This is a tawdry chapter with some beautiful lyrics of the unsuspecting E. E. Cummings to get us through to the other side. I can definitely see Kylo Ren reading to Rey "...not even the rain has such small hands".
Mature content throughout, of course.
I like my body when it is with your
body. It is so quite new a thing.
Muscles better and nerves more.
i like your body. i like what it does,
i like its hows.
E. E. Cummings, I like my body when it is with your.
He had the most blissful of all dreams in a very long time. He hasn't slept that peacefully ever since the Jedi academy.
And that was a whole life-time ago.
He was awaken in that dream to the sight of her in a glistening pearl-grey nightgown, her strong and lean back naked save for the hundreds of perfect pearls attached to a dozen of silver threads to keep the gown from falling down on her hips.
An intricate head-piece on her, falling to her shoulders, falling on his hand like soft rain – there was no point for her to wear something like that in bed, except to please him. He was a sucker for the Old Republic ever since he learned how to read. The Old Republic was the way to forge the Empire – it was always an ultimate feminine symbol in his mind, something to be conquered and subdued both by force and by seduction.
He was completely aware this is a dream. An illusion of his nerves, simple human needs satisfied in slumber – but he succumbed to that sweet illusion nevertheless.
They were kissing slowly, with her sitting on his lap, her silky night-gown moving slowly against his ribs. Warm. Light as a breeze. Butterflies. Soft dry leaves on coarse stone surface.
The cavity of her mouth is soft and scented and sensitive. He wants to explore that cave. He wants to explore all of her. He wants to absorb her slowly and to drink of her like from a royal chalice. She wears no jewelry on her neck – what a lucky occurrence. It's naked and it's vibrating with life. Sun-kissed skin. It invites him and he kisses her gently between her clavicles. And as he does, her breasts quicken. Small, firm and inviting and free. He cups them with his mouth, his hand still at the back of her neck. Now she arches and he is closer to her abdomen.
There is a pressure there, and he wants to liberate her from it.
He lets her slide from his lap and onto the sheets of silk.
He goes down and pulls her only slightly with him – she lets him lead her. She yields so completely and longingly that it almost makes him cry in her lap.
She trembles at the sensation of cold, slick fabric against her naked back. She twitches a bit – the pearls prick her slightly. He reaches out with his hand to support her against the unevenness of her pearl beads. His hand is rough and hot and its calluses grind against her soft back. Her chest arches. It sends her even further into that wonderful tension.
Her night-gown goes up around her waist. She was never touched there before. No man has touched her there before. It fills him with deep sense of peace and joy.
Mine.
He goes straight to that pearly cave, wet, scented and soft. The nub under his tongue twitches and reverberates with that pure energy of hers. His hand slides from her back to her buttocks and finds her perineum. He strokes her slowly and tenderly. He won't go deep. She can't handle it. He knows she can't. She told him so. She pleads with him in his mind.
She stretches her legs as far apart as she can, flexible little thing. He saw how quick and how flexible she is in the combat. This is similar, but in a way, so much more fulfilling. Nothing between him and her. They become one single being, her rhythm becoming his. His heart-beat lost in her own.
She pulls him back by his hair, that tug pushing him further to the edge. Demanding and desperate. Afraid.
Don't be afraid. I'll help you.
It hurts her to look at him. He is beautiful. He is perfect. She can't handle it. (He can allow this much vanity to himself – after all, it's his own personal dream and he doesn't need to make excuses for himself. Not that he makes any excuses otherwise, but still - that scavenger thinks him handsome. Thinks his face would make for a handsome bloody blot at the floor of the Procurator class ship.)
But her legs – she keeps them apart. She pants. She touches herself where he was, as if to inspect if she's still there. To try to re-enact what he did. But it isn't enough.
More.
More isn't enough.
Want you. Inside. Don't go.
He lowers himself slowly, trying not to scare her.
Look up. Look at me.
He pulls his pants down.
Don't look. Don't be afraid.
He leads her hand to his lower back.
Embrace me. Touch my hair again like you did before.
Her soft hands lock on him with trust and gratitude.
If they were on his member, he'd lost it. Fluttery things, small singing things, deadly things. She'd send him over the edge in a blink of an eye, completely unaware of the effect she has on him.
He lowers himself even more and in his sleep, he swallows hard. She is languid and lost in his hair, in the sensation of his back. She is inquisitive. She almost chirps.
Turn around, he says. That dress is meant for one position in particular and she complies, showing him her naked back with millions of tiny peaks where her pearls were. It loosens around her lean frame and under his hand, he feels her tender breasts tingling. He pulls her gently up, and follows the trail of a deep slit on her hip. He goes for her inner pearl again, where he has already found so much joy.
He goes tenderly. It's almost like a symphony, like a calling. He inspires her to move slowly with him, to just dance to the rhythm of his own hips. To feel the pulse of his manhood. To cradle it with her own softness. He opens her one petal at the time. He never quite understood the meaning of it before, but now it dawns on him.
It will sting.
He enters slowly and as gently as possible. The Balance, the Force, Jedi, Sith and the whole lot of them be damned. She is his home and his anchor, his little safe-haven. Only one thrust, and not quite until the end – she makes a stifled moan. He pulls back a bit, but she follows him and lets him take her again, this time deeper, but with the same gentleness. Her muscles tighten around him and she moans again. He finds her limit.
Don't go.
I won't.
He goes back with more force and until the end. Then gradually increases the speed and soon he hears her succulent flesh pounding against his firm thighs. He broke her tenderness.
She gasps, but her pain tolerance is higher than an average female's.
Am I too much?
No. Yes. Don't stop.
The dream feels so good; he doesn't want to wake up. He usually springs immediately from his bed and takes a shower, finding the specters of the day easier to combat than those that haunt his nights.
But this is something altogether different. He wants to drown in that sleep and never come back.
His Princess, his Empress in her gown of silver and of pearls. Her crown still miraculously on her head, the long beaded threads mixing with the wet strands of her dark hair. Purring in his arms, detangling his wild hair. Observing his manhood without fear or embarrassment. They were one body, after all. Nothing to feel ashamed about.
He wakes up lying on his belly, unbuttoned, undone in sleep by his own hand.
Morning erection – like a boy of 15.
But for the first time in a long time, he allows himself the pleasure of being – languid. Not doing anything. Lying there in his amorphous bed, re-living that dream like a weak, stupid boy. Fantasizing about the best moments, about the whole damn thing – it makes him erect again. He can't have the war meeting in this state. A part of him searches for her, finds her locked in her rooms, drained by the exercise. She trashed the equipment. She let the rage in. She went straight to the darkness. A part of him wants to barge in and force himself on her, but the invisible thread that binds them finds this violence worse than the destruction of the whole Hosnian system. He relieves himself with his own hand, distancing himself from her in his mind. But the bond keeps bringing him back to the sight of her sleeping in this very moment. Can she hear his moans? He hopes to whatever higher jurisdiction to leave her oblivious. Not quite the imperial gown, but she wears a delicate fabric, ivory colored, laced on the chest and on her back. She lies on her belly and sleeps tightly, uninterruptedly, like any being of pure conscience. He hasn't had that in ages and it mesmerizes him to witness that.
Finally, he comes. He calls the sanitation droid to take it all with it. Just go straight to the washer. Wash it immediately. No one can see it.
He flings himself in the cold shower and stays there until his jaws start gnashing.