hush
Soft and hot, in the dark: Padmé, brushing her mouth against the scar of his brow, her heart beating against his palm, sliding along the swell of her breast. One beat, two, rising beneath his hand and falling: he can feel it, echoed in his chest.
"I thought you were dead," she says, quietly, words against his skin.
Anakin closes his eyes and tastes salt on her throat: real, warm, alive. Wants: her skin on his, to touch and hold and burn; the quick sliding need of him, her; possession and the beat of her heart.
He says: "I'm not."