Sins of the Father:  Chapter 14
ADULT rated version
by indie


 

***
 
"I'm leaving," she says firmly, crossing her arms over her chest as she stares at the doctor.  Padmé understood the need to stay overnight, but she is quickly tiring of this hospital room.  She wants to go home.
 
The doctor shoots a pleading gaze at the Emperor.
 
Anakin shrugs.  "I'm not going to stop her," he says.  Darkly, he adds, "And I wouldn’t recommend you have anyone else try."
 
The doctor sighs in resignation.  "Fine," he snips, "but you need rest."
 
Padmé nods in agreement, but heads for the door.  If she has to spend another second smelling bacta she may lose her mind.
 
***
 
Padmé sighs blissfully as the water washes over her body.  She scrubs her hair three separate times, trying to rid her tresses of the inescapable stench of bacta. 
 
She thought her long years on Tatooine made the concept of home forever elusive.  However, her absolute gratitude upon returning to her own apartment is testament to the contrary.  She has never been so happy to be home.
 
Anakin is still here, waiting in her bedroom, guarding her until Lorian arrives to take his place.  Mehht, undoubtedly is anxiously anticipating the event.  As much as Padmé loves Mehht and as much as she wishes to see Mehht happy, she does not share the sentiment.  Padmé can’t remember the last time she had the luxury of turning to someone during a crisis, of truly sharing her burden and her fears with a partner.  Experience taught her to depend on no one save herself, yet she can’t bring herself to pull back from Anakin when he is finally within her reach. 
 
With a sigh, she turns off the water.  She knows there is certain danger is allowing herself to hope Anakin will see reason, to hope he can and will return to her.  But she can't stop herself.  She needs to believe it is possible otherwise all is lost.
 
Standing in front of the mirror, Padmé runs the towel over her hair, patting it dry.  Her long chestnut locks trail over her shoulders and back in soft curls.  Wrapping the towel around her body, she stares at the 'fresher door.  She onpurposeforgot to bring her change of clothes into the 'fresher with her despite the fact that Anakin is waiting in her bedroom.  She feels rather ridiculous.  Anakin is her husband.  He fathered her children.  He saw her naked only a few days ago. 
 
But this is different.
 
Something has undeniably changed between them.  She isn't going to let him pull away, regardless of how viciously Lord Vader fights her on that front.  Anakin – her Anakin - is there; she knows that in her heart. 
 
She has no intention of parading around in front of him to provoke a sexual response.  He obviously desires her physically and she can no longer deny that she feels the same.  However, she isn't worried he will find an implied invitation in her manner of dress – or undress.  Rather, she feels trepidation about escalating the intimacy of their relationship.  Not physical intimacy, but emotional.  Often times, such small gestures hold incredible power. 
 
If she walks into her bedroom dressed only in her towel knowing he is there … the gesture holds power.  It implies he is entitled to watch her in this manner.  It implies that she views him as more than a husband in name.  And it requires a great deal of vulnerability on her part which is incredibly difficult considering she spent the last decade and a half inuring herself to his very presence. 
 
Steeling her resolve, Padmé opens the 'fresher door and steps into her bedroom.  Anakin is there, his back to her as he stares out the window.  Realizing there is a change of clothes laid out on her bed, Padmé crosses the room.  She stares down at the clothes quizzically.
 
"Did Mehht set these out?" she asks quietly.  It is a sand colored tunic and pants she brought from Tatooine.  While she would love nothing more than to wear the blissfully comfortable garments, they are hardly befitting the Empress.
 
Anakin continues to stare out the window for several more moments before finally turning to meet her gaze.  "No, I did."
 
Padmé blinks at him.
 
He steps closer.  "I wanted you to be comfortable." 
 
His words are bland and reasonable enough, but there is something in his manner, something close to embarrassment onto which Padmé's thoughts latch.  She remembers an exchange they had shortly after her return to Coruscant where his attention seemed unaccountably fixed on her moisture farmer attire.
 
She cocks her head to the side as she regards him.  "Do you like these clothes?" she asks quietly.
 
He scoffs, looking away, but there is a slight blush to his skin that betrays him.
 
"Anakin," she prompts softly.
 
He turns back to her with a sheepish expression.  "It … reminds me of home," he says softly.
 
Her lips curve into a smile.  "That's sweet," she replies gently.
 
Seemingly mortified by the entire exchange, Anakin switches tactics.  He crosses the room to her and reaches out, running his fingertips over the edge of her towel.  "I prefer you in nothing at all," he says wolfishly.
 
She gives him a wicked grin.  "Is that so?  I thought Lorian was on his way over so you could leave."
 
His leering grin borders on lecherous.  "Lorian can wait.  I'm sure Mehht can keep him entertained."
 
"What about Korto?"
 
He shrugs.  "Korto can wait too.  He's not going anywhere.  Ever."
 
Anakin reaches for the spot where her towel is tucked over on itself, securing it closed.  Reflexively, Padmé's hand covers his. 
 
She stands there, feeling her heart pound in her chest.  He is so close, his breath puffing against her face.  He waits and she can almost feel how tightly his muscles are wound, how he is fighting himself, waiting for her cue on how to proceed.
 
She takes a deep breath and releases it on a shaky exhale.  Gripping his hand more tightly, she twists it back in a motion that tumbles the knot free, sending the towel sliding to the floor.  They stand there for a moment, neither moving.  She is acutely aware of her nudity and his clothing.
 
His tongue wets his upper lip and she has the sensation that he is going to say something.  Apparently, he changes his mind. 
 
With a muffled curse, he grabs her, one of his hands threading through her wet tresses, gripping the back of her head, the other banding across her lower back, pulling her tightly against his body.  Their mouths meet in a voracious kiss.  Her lips part instantly and he takes full advantage, pulling her close as he arches her backward, deepening the kiss, demanding her submission.  Never one to go quietly, she nips at his lips, biting down gently, marking her territory in return.  From the rumbling growl at the back of his throat, she knows he approves.
 
Her arms twine around his neck and she pushes herself against him, fighting to get closer.  The coarse material of his black tunic and the supple texture of his synthleather tabard are exquisite torture against her naked skin.  With an impatient snarl, he pulls away long enough to tear at his obi and tabard, shrugging out of his tunic until the clothing joins her towel on the bedroom floor. 
 
And then he is there, bare from the waist up, tumbling her back onto the bed.  She reaches for him, her short fingernails biting into the flesh of his upper arms, pulling him down on top of her.  Kissing him possessively, her nerves singing with pleasure at the sensation of his bare chest pressed to hers.  It has been so long since she last felt the weight of his naked body pressing down on her own.
 
He breaks off the kiss, his lips finding the tender flesh of her neck as he fights to kick off his boots.  One of his hands covers her breast and she arches into his touch, groaning.  His kisses nip down the sensitive column of her neck and across her collarbone.  She gasps, tunneling her fingers through his hair as his mouth seals over her nipple.  He bites down gently and she yelps in pleasure-pain.  Not stopping his sensual assault, he sucks harder.  Heat pools low in her belly, intensifying in perfect rhythm with the pull of his mouth.  Moaning, she arches insistently beneath him.  He releases her nipple from his mouth long enough to look up and meet her gaze with a smug, carnal grin.
 
There is something in that grin that is a bit too self-assured and she takes it as a challenge.  She pushes off the bed with one leg, twisting beneath him and he allows her to flip him over on his back.  She immediately crawls over him, straddling his hips, her hands braced against his shoulders, pinning him to the bed.
 
She stares down at him through narrowed eyes and he does nothing to conceal his absolute delight in her play of dominance.  Some things never change.  He loves few things more than a good fight and this particular sensual combat has always been his favorite – even when he loses, he still wins.
 
Sinking on her haunches, she sits back on him, sealing her pelvis to his.  The insistent jut of his erection presses against her most intimate places and she gasps at the sensation, her eyes falling shut as she shivers in pleasure.  His hands find her hips, grinding her down against his aroused body.  Biting down on her bottom lip, she rocks gently back and forth against the coarse material of his pants.
 
Opening her eyes, she looks down at him.  “You’re still wearing an awful lot of clothes,” she says.
 
“I'm more than happy to fix that,” he replies in all seriousness.
 
She can’t prevent the giggle that crosses her lips.  Rising up on her knees, she tugs impatiently at the waistband of his pants.  True to his word, he is all too eager to assist and soon the pants join the rest of their clothes on the floor.
 
Poised over him on all fours, she looks down into the perfect blue of his eyes.  For a moment, the playful, aggressive demeanor is gone and he meets her gaze in silence.  His hand cups her cheek and he pulls her close for a tender kiss that leaves her breathless.
 
But in the span of a few heartbeats, the tenderness turns once again to hunger and she is aching for his touch.  “Ani,” she pants against his lips.
 
He groans, one of his hands finding her hip and then tickling gently across her belly to her nest of damp, wiry curls.  His fingers sift gently through the coarse hair, parting the lips of her sex.  She is wet for him, her dew liberally coating his questing fingers.  He rubs her gently, his fingers trailing over the sensitive bud of her clit, causing her breath to catch in her throat.  But he does not linger there, his fingers venture lower and one slips inside her body, gently teasing in the place where she aches so desperately for him.
 
She moans, her teeth finding the corded muscle of his shoulder and biting down hard.  His breath hisses through his teeth, but he doesn’t stop his gentle ministrations, adding a second finger to her liquid depths.  She shivers again, arching against his hand, needing more.  He complies, using his thumb to press against her clit while his fingers rock in and out of her body with the movement of her hips.
 
All at once, she grabs his hand, pulling it away, pinning it to the bed.  She looks down at him, her vision unfocused.  “No,” she pants harshly.
 
She sees the emotions flit across his face, the fear and betrayal when he thinks she is rejecting him.
 
Her tongue darts out to wet her lips.  “No,” she clarifies softly, using her free hand to gently grasp his erection, circling her fingers around the girth and stroking him in one long move.  “I want you inside me when I come.”
 
His expression of betrayal vanishes so quickly it might have never been there.  With a growl, he rolls them both, flipping her over on her back and insinuating himself between her legs.  She feels his cock hard and impressive against her inner thigh and she aches to feel him inside her.  She reaches for him and he reins in his own needs, allowing her to explore as she wishes.  His skin is so hot, his entire body so muscled and firm.  She forgot what this is like, this intimacy and need and utter fascination with his physical form.   His body is more impressive now than when they were newly wed.  He has matured, aged to perfection.  Decades spent training not only his mind and skills, but his physical body wrought impressive ends. 
 
Vanity was always one of his favorite sins and she looks up, meeting his gaze.  He is watching her intently, luxuriating in her appreciation of his body.  Normally his smugness would bother her, but in this context, she figures he deserves to be a little vain. 
 
With a carnal grin, she scratches her short fingernails down his muscled chest and firm abdomen.  She reaches his sex and her touch gentles, her smile fading.  Lightly, her fingertips trace over the rigid length of his erection.  His hips jump reflexively under her touch and she can see his jaw muscles clench tightly as he fights to remain still. 
 
She closes her hand around his sex, stroking the length of him.  "Padmé," he groans, his eyes falling shut.  She smiles deviously, filled with raw, feminine power.  He is a sinfully handsome alpha male who is capable of having any woman he chooses.  Knowing she has the power to affect him so profoundly is a heady sensation.
 
She prolongs the exquisite torture, stroking him faster and then slower, loosening and then tightening her grip.  On the upward strokes, her thumb caresses the head of his cock, making his breath hiss between his teeth. 
 
He finally grabs her wrist and in a mirror image of her earlier actions, pins her hand to the bed.  He stares into her eyes and she knows.  She moves restlessly beneath him and he covers her body with his own.  Capturing her lips in a tender kiss, he uses one hand to guide his cock to her entrance.  She is so primed for him, so wet that he slides inside her easily, entering her completely in one long, seamless thrust. 
 
She yelps his name, her legs wrapping around his waist as her fingernails dig into the corded muscle of his back.  He gasps and then bites down gently on her earlobe, forcing himself to hold still, giving her time.  She pants harshly, turning her head and pulling her earlobe free of his teeth so she can nip along his stubbled jaw.  The feel of him inside her is exquisite pleasure bordered by pain.  It has been so long.
 
No longer able to remain still, he pulls back and slides inside her again.  They both gasp at the sensation.  He repeats the fluid motion again and again, driving into her more forcefully with every thrust.  Heat and tension coil inside her body and her fingernails bite deeply into his flesh.  He doesn't seem to notice.  He is driving into her now, mindless of everything save their combined pleasure.  Her internal muscles flutter around him and he groans her name, thrusting harder, faster.
 
There is a blinding flash of light behind her eyes and she is spinning away, crying out his name as her entire body shivers in unendurable pleasure.  She is only dimly aware of his body cording above hers, her name on his lips as he finds his own release.
 
***
 
Anakin is sleeping on his right side, his body turned toward her, his face half-buried in a pillow.  Looking exhausted, he snores softly.  In his sleep, his flesh and bone arm is banded possessively around her waist, holding her against his body.  She takes careful note of the scrapes and scabs on his knuckles that he must have sustained in the explosion.
 
His bare feet stick out from beneath the blanket loosely draped around both of them.  It strikes Padmé as oddly vulnerable to see a Sith Lord's bare feet.  She can’t remember the last time she had the opportunity to watch him like this, his expression relaxed and peaceful.  He doesn’t look like the Emperor or a Sith Lord.  He looks like her Ani.  He looks like the brave young soldier who shared her bed so many years ago.  There are differences to be certain.  He is more scarred.  And more tired.  And more broken.
 
So is she.
 
The cut across his left cheek is starting to scab and there is some bruising.  A simple bacta patch would heal his skin perfectly and leave no scar but apparently he was too agitated to worry about his own vanity.  Or maybe not.  It gives him a certain roguish look – not that he ever needed any help in that department.
 
She gently runs her fingertips over his abused skin and his eye flutters open.  He watches her carefully, pushing himself up on his right arm.  She can tell that it takes him a moment to get his bearings, to remember where he is and why she is here.  Padmé can’t point out any one thing he does, but she gets the distinct impression he is not accustomed to waking up in bed with another person.
 
"I fell asleep," he says, his voice rough from sleep.
 
"You were tired," she says softly, pressing a gentle kiss to his lips.
 
He makes an appreciative sound and pushes her back against the pillow, deepening the kiss.  He finally pulls back far enough to look her in the eyes.  "I missed you," he says seriously.  "And I don't mean the sex."
 
"Speak for yourself," she huffs.  "I missed the sex."
 
"I missed the sex too," he clarifies, "but that's not what I'm talking about."  He growls in frustration.  "You're ruining my moment."
 
She tries not to laugh, propping herself up on her elbow.  She kisses him gently on the end of the nose.  "I'm sorry," she says unrepentantly.
 
He frowns, pulling her closer.  " I missed you," he says intensely.  "Everything about you.  Talking and touching and sex."
 
“Really?” she asks, narrowing her eyes at him.  “But you had Angel to keep you company.”  It’s petty and jealous and yet Padmé cannot stop herself from uttering the words.  She needs to know the intimacy they shared is not typical for him, that it is as sacred to him as it is to her.
 
“She’s not you,” he says firmly, but he won’t meet her gaze.
 
She presses her hand to his cheek and forces him to look at her. 
 
“I’ve had moments of weakness,” he says seriously, “but Angel is not you.  Not in any way that matters and honestly, she disturbs me deeply.”
 
Padmé is surprised by his candor and more surprised by the fact that she believes him. 
 
“Angel should be the perfect revenge,” he muses wryly.  “She looks just like you and her only desire is to please.”  He shakes his head, frowning.  “But to be so close to her and realize none of the things that make you … you are present is … unsettling.”
 
“I thought I was nothing but a headache,” she says cattily, turning his words from the Hapan dinner against him.
 
“Oh, you’re definitely a headache,” he counters, grinning mischievously as he forces her on her back and crawls over her body.  “But you have a way of making up for the trouble you put me through.”
 
She returns his smile and pulls him close, pressing her lips to his.  He sighs, kissing her back.
 
The door to Padmé’s bedroom hisses open and Leia charges inside.  “Mom, have you seen Dad?  Lorian said he was – “  Leia comes to a dead stop in the middle of Padmé’s bedroom, her shock instantly morphing into horror.
 
Padmé stares at her daughter.  The sheet and blankets cover Padmé and Anakin from head to toe, Leia can’t see anything.  But there is absolutely no mistaking exactly what is transpiring.
 
With a strangled sound somewhere between mortification and revulsion, Leia flees, closing the door behind her. 
 
Padmé groans, dislodging Anakin as she rolls onto her side, burying her face in the pillow.  The bed shakes with the force of Anakin’s laughter and she lifts her head to glare at him.
 
“Why is it that you can remember to lock the door to your office, but not my bedroom?” she demands waspishly.
 
“Leia will recover,” Anakin replies casually.  “It serves her right for barging in.  She’s lucky she didn’t do it a half hour ago.”
 
Padmé is significantly less amused than her husband.  While Leia's presence at the medcenter and obvious concern assuaged many of Padmé's fears, she knows Leia still perceives her as a rival for Anakin's attentions.  This certainly will not help matters.
 
"Maybe we should go to my place next time," he says.  "The kids can't open those doors."
 
Padmé frowns at him, secretly wondering if Anakin knows Luke went through his personal files and that is why he decided to make sure neither of the twins could access his personal quarters.
 
"I hate your place," she says seriously.  "It reminds me of the garage at the farmstead."
 
He chuckles, pressing kisses to her neck while one of his hands tries to find its way under the sheet to her breast.  "Me too," he says.
 
Padmé rolls her eyes, well remembering that the garage was the first place she and Anakin ever made love.  "You've improved since the garage," she says, hoping to knock him down a peg or two.
 
It doesn't work.  "I know," he says smugly.
 
She looks at him.  "You are an odd creature, Anakin Skywalker."
 
He waggles an eyebrow at her. 
 
"That wasn't supposed to be a compliment," she clarifies.
 
***
End Chapter

***
 
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