The newlyweds woke in the middle of the night wrapped together on the floor, the fire low, shivering, starving. After they tore into brief dinner, overcooked but delicious, they hurried laughing across the floor towards the sleeping loft. At the base of the stairs Han caught Leia, scooped her up in his arms and said, against her lips, "Now, Princess, you see why the ladder was such a stupid idea." He carried her up the stairs, wriggling under his nipping kisses, and tumbled them onto the big iron bed.

On their sides, face to face, pressed close for warmth under the quilts, Leia giggled to feel the immediate proof of Han's desire against her belly. Han smiled back, half-proud, half-sheepish at his own readiness. But then she caught him in her hot little hand and he groaned, dropping his forehead to her shoulder.

Han had never been much of a taker in bed before—he was paying too much attention, setting himself too many objectives. So when his hips began an involuntary thrust into her grip Han tried to stop Leia's touch, tried to reach for her instead, but she batted his hand away. "Let me, Han," Leia murmured against his neck. "I want to, please. Just let me." What could Han do but yield into her sweet force? And Leia Organa, a virgin as of mere hours ago, drove Han Solo to near-madness with just her tiny hand, with her nibbles and kisses at his neck. She levelled him to nothing. To whining, writhing. At the end, he clamped his own huge hand over Leia's own as it worked him, gripping tight, tighter. At the end Han heard his own voice, broken to grit: Like that, yeah like that Sweetheart, just like— before Leia robbed him of all speech but the most vital and base. Close, oh. Christ. Princ—

He sprawled on his back, panting, for a long time after, his forearm slung over his eyes, his other hand stroking Leia's hair. Han felt new and vulnerable, too exposed to look at her. Leia seemed to understand, simply breathing alongside him, resting her cheek on his heaving chest. Finally he turned to her and kissed her, long and soft, stroking her cheekbone with the backs of his knuckles. Just as Han angled his head to move in deeper, the alarm clock went off. He groaned in his throat, but regretfully got up.

Leia watched Han move, naked, to the rocking chair, where he'd slung his clean clothes. He was so beautiful, she marvelled, watching him climb into his boxer-briefs, returned to full, glorious health. So tall and golden and well-proportioned, relaxed in his strong, lithe form. Briefly Leia wondered if Han was so comfortable in his body because it had so long been his only real possession, his only real home. He saw her looking and winked at her. It was fascinating to see Han, now, restored to swagger after he'd been so recently helpless. Leia thought of the current of need she'd felt under her hands, heard in his ruined voice, how his whole body had gone rigid with it.

Sex was fascinating. Leia wanted to know everything.

Han heard her giggling. Stepping into his pants, he cocked a brow.

"What's so funny, you she-devil?"

"It's not funny," Leia said. "Well, not funny-funny, not—oh Han, I'm not laughing at you. I was just thinking—if I'd stopped, before you—you'd have done anything, wouldn't you?"

Han's mouth opened in disbelief. His new wife's eyes were bright as stars, and she was still giggling; not in scorn, Han understood, but in delight, in daring, in discovery. In the air, Han could almost taste the new rogue sweetness he'd helped free. Kitten-curious, Han reminded himself.

But also competitive.

"You mean, to come?" Han challenged, squarely meeting her eyes as he slowly buttoned his fly.

Leia turned immediate red. Bullseye. "Is...that what it's called?"

"Yes, Miss Reporter." His grin softened. "Mrs. Reporter. That's what it's called."

Still pink, Leia pressed stubbornly on, accepting the dare of his bluntness. Up came her chin. "You'd have promised me anything, wouldn't you? Men will do anything, at the end."

"Oho," Han began fastening the pearl snaps of his denim work-shirt, slowly padding towards the bed. "You think men get real desperate for it, huh?"

Languidly, Leia stretched. Han bit his lip; her bare body was so beguiling, there, shadowed and peaked beneath the sheet. She saw him looking and looked brazenly back. "I think you do."

Han felt a hot, rushing ache but kept his voice cool. "Oh, Sweetheart," he said, clicking his tongue in mock dismay. "You naughty little thing, you don't even know what you've done. You wanna play this game? Well, you're on."

"What do you mean?"

"Wait and see, Leia. Wait and see. I gotta go meet Madine, you minx. Your job today is to imagine—" He broke off, chuckling, and shook his head. "You think I'm the only one gets wrecked?" Fully dressed, Han leaned down over Leia, close enough that he could see the pulse tripping in her long, white throat. He nuzzled at that swift drumbeat, then brought his mouth to hers but didn't kiss her. Just spoke, his voice rough velvet against her lips. "Guess again, Missus. You stay here all day and think about what comes next."

"Captain, thinking of you isn't quite enough to get me excited."

Han knew Leia meant to sound dismissive, but her eyes were hazy, there was a tremor to her voice. With a teasing smile, Han slid his other hand beneath the sheet. At his sure, slow touch Leia's eyelids fluttered shut, and her lips made a perfect, wanting bud. She arched; Han pressed her belly flat with the palm of his hand. "Don't move, Princess, stay just like that." He lightly circled his fingers until Leia clutched the sheet with a sweet, hungry cry. Han kissed her shallowly, once, twice, never taking his eyes from her face. And he withdrew his hand. "Sorry, Sweetheart," Han purred, standing straight. "I haven't got time for anything else."

Flashing her a grin of pure carnal promise, Han was out the door before his new wife caught her breath.