She didn't remember moving—didn't remember crossing the space between them—but suddenly Anakin was close, too close, and she was tilting her head back to meet his eyes.
Those blue eyes, once shy, now burned with hunger.
She hadn't said yes.
She hadn't said no.
But her breath hitched, and her body leaned toward him instinctively—drawn like gravity, like fate.
That was all he needed.
He kissed her hard.
Not careful. Not sweet. His mouth crashed against hers with a force that stole her breath, one hand cradling the back of her head while the other seized her hip, pulling her flush against him. She gasped into the kiss—parted her lips—and he took it, tongue claiming, tasting, devouring like he'd been starving.
She barely had time to think before he spun her, walking her backward until her back hit the wall. A painting rattled behind her as he pinned her there with his body, hands gripping her thighs and lifting her in one powerful motion. Her legs wrapped around him without thought, skirt rucked up high around her hips.
"Anakin—" she whispered, stunned, breathless.
But he wasn't listening.
He dropped to his knees before her, dragging her down the wall with him, hands already sliding up her thighs, firm and urgent. He pushed her skirt up further—over her hips now, baring her—and when she opened her mouth to protest, to question, he looked up at her with a dangerous glint in his eye.
"Let me."
Then he was there.
His mouth pressed against her—no preamble, no hesitation—hot breath followed by the wet, devastating drag of his tongue. Padmé's head slammed back against the wall with a choked cry. One of his arms pinned her hip in place while the other wrapped around her thigh to hold her open.
He devoured her.
Not gently. Not sweetly. He was ravenous, mouth moving with purpose, tongue flicking, stroking, circling, then pressing deep. She tried to muffle her moans—tried to keep control—but she'd never felt this. Not like this. Nothing Clovis had ever done prepared her for the way Anakin's mouth worked her like a man possessed.
Every time she squirmed, tried to pull away, his grip tightened. He growled into her, the vibration sending sparks up her spine.
"Anakin—please—" she gasped, not sure what she was begging for.
But he knew.
He adjusted slightly, lips closing around her most sensitive place—and sucked.
Her vision went white.
She came undone against his mouth, crying out, hand fisting in his thick hair. Her thighs trembled violently around his head, but he didn't stop—not until she was twitching, oversensitive and raw.
Only then did he rise, slow and steady, mouth glistening, eyes dark with heat and something far more dangerous than desire.
Padmé could barely breathe.
And when he leaned in—nose brushing hers, voice like gravel—he whispered:
"I'm not done."