a/n: thanks to beyonce for being beyonce

"Driver, roll up the partition please."
Beyonce; "Partition."

Partition

"Why're we goin' to this shit again?"

With his voice low in her ear like that, lips against her throat, fingers tracing her décolletage, it was hard to remember.

Leia stared hazily up at the roof of the sleek limousine, her lashes veiling her vision – so much space in the back of this elegant speeder, and still Han was so close to her she was faintly uncertain where she ended and he began – and that closeness was engendered only by his hands and mouth, if he got anything else into his head –

She turned to the side a little, rolling her head, and traced her hand up his chest, cupping his jaw and drawing his mouth to hers for a kiss, her teeth scraping his bottom lip temptingly – he groaned, soft and insistent, demanding an answer – his hand dipped under the material of her gown –

"Professional courtesy," Leia gasped, as the pad of his thumb stroked over her nipple possessively –

Han's lips broke with hers, traveling up her jaw to her ear skeptically –

"You work with a movie producer?"

"His father," Leia whispered, tilting her head up again – Han's other hand had slipped down from her hip to her knee, gathering the material of her gown in his hand – it was wine-coloured, made of fine, iridescent silks –

"How'sat work?" Han murmured, and Leia caught her breath, reaching down to grab his hand and stall him, pressing her knees together. He slid his hand between her thighs, smirking –

"I go to his son's premiere, he votes for my resolution," Leia whispered, casting her eyes over Han's shoulder at the chauffer – he had dark sunglasses on, and hadn't turned his head once.

Han's teeth brushed her jaw, and he shifted to kiss the corner of her mouth, nudging her thigh with his hip, trying to jostle her into letting him get her dress up higher –

"What's the trade-off?" Han asked, drawing back a little – he met her eyes, noting how feverish she looked, and Leia bit her lip fetchingly, her lashes fluttering as she looked back at him –

"We're very powerful, Han," she whispered, soft and sultry, "we show up to a pop culture event, and the public bleeds money to follow suit."

"That's politics?" he growled.

She shrugged –

"The red carpet at a film premiere isn't the worst price to pay – "

"I ain't got no political power," Han drawled.

Leia drew her index finger under his chin and blew a kiss to him, winking.

"You're a sex symbol."

He grinned devilishly, and lunged forward to kiss her again, short, hard, consuming kisses, while he knocked her hand free, and started dragging that material up between her legs –

"Worst price I gotta pay is anyone else layin' eyes on you in this dress," he growled – his hand moved smoothly out of her gown, and traveled up to her jaw, stroking her skin protectively.

Leia cast her eyes over his shoulder again, lifting her chin pointedly –

"Patience, patience," she coaxed flirtatiously. She bit her lip. "There's a filthy scene in this film, or so I've been warned," she murmured, batting her lashes.

"Warned?" Han quoted slowly.

Leia nodded, feigning innocence –

"A colleague thought I might demure the invite, considering some of the…lascivious content."

Han tilted his head, shifting, and put his lips next to her ear again, drawing his thumb over her lower lip seductively.

"A colleague who thinks your husband doesn't fuck you on a limo bench in the Coruscant fast lane?" he said huskily.

Leia closed her eyes.

"He doesn't," she reminded him, and reached up to run her knuckles along his neck – "And he won't."

Han made a skeptical noise in the back of his throat, and pressed a kiss to her exposed collarbone. She closed her eyes, and his hands slid lower – he moved off the seat next to her, and she glanced down through her lashes to see him seated close to her knees, his nose level with the hem of her dress as he held it in his hand.

"The sex scene in the film should hold you over," Leia whispered.

"There's about to be a sex scene in this backseat."

She looked at him, and then up at the pilot, and sat forward, her knees parting slightly. She ran her hand through Han's hair, brows raised, and he caught his tongue between his teeth pointedly, one hand sliding up her thigh under the dress.

"Pilot," Leia said coolly, her voice suddenly laced with that pristine, regal tone she used at work – "Close the partition."

Her eyes remained on Han's as the opaque black glass rose and separated them from the front seat of the limo, and she leaned closer, her lips pursed. She touched his jaw, light as a feather –

"You smudged my lipstick," she murmured – "don't stain this gown."

Han grinned, and made a show of bowing his head reverently, taking her knee in his hand with a firm grip, and lifting it over his shoulder. Leia clutched the gown tightly, tilting her head back and compressing her lips to stay quiet – and hoped, without shame, that the handprint she left on the glass wasn't too provocative for the red carpet holo flashes.

"Handprints and good grips all on my ass."
Beyonce; "Partition."

- alexandra