Um… the rancor ate my update? Well, not really, but close. I've had mega tech problems the past month and basically lost this chapter not once, but twice, and had to start all over both times. Grrr. Then, when I went to upload the other day, FF kicked me out. Maybe I should've tried a Jedi mind trick…

And now, Anakin and Padme. That's all.

Chapter 3

Kriff Obi-Wan, anyway.

Of all the lessons his master saw fit to impart, this one certainly felt the most torturous.

And it was vintage Obi-Wan: Teach the callow padawan to release his attachments – for the elder Jedi had been well aware of Anakin's hopeless attachment to the queen-turned-senator since the Battle of Naboo – by shoving Padme's new attachment squarely where the boy could not miss it.

Well, Anakin huffed to himself with a snap of defiance, perhaps I'm not in the mood to learn this particular lesson today. Or tomorrow. Or while I'm still breathing.

Anything that shattered the dream he'd harbored since meeting a lovely handmaiden in the sand was simply unacceptable.

Kriff Obi-Wan, anyway. And kriff that pompous sleemo from Scipio who took Padme's hand underneath the glittering stars, held her possessively – Anakin had seethed with particular vehemence every time he'd heard Clovis replace Padme's true surname with his own – and dared to kiss her everywhere – her lips, her high cheekbone, that creamy nook where her shoulder and neck met so enticingly…

Kriff that son of a Hutt who was, right now, sequestered in the master bedroom, alone, with the woman who had claimed Anakin's heart since he was a lovestruck boy.

Kark, here he was, mooning over her like that same lovestruck boy. You are a bloody, frackin' koochoo, Anakin told himself, punctuating his bitter thoughts with unJedi-like stomps toward the stairwell.

Three standard seconds before the angel over whom he agonized barreled straight into him.

He caught her, of course – the Force stirred just before impact – and rolled her into his frame easily to cushion her fall. Nearly as jarring as the abrupt collision of their bodies were the scents that assailed him in an intoxicating plume. Champagne and millaflowers, and the faint musk of candles just extinguished. Coiled ribbons of dark hair surrounded him, tickled his ear, secluded Jedi and senator as if they were the only beings in the galaxy allowed a heartbeat.

He fervently hoped she couldn't feel his, thundering as if he'd just felled an entire legion of Separatists.

"Hey!" Whether he uttered it due to sensory overload of the most pleasant sort or true surprise, he wasn't certain. Sensations of smoothness and curving planes, and hums of current in places he'd never experienced them washed over him like the gentle surf lapping in the nearby lake. It was her, and him; it was them creating this field of electricity that amplified every heave of her breath against his, every movement a pleasurable jolt as her little hand flattened over his heart and his palm curled around her nape like it had been there before.

He didn't let go. He should have, but the loathing to release such a tantalizing spell prevailed over manners. Instead, he lifted his chin the slightest bit, which caused his nose to graze hers and elicit a dainty gasp from her rouged mouth, a puff of her breath moistening his throat. He seemed to reconsider the demand of decorum for a fleeting second before nestling her closer, acquainting his body with hers.

She was so… small. And soft, like a bevy of funnel flowers dusting his skin with their delicacy, but laced with a singe of Tatooine fire.

And warm, or was that the flush steadily crawling up his chest as her hand sank further into it, her touch quickening his heartbeat even further? A bit disoriented, Anakin summoned the Force for calm, felt it heed his call and seep soothingly into him, and then…

Her eyes – so large, and dark, and trusting – lifted to capture his, and he knew, somehow, he would crave that look for the rest of his standard days, as he would crave the one who wielded it.

He had no measure of the moments that passed as they lay against one another, content to neither lean closer nor pull away. This little respite in time felt so intoxicating that he offered no movement save his shallow respirations, fearful of any twitch shattering their shared magic.

When she gave a little cough – blast the dust that had settled on her milky robe and coated her throat – it was enough to hasten the awareness of exactly where they were and, glaringly, what they were doing.

She shifted, one blink, then another, before her eyes hypnotized him no longer.

She shouldn't be here, he thought when he was once again capable. Such loveliness didn't belong on the dingy floor of a servant's kitchen, nor sprawled in the arms of a Jedi padawan who had pledged himself to service and sacrifice, but not to the desire now raging like a sandstorm through his veins.

She certainly should not be clad in flirty, inviting negligee that served only to reinforce how inappropriate it was for him to cradle her in his arms – even though it felt as if the fate of the galaxy itself depended upon this embrace.

There is no passion; there is serenity.

Yeah, well recite that to his addled brain, which had been wholly short-circuited by the stirrings of four little fingers against his breastbone.

When the words released from his mouth, her nearness a heady distraction loosening his tongue, it didn't take a standard second for him to wish them back: "Shouldn't you be somewhere else, milady?"

No, he certainly did not mean that she should return to the master bedroom where an amorous groom awaited. Kinder to shove dual lightsabers through his heart than remember where she had already been, her curls tousled and cheeks a fetching pink from… discoveries with her new husband, Anakin supposed, miserably. But, given the odd circumstances and the occasion – her wedding night – the inference resounded like a slap.

The way her mahogany eyes flashed, he figured the action was a distinct possibility.

She jerked from his embrace, scrambling to her feet while vigorously brushing the dust from her ivory peignoir. Which, Anakin noted rather breathlessly, was partially opened, exposing the satiny expanse of her neck and a generous view of cleavage. Though full-length, the bridal negligee was Nabooian in style – impeccably designed but sheer and dappled with transparent scallops that only heightened his mental image of the beauty beneath it.

Thankfully – and before he got himself slapped – Padme scowled as she retreated, snapping her response: "Shouldn't you be somewhere other than the kitchen directly underneath my bedroom?"

While I celebrate my first nightfall as a newlywed, she meant to add, and convincingly, but found she couldn't speak such words into those cerulean eyes that seemed well equipped to detect the lie.

Nonetheless, her declaration contained the dauntless authority of one used to telling others what to do. Anakin found himself duly impressed that this slight of a girl could project such a dignified presence while pulling two scraps of a skimpy robe together in the fruitless attempt to cover herself.

To all except a young Jedi who, despite his low rank, had been exposed to countless situations much more treacherous than a highly perturbed public official, it might have been intimidating.

The padawan, however, quirked his lip a bit, felt the air between them combust with her anger as she opened her mouth with what was sure to be a reprimand.

Before the situation escalated, however, the chirrup of his comlink brought a sense of relief. He snatched it from his belt, instinctively disabling the holo function for a reason he could not explain.

"Right here, Master." His attention had gone to the comm, but Anakin's eyes remained squarely on Padme, who squirmed uncomfortably before him.

"Anakin, we've a bit of a situation near the senator's master suite." With a glance toward a sheepish Padme, Anakin understood exactly what that situation entailed, but remained mum as Obi-Wan continued. "Senator Amidala exited the suite a few standard moments ago. We've ascertained that Rush Clovis remains inside, but the senator has yet to return."

Eyes not flickering from Padme, who seemed to grow more skittish with every word, Anakin playfully ventured into his comm, "Lovers' spat already?"

That earned him a murderous glare from the newlywed in question as Obi-Wan answered, "We're not entirely certain. She appeared quite… pleased when we watched the feed of her departure."

To Padme's consternation, Anakin increased the volume. He could visualize his master now, tiredly pinching the bridge of his nose over the antics of a troublesome politician. "I don't suppose you've seen a rather self-satisfied senator lurking about the leftover wedding cake down there, have you?"

Well, now, that was a very interesting question, Anakin decided. The senator stood before him, her body language inviting him to become her accomplice while her eyes shot blaster bolts to certain vulnerable parts of his body; it was highly amusing, to tell the truth.

And irresistible, considering she'd apparently fled her new husband in the midst of their wedded coupling – and the groom hadn't yet come after her.

Anakin didn't have to wonder who the bloody koochoo was now.

"Nothing interesting here," he answered in the same ambivalent tone Obi-Wan had used, eyes dancing rather roguishly as Padme scowled again. "Just a cute little mouse scurrying down the steps a minute ago."

"All right." Obi-Wan's voice had that peevish clip it held when it was his and Anakin's turn to assist with refuse duty in the refectory. "Perhaps this is Nabooian custom... or something. I will search the ground and upper floors; just stay there and keep an eye out for anything amiss."

Such as a fuming senator turning fifteen shades of scarlet in her bare feet?

"I will do just that, Master," Anakin answered with entirely too much cheer. A blonde eyebrow crooked as he appraised the senator with fresh amusement, careful to inspect those little hands to ensure none was poised on a hidden blaster.

Then again, nothing so bulky could be concealed in that gown.

His smirk grew wider, her air of outrage more pronounced. "Skywalker, out."

Anakin returned the comm to his belt with languid grace, as if it was the only task on his agenda for the day. "Well, senator," he finally drawled, a slow grin stretching across a row of white teeth, "perhaps I spoke too soon."

Padme refused to look at him. She busied herself brushing nonexistent cob webs from the hem of her robe, withholding an answer to that smarmy, entirely-too-striking face that may have already gotten under her skin.

Anakin seemed not to mind. He sauntered to a serving table littered with soiled Nabooian china and a tier-and-a-half of what was once a towering wedding cake. Waiting with utmost patience for the runaway bride to regard him – one minute… two… finally – he pulled out a chair, beckoning her to join him.

"Perhaps you're in the right place, after all, milady."

Oh, Ani, you rascal. Master Obi-Wan will be very grumpy about this... Hee.

Many thanks to readers who have taken time to browse, favorite, follow and leave comments. I follow many of your stories, too, and promise to catch up soon – my tech difficulties have really put a dent in my fic reading time.

Thanks for your comments, Talicor, Lord Lelouch, Veritas1995, Jedi Master Misty Sman-Esay, Skywalker's Phantom, Kate Skywalker, Dark Mistress of the Sith, QueenNaberrie, sharp52092 and Queen Yoda. If I had a Han Solo bobblehead to give you for your participation, I would, but the poor guy's in the hospital getting his bum ankle repaired! Joking aside, may the Force be with Harrison Ford as he recovers from a nasty injury received on the Star Wars VII set. Maybe he had a bad feeling about it... :)