by indie
vignette accompanying The Senator's Wife

She is loathe to wake and grunts in annoyance as she feels the mattress depress under his weight.  “Go away,” she mumbles, rolling away from him while using her cloak to shield her eyes from the afternoon light.
“Feeling unwell, my love?” he asks.  Oddly enough, his tone is not unendurably mocking.
“Tired, grouchy, sick,” she mumbles.
“I suppose it’s too much to expect you to do me the courtesy of informing me you’re pregnant,” he says dryly, grabbing her arm and rolling her over to face him.
She looks up at him, watching his face for any hint of feeling.  She had no illusions about keeping the pregnancy a secret from him, but she didn’t expect him to realize quite so soon.  She hasn’t even started showing yet.
“It’s none of your business,” she says, rolling away again.
You are my business,” he says imperiously.
She grunts in disagreement but doesn’t have the energy to actually argue with him.  She isn’t sure if it’s merely a difference in pregnancies or perhaps she blocked out memories of her first trimester with the twins, but she cannot remember ever feeling so exhausted in her entire life.  Simply making her way to the apartment sapped every bit of energy.  Between the exhaustion and the morning sickness she isn’t certain she’ll make it to the birth.
He laughs again and this time there is genuine humor.  “You’ll live,” he says dryly, obviously sensing her emotions in the Force.  “You have no one to blame but yourself.  I trust you know how to avoid these inconveniences if you truly wished.”
She wouldn’t have answered him even if she possessed the energy.  He’s right, of course.  She is quite capable of using birth control.  But as he so aptly pointed out, she didn’t.  She could lie and pretend it is because of Bail.  Her guilt over his rearing of another man's children is more than sufficient for her to attempt to present him with his own son or daughter.  However, after four years of never using any contraceptives with her husband, she suspects it is never destined to happen. 
And she wanted another child.  Another of his children.  But she will die before she admits that. 
“Bail wants more children,” she says.  It is both true and has the added bonus of reminding him of her sex life with her husband.  She almost wishes she had the energy to roll over and watch the scowl on his face.
There is an ominous silence.
“And which of your lovers sired this parasite?” he finally demands. 
His tone is hard, biting and she regrets her provocative comment, not least of all because he always knows when she’s lying.  Dammit, she’s so tired.  She doesn’t have the energy to fight with him.  She searches for a politic answer that doesn’t require her to lie.
“The same one who fathered Luke and Leia,” she says.
He grunts in reply and then falls silent.  She has almost drifted off to sleep when his hand touches her hip.  “Mine then,” he says quietly, possessively.
She shivers uncontrollably and he rolls her over at the same time stretching out next to her on the bed.  She curls into his much larger form, nestling her head under his chin.  His arm wraps around her back, drawing her near.  “You thought I didn’t know?” he asks quietly.
“I didn’t want to know if you knew,” she answers honestly.
“Why do you think I allow Bail Organa to live?” he asks darkly.  “You best pray he never succeeds in getting you pregnant.”
She pulls her head back far enough to look into his eyes.  “Bail is a good man,” she says.  “A good father.”
He flinches ever so slightly at the implication that he, unlike Bail, would not be a good father.  “A pity you can’t bring yourself to love him,” he says cruelly.
“I love Bail,” she counters honestly.
“You aren’t in love with him,” he replies.  It is not a question, but a statement of fact.
She doesn’t bother to deny it.  He would know she was lying.  She looks away.  Indeed it is a pity that Bail is such a good man and yet she cannot bring herself to fall in love with him.  That sacred emotion is reserved for the vicious, possessive creature in whose grasp she rests.  She blames her raging hormones for the single tear that streaks down her cheek.
He leans over her, tracing the track of her tear with his tongue.  “My love,” he rasps, pulling her closer.  His teeth nip gently along the line of her jaw and his hand finds its way beneath her cloak to gently cup her tender breast.  His thumb flicks lightly over her nipple and her breath hisses between her teeth as she arches into his touch.
"I hate you," she says.  She means it.  She also means I love you.  And he knows it.
He opens her cloak completely and quickly pulls the hem of her skirt up to her waist.  She shifts restlessly, her thighs falling open as his fingertips graze her sex.  She is wet for him, empty and aching.  "Ani," she whimpers, her fingernails biting into his bicep.
He hesitates for a moment and she looks at him, taking in his tightly clenched jaw.  He meets her gaze.  "Is it …" he says quietly, searching for words.  "I don't want to hurt …"
She isn't sure if she wants to laugh or cry.  Of all the times for him to be considerate.  "It's fine," she nearly growls, trying to tug him on top of her.
It is all the encouragement he needs.  He crawls over her body, supporting his weight on his arms and knees.  Part of her wants to feel the weight of his body pressing her into the mattress but she is too amused by his care to push the issue.
He has her stripped to her underwear in mere moments.  Usually, if she is going to see him, she makes a point of wearing something provocative, typically of the black silk variety.  But she was feeling so retched earlier, she didn't bother.  She is quite certain he doesn't even notice.
He slides down the bed until his mouth is even with her navel.  He presses a single, gentle kiss to the warm skin of her still-flat abdomen.  She threads her fingers through his hair, urging him to look at her.  He does.  His eyes are darker than usual, weighted with a thousand emotions he will never voice. 
He lowers his head again, nipping at her hip as he pulls her purely functional white panties down her legs, tossing them on the floor.  Looping one of her thighs over his shoulder, he exposes her sex. 
She rolls her hips insistently and he smirks up at her with a wicked grin.  "Impatient?" he asks.
She is on the verge of telling him just how impatient she is when he dips his head again and his lips find the wiry hair that covers her sex.  Groaning in pleasure, she arches into him.  Despite her eagerness, he takes his time, savoring her.  Gently, his fingers part the lips of her sex and his tongue plays along the sensitive bud of her clitoris.
"Ani!" she yelps, her fingers curling tightly into his hair, her perfectly manicured nails scratching his scalp.
He looks up at her.  "A quick one to take the edge off?" he asks.
Biting down on her bottom lip, she nods fervently.
He doesn't tease.  Sucking her slick bud between his teeth, he worries it with his tongue.  Two of his fingers curl inside her, unerringly stroking the sensitive spot deep inside.  Her hips buck and she climaxes with incredible force, hissing in pleasure.
She is still shuddering, panting as he removes his own clothes, kneeling at the foot of the bed.  He grabs her hips and guides her thighs over his own.  He slides smoothly inside her, his rigid length filling her perfectly.  He sits there for a moment, eyes closed, rocking back and forth with tiny movements.  The head of his cock nudges her cervix and there is an achy moment of pleasure-pain that makes her arch her back, wrapping her legs around his lean waist.
He leans forward, bracing his palms on the bed on either side of her shoulders as he pulls out and slides back into her in a slow, seamless rhythm.  She groans, savoring the feel of him inside her, around her.  Untwining her legs from his waist, she lets her thighs fall away from him, at the same time rolling her hips to change the angle of his penetration, allowing him to go deeper.
His breath hitches and his eyes screw shut as he bites down on his bottom lip.  Beads of perspiration dot his forehead and upper lip and she knows he is fighting to keep himself in check, to keep himself from driving into her as forcefully as he wants.
Wickedly, she snakes her hand down her torso, her bright red nails a sharp counterpoint to her pale skin.  She sifts lightly through her nest of damp curls, fingering her clit.  His eyes snap open and his attention is riveted on the movement of her fingers, though the sustained rhythm of his thrusting never falters.
He looks up, his eyes locking with hers.  She gives him a lusty, carnal grin bordering on evil.  She licks her lips slowly as she moves her fingers quicker, harder, groaning deep in her throat.  Inside her, she feels his cock expand improbably harder, thicker.  Intentionally, she flexes her vaginal muscles tightly around him.
"Fuck, Padmé," he curses breathlessly.  And then his restraint is gone.  He drives into her, his hips slapping against hers.  She beats him to the finish by the narrowest of margins, shuddering in pleasure as his body cords above her, his hips driving against her one final time.
He collapses over her, panting, his weight braced on his arms and knees.  "I was trying to be careful," he says in a tone that would sound suspiciously sullen if it weren't so filled with self-satisfaction.
"You don't do careful," she replies without pity, biting down on his earlobe enjoying the salty taste of his skin.
He grunts, flopping onto his side next to her, pulling her with him and hitching her thigh high on his hip.  He captures her lips in a hard, demanding kiss and she surrenders happily.
She finally pulls away, burrowing against him.  "I'm going to sleep now," she mumbles.
He sighs deeply and she feels him relax.  As she fades into sleep, she hears him say, "Mine."

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