Sex is the only way his lord allows herself to relax. It is slow and tantalising, agonising even, almost like a massage. He watches as her muscles clench and flex, then relax again under his touch. He delights in the small details of her pleasure. The quiver of her lips when their mouths clash. How her hips twitch against him when their bodies merge. The way her breath hitches when she whimpers his name.
"Malavai."
Bedroom is the only place where she relinquishes control entirely, leaving herself at his mercy. He never hesitates to take charge.
At first, he considered it his duty. He thought she was toying with him, testing his loyalty, his boundaries. He took advantage of the opportunity—it made him a more efficient spy for Darth Baras. A calculated move. But that changed when the opportunist fell into his own trap. Eventually, he began to take pleasure in his assignment, enjoy her blunt attempts at seducing him.
His loyalties shifted.
She was everything Darth Baras was not. She was young, collected; her power growing and his sure to wane. She treated his fellow Imperials with respect, not like slaves or servants, whereas Baras often abused his power. Her wrath focused on the enemy, not just any fool that happened to displease her. Baras lacked that subtlety.
And she had a sense of humour.
He would never admit to the indiscretion openly, but her bickering with Baras amused him. If only because he wasn't in the position to say similar to his face, no matter how hard he thought it.
He scoffed at himself in the refresher mirror when he realised that he admired her—adored her, even. Like a pubescent boy. The embarrassing thought distracted his mind enough that he cut himself while shaving that day. Giving her a further excuse to tease him mercilessly.
He was falling in love with her; what's more—she seemed to be in love with him.
It wasn't until he found himself pulling her to his chest violently to press a demanding kiss on her lips that he realised just how deep his passion truly ran.
When he offered her his hand in marriage, his intentions were genuine. He wanted to own this woman outside of the secret trysts in her quarters; he wished to belong to her outside the chain of command. Their love fulfilled him.
There is nothing we can't achieve together. he said then.
How wrong he was.
Now they lay together, side by side, in the bed he came to think of as theirs, in the quarters that are no longer just hers. Their fingers remain intertwined as they both breathe heavily, spent from the passion of their love-making. And he finds it hard to look her in the eye.
"I enjoy our little bedroom conquests, Malavai." she chuckles.
"As I enjoy conquering you, my lord."
She laughs at the absurd formality with which he addresses his lover, his wife.
"I love you, Quinn." she says.
"As do I, my love."
She rests her head on his heaving chest, a contented smile crowning her pursed lips. His arms embrace her form readily, though there is a tremble to his usually taut muscles. It doesn't take long before sleep overcomes her. He, however, doesn't close his eyes for fear of another nightmare, or worse still—the horror yet to come that there is no waking from.
In the near vacuum silence of the ship, his brain calculates their ETA to Corellia to be 9 hours 46 minutes and 15 seconds.
What he was about to do would tear him apart for a lifetime…
A/N: I blame The War on Iokath for hijacking my life with Quinn feels to the point that I simply had to write a Quinn story instead of writing what I'm actually supposed to work on (such as Broken Dam) and this happened. As always, leave reviews, suggestions, anything. I love feedback!
