Chapter Text
The Emerald Veil was exactly what the Republic needed for this summit: neutral, opulent, and indifferent to politics as long as credits kept flowing. Bioluminescent oceans lapped at crystal spires that housed the diplomatic suites. Inside the towering atrium, chandeliers of living light drifted like slow jellyfish, casting shifting greens and violets across marble floors. Senators murmured in clusters, aides darted with datapads, and somewhere a string quartet played something elegant and forgettable.
Anakin stood beside Luminara at the edge of the reception hall, both in formal diplomatic tunics—his dark charcoal edged in silver, hers a deep forest green with geometric Mirialan embroidery that caught the light like faint constellations. They were supposed to be observing. Mediating. Being Jedi.
Instead, she was burning.
Every time he shifted his weight, the heat of his body brushed hers through layers of fabric. Every time a delegate spoke to him, she watched the way his mouth curved—polite, controlled, the same mouth that had whispered against her throat two nights ago in the Temple gardens. She could still feel the ghost of his fingers on her waist, the way he’d held her like she might disappear if he let go.
She hated how much she wanted more.
“The delegate from Cato Neimoidia is lying about troop movements,” she murmured, voice low enough for only him to hear.
Anakin tilted his head toward her, lips barely moving. “I know. His left eye twitches.”
Their eyes met for half a second—too long for public, too short for what she needed. She felt the Force ripple between them, warm and hungry, like a current pulling her under.
She stepped closer under the pretense of pointing at something on the holo-display between them. Her hand brushed the back of his—once, twice—then stayed, thumb tracing the seam where flesh met metal. His pulse jumped under her touch. She felt it through the Force before she felt it in her fingertips.
“Careful,” he breathed, the word more plea than warning.
“I’m always careful,” she lied.
The reception dragged. Speeches. Toasts. Small talk that tasted like ash. When the quartet finally paused and the crowd began to drift toward the terraces, Luminara caught his eye across the room. A single lift of her chin—barely noticeable. He excused himself from a cluster of senators with that easy charm he wielded like a lightsaber.
They met in the shadowed corridor behind the service lift.
The door hadn’t even finished closing before she had him against the wall.
Her mouth found his—hard, desperate, no preamble. Teeth clashed for a heartbeat before he opened for her, tongue meeting hers with the same hunger she’d been choking down all evening. His hands slid to her hips, pulling her flush against him until she could feel every line of his body through the layers of silk and leather. She made a small, broken sound into his mouth—half moan, half relief—and he answered with a low groan that vibrated against her lips.
She broke the kiss only to drag her mouth along his jaw, down the column of his throat. “I can’t stop thinking about you,” she whispered against his skin. “All day. Every word. Every glance. It’s driving me insane.”
Anakin tilted his head back, giving her more access, fingers flexing on her hips. “Good,” he rasped. “Because I’ve been dying since you walked in wearing that dress.”
She bit down lightly on the tendon at the base of his neck—just enough to make him hiss. “Then do something about it.”
He flipped them so fast her back hit the wall with a soft thud. One hand braced above her head, the other cupped her jaw, thumb brushing her swollen lower lip. “Not here,” he said, voice rough. “Not yet. I want time. I want to take you apart slowly.”
Her breath hitched. “Anakin—”
“Later,” he promised, and kissed her again—slower this time, deeper, like he was memorizing the shape of her mouth. When he pulled back, his forehead rested against hers. “After the banquet. My suite. No interruptions.”
She nodded, eyes dark, pupils blown wide. “Promise me you won’t hold back.”
His smile was slow, dangerous, boyish. “I’ve been holding back for months. Tonight I’m done.”
They separated just in time—footsteps echoing down the corridor. She smoothed her robes, fixed a loose dreadlock, and walked out first. He followed a minute later, expression perfectly neutral.
The rest of the evening was torture.
Every time their eyes met across a table, heat pooled low in her belly. Every time he leaned in to murmur something diplomatic, his breath ghosted her ear and she had to grip the edge of her seat. By the time the final toast was raised, she was trembling—not from nerves, but from want so sharp it hurt.
They didn’t speak on the lift up to the suites. The silence was thick, electric. When the doors opened on their private floor, he caught her wrist—gentle but firm—and pulled her into his rooms instead of hers.
The door sealed with a soft hiss.
She was on him before he could turn around.
Hands fisted in his tunic, she shoved him back toward the bed until the backs of his knees hit the mattress and he sat. She straddled him immediately, knees bracketing his hips, mouth crashing back to his. This kiss was filthy—open, wet, no restraint. She rocked against him once, twice, feeling him hard and ready beneath her, and he groaned like she’d struck him.
“Force,” he breathed against her lips. “Luminara—”
She silenced him with another kiss, fingers working the clasps of his tunic open. When she got the fabric parted, she dragged her mouth down his chest—kissing scars, tasting salt, tracing old burns with her tongue. He shuddered under her, hands sliding up her thighs, bunching the silk of her dress.
“You’re shaking,” he murmured, half concern, half awe.
“Because I need you,” she said, voice wrecked. “Inside me. Now.”
He flipped them again—gentler this time—until she was beneath him on the wide bed, hair spilling across the pillows like dark rivers. He braced himself on his forearms, looking down at her like she was something holy.
“Let me,” he said softly. “Let me take care of you.”
She nodded, throat tight.
He kissed her slow—deep, deliberate—while his hands worked her dress open. When the silk parted, he paused, eyes tracing every line of her body: the geometric tattoos curling over her ribs, the faint scars from battles long past, the soft swell of her breasts, the dip of her waist.
“Beautiful,” he whispered, and meant it.
He kissed his way down her body—collarbone, sternum, the sensitive skin under each breast—until he reached the tattoos along her hip. He lingered there, pressing open-mouthed kisses to each mark like a vow. When he finally settled between her thighs, she was already slick, aching.
The first swipe of his tongue made her arch off the bed with a choked cry.
He didn’t rush. He savored—slow circles, gentle suction, fingers sliding inside her to curl just right. She threaded her fingers through his hair, hips rocking against his mouth, breath coming in ragged gasps. When she came the first time, it was sudden and shattering—back bowed, name torn from her throat.
He didn’t stop.
He kissed his way back up her body, settled between her legs, and notched himself at her entrance. “Look at me,” he said, voice low.
Her eyes fluttered open. Their gazes locked.
He pushed in slow—inch by inch—until he was seated fully, both of them trembling. For a long moment they simply breathed together, foreheads pressed, hearts hammering in tandem.
Then she wrapped her legs around his waist and whispered, “Move.”
He did.
Slow at first—deep, rolling thrusts that made her gasp every time he bottomed out. Then faster, harder, until the bed creaked beneath them and the only sounds were skin on skin, ragged breathing, broken moans. She clawed at his back, nails leaving red lines he’d feel tomorrow. He buried his face in her neck, teeth grazing her pulse, murmuring praise against her skin—“So good,” “So perfect,” “I’ve got you.”
When she came again—clenching around him, crying out his name—he followed a heartbeat later, hips stuttering, spilling inside her with a low, wrecked groan.
They collapsed together, sweat-slick, tangled, hearts pounding.
For a long time neither spoke.
Then she turned her head, pressed a soft kiss to his shoulder. “Thank you,” she whispered.
He laughed—quiet, breathless—and kissed her temple. “Don’t thank me yet. We’re not finished.”
She smiled against his skin, already feeling the next wave of want stirring low in her belly.
Outside, the bioluminescent ocean glowed against the night. Inside, they had hours yet before dawn.
And neither of them intended to waste a single one.