed, a low, sleepy sound, and his hand kept its rhythm on her breast, squeezing and releasing, squeezing and releasing, like she was something he needed to hold onto, like she was the anchor that kept him from drifting away. She felt her eyes grow heavy, the weight of the day finally pulling her down, and she nuzzled into the hollow of his throat, her body still full of him, still wrapped in his arms.
The light through the terrace doors had gone amber, then pink, then deep violet, and the frangipani scent had faded into something cooler, the sea air carrying the first hint of night. She lay there, drifting, feeling the slow rhythm of his hand on her breast, feeling him half-hard inside her, stirring occasionally with a twitch of interest that never fully woke. She was still on top of him, still straddling him, still full of him, and she didn't want to move, didn't want to break the spell, didn't want to admit that the day was almost over.
"Ani," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "Are you awake?"
"Mm." His hand tightened on her breast, a reflexive squeeze. "Barely."
"I want you to keep doing that." She pressed her palm over his mechanical hand, guiding it, showing him the rhythm she wanted. "Even when you fall asleep. Don't stop."
His fingers curled, obeying, and she felt the soft pressure of it, the gentle, repetitive squeeze that seemed to have become as natural to him as breathing. She sighed, her body heavy and warm, and she felt herself drifting, anchored by the weight of him inside her, by the warmth of his body, by the impossible, fragile peace of this one stolen day.
She woke sometime in the night to the sound of the sea and the feel of his hand still on her breast, still moving in that slow, absent rhythm, even in sleep. She smiled against his skin, her lips brushing the faint scars on his chest, and she felt him stir inside her, half-hard, still there, still holding her. She shifted, just slightly, and felt him respond, a sleepy twitch of interest, and she settled back down, her body still full of him, still wrapped in his arms.
"I love you," she whispered, so quiet she barely heard it herself, and she felt his hand tighten on her breast, a reflexive thing, like even in sleep he was holding onto her.
She let herself drift again, and when she woke the next time, the light through the terrace doors was pale and grey, the first hint of dawn. He was still inside her, still half-hard, his hand still on her breast, and she felt a ache of loss at the thought of the day ending, of the war finding them again, of the months of separation that stretched ahead. She pressed her lips to his skin, a silent promise, and she closed her eyes, savoring the last moments of this one stolen day.
"Not yet," she whispered to the dawn. "Just a little longer."
And she stayed, still on top of him, still full of him, his hand still kneading her breast like a stress toy, his breath slow and even beneath her, and she let herself believe, just for a few more hours, that the war would wait.