Not to mention the opera wasn’t where she wanted to be tonight. Where she would prefer to be was with Motée. The handmaiden’s illness had her worried. Padmé had already insisted Dormé stay with her. But Senator Lakt had needed to speak with her and Jar Jar both, and had no time otherwise, or so he said. Yet when they’d both arrived in the upper foyer, he’d promptly sent Jar Jar out. Padmé suspected he’d only gotten him there to get rid of Anakin, who as her captain of security was infamous for his protectiveness of his Senator wife, especially after they had both nearly gotten killed in the fight at Geonosis that had started the war. But he had been required to go leave with the Gungun, to make sure he didn’t get lost again.
Caught between frustration and exhaustion, Padmé weaved her way through the intermission crowd, headed up for the box she’d reserved for the three of them, and thought, The least he can do after he sprang that discussion on me was have it done, instead of hinting he wanted another word after the show. Now I’m going to have to sit through the second act. Not exactly what she wanted to do with the next hour and half or so.
When she arrived at the box, she found Anakin sitting there, bemusedly watching Jar Jar snore. “How long has he been asleep?” she asked.
“From just about the time we sat down. Smart move on his part, if you ask me.”
Padmé couldn’t help laughing at that, before collapsing into a seat near the back of the box, as she didn’t really feel like moving to the front. Immediately Anakin’s hand was on her shoulder and he was asking solicitously, “Are you all right?”
“I’ll be fine. I just need to...” She drifted off as the lights went down. Had they really been that far into intermission?
“Any idea of what’s happened so far?” she whispered to Anakin as the enter’acte music began, and as she tried to relax, without much success.
“I think someone’s trying to kill someone else, but otherwise...”
A chorus of Caridans came on stage and sang very loudly. Translations in Basic of what they were singing were displayed on a special screen attached to the edge of the box, but they didn’t provide much clarity. Lacking the concentration to even try to understand, Padmé watched them with little interest, besides that of trying to figure out how long they would be on stage.
They seemed to be reaching some sort of climax, if the increase in volume was any indication, when Padmé became aware that Anakin wasn’t watching them at all, but instead had his eyes fixed firmly on her. “What is it?” she asked.
“You’re licking your lips.”
“I am?” She turned to look at him. Then she felt his hands on her shoulders, pushing her back into her chair.
The theater was so dark, she could see only the outlines of his face and hair, and the glint of unmistakable lust in his eyes, even as he leaned close and whispered, “You do realize, Senator, that noone can see what we’re doing at this moment?”
She opened her mouth to protest, but his finger was running along her lips, sending warm tremors all along her body. Then Anakin twisted himself over and had her in a slow, teasing kiss.
One of the first things her husband had learned during his courtship of Padmé was that she considered her mouth to be her most erogenous zone, and he was taking full advantage of his knowledge now. His tongue lapped at her lips, her teeth, her palate, at which point she couldn’t hold back a low moan, easily drowned out by the loud bellowing coming from the stage, possibly from a lone figure though she wasn’t really sure.
Concealed by the dark, she could have happily sat there kissing Anakin the entire night. But when she felt his hands slide into her dress-how did he always know how to get past the fabric now matter what she was wearing?-she forced herself to pull away, and murmur, “Ani-kin,” she forced herself to use his full name but from his grin she knew he’d caught her, “we can’t. We’re in public, and Jar Jar’s right there!”
“When are we ever totally in private?” Anakin softly argued. “This darkness as much as we often have. And you know well Jar Jar won’t wake up until he wants to wake up, which will probably be after the opera is over. Meanwhile, you can't meet that Lakt again in this state; you need tension relief.”
“But what if the show’s lights get brighter-oh!” Anakin’s mouth had moved to her neck, his tongue doing crazy things to her skin.
He pulled away just long enough to reply, “They’ve stayed like this all through the first act, I don’t think they’re going to change anytime soon,” before placing his mouth over hers again, beckoning her tongue in. Then he slid himself over the chairs until he was in her lap, and she could feel his hardness even through his uniform.
The heat of his body, the feeling of his mouth sucking on her tongue, his hands sliding down to stroke her thighs, and Padmé gave in. She pulled him to her, groping him shamelessly, hearing him moan as she did so. He slid his mouth across her face as below her skirt, his hand groped about her most sensitive flesh; she gasped, sighed out, “Ani, Ani...”
Then he was whispering in her ear, “I love hearing that, Padmé. I love the way you look right now, the way you’re gasping for breath because it feels so good...”
She buried her face in his neck to muffle a moan in response. Some distant part of her mind demanded to know why her husband, never very coherent in bed, was suddenly talking in an environment like this, but she could barely remember what was wrong in the first place when his fingers were stabbing inside her, curling around into the places that made her writhe on his hands, and his voice still in her ear:
“I want to fuck you right now.” How could that word make her feel so hot? “I want to be deep inside you, hear your groans as I make love to you, feel you come around me. I love feeling you come, whether it’s on my cock, my hand, or my mouth. You feel so hot, so wet, Padmé-ahhh...” She had managed somehow to get her hand past his jacket and into his breeches, and was squeezing and pulling at him frantically. He thrust into her hand; his fingers thrust into her body. “Padmédontstop...” Their mouths locked together, muffling frantic cries from both of them now, as they rocked back and forth on the seat.
She felt him burst, staining her hand. She released a sound of protest as he pulled his hand out of her, then another of surprise into the open air as he suddenly sank down, pulling her skirt open and pushing her legs apart.
Kneeling in front of her chair, he took hold of her body and slid her across the seat to his hungry mouth. He kept his hands in place even as she bucked against him, panting wildly, until she had to clamp her hands over her mouth to stifle her cry as she came.
Then he was in her arms again, kissing her, her taste on both of their tongues. She drew away just far enough to bring her hand up to both of their mouths, watched him watch her lick him off her fingers. Then they were kissing again, and he was half-hard again already. Well, hadn’t he said he wanted to fuck her? The serum she'd taken the previous night should still be in effect, so give her a minute or so to savor this, and then he was welcome to until the show ended...
“Ooh! Meesa was so tired!” Jar Jar had woken up.
As he yawned and stretched, Anakin pulled his breeches and jacket into place before they both set to work trying to re-clasp Padmé’s robes sufficiently before the Gungun turned around and looked at them. It also occurred to Padmé to wonder how they were going to get out of the opera house, but one thing at a time.
“Padmé? Ani?” Someday Padmé was going to get him to stop using that name for Anakin. Though his mother still used it, but then, she was back on Naboo, and that was different. “Meesa can no see any-” Then he turned around, and was at least able to see their silhouettes, because he sighed in relief. “Meesa missin' anything?”
“No,” the Senator and her captain said together hastily.
Too hastily, because Jar Jar said in a suspicious tone of voice, “Meesa thinks meesa missed something, by way yousa both speaks.”
“Quiet!” Anakin hissed at him. “We’re in a theater!”
Jar Jar took the point, but Padmé could see his ears flap in a clear signal that he was pouting as he turned back towards the opera and muttered, “Meesa had to have missed something. Meesa starting to think nobody ever telling meesa anything.”