Title: Peekaboo, an ABH
Author: BJ Stahl
Rating: NC-17
Sitch: A little Valentine's Day surprise.
Archive: Yes to the Ho's dump, Die's assorted oodles of stuff, the OKEB,
and the Library, anyone else just ask.
Feedback: (kisskisskisskisskiss) I leave lip-prints all over it.
Disclaimer: George owns Obi, the lucky fuck. Well, he's gotta have a *little* fun. I volunteer! Mememememe!!! And I work cheap (free).
Author's Notes: I wanted to do something with both of the guys for Valentine's Day, but I could only come up with one idea, and said idea was more suited for the Master. Then, when I was brooding one night (after some putz lit up a smoke and set off the fire alarm at 0330), it came to me. The idea is ripped off from a book on using the senses in sex. 'If It Feels Good . . .' was the title, I think, I forget exactly. So I gave the Master the ice cubes and gave the Padawan . . . this.

---

Valentine's Day. Up until now, you've been able to avoid that particular salute to commercialism. Not so this year. You actually have a sweetie you want to spend money on.

So it *would* be this year that February finds you unemployed. No roses, no gourmet chocolate, no his and hers edible lingerie. And you very badly want to shower your honey with gifts. You need to give him some small token of how he's affected your life.

Christ you loathe being broke.

You pace in your room, housecleaning for Friday's room checks, thinking. You *could* just go out and go the full ball o' wax, but you're already overdrawn by about $200 and you *really* don't want to write any more bad checks. You kneel and lay out on your belly, reaching under the bed for the half-dozen dirty socks that *always* find their way there. No matter how carefully you make sure to put your clothes in the laundry basket every day, there's always a small detachment of dirty socks under the bed.

You reach past the Rubbermaid plastic boxes with snap-top lids that you keep all sorts of odds and ends in and snag the socks. On a whim you drag out the longest of said boxes and crack the lid.

You spend a minute sifting through the assorted junk that you never get around to throwing out . . . and then you find it.

Bingo.

--- After a night of easy cuddle-me sex, you wake up in Obi-Wan's arms with a sly smile on your face.

"You're up to something," Obi-Wan mumbles against your neck, not opening his eyes.

"Not *me*," you protest innocently, giving him a kiss on the cheek. He of course reciprocates and the two of you waste several minutes researching the art of the smootch.

"Mmm. I'm going to take a shower," you finally inform him around another kiss.

"Am I invited?" he asks.

"Need I remind you that we both nearly broke our necks the last time you jumped me in the shower?"

"I lost my balance!"

You grin and slip out of the bed, flinching as the cold morning air bites your skin. You duck into the bathroom, thanking God that you don't have a suitemate. You really don't want to have anyone walk into the bathroom over the next hour or so.

You start the water and let it run hot, grabbing some of that spicy body wash you use on special occasions. You step inside, close the shower curtain, and begin the morning cleansing routine.

After a few minutes, just as you rinse the Tegren out of your hair, you hear the bathroom door open. Obi-Wan walks in, ready to just talk a little while you're in the shower. That kind of threw you at first -- you're a private bathroom person -- but you love to listen to him talk, so you don't mind as much as you might.

Today he gets as far as the first half-syllable of "Good morning beautiful" before his jaw drops to his chest.

Something you see very clearly through the absolutely transparent shower curtain.

You shake the last of the noxious dandruff shampoo out of your hair. "What?" you inquire, the picture of innocence.

Obi-Wan doesn't answer. He gulps as his eyes glue themselves to the sudsy water flowing down your naked body.

You glance up, as though noting the clear plastic for the first time. "Oh that. I found it in some of my old junk the other day. D'you like it?"

He makes an odd moany grunt in the back of his throat. Visibly collecting himself, he takes a spot right across from the shower, leaning against the radiator, his back to the window.

You smile. Undivided attention. Sweet.

You half-turn, twisting your body so he can see just the outer round of your right breast, and grab a washcloth. Tattered, threadbare, it hangs over the palm of your hand. You take up the bottle of body wash, unsnap the cap with one thumb, take a whiff of spices that tickle your nose, turn it upside down and dribble a generous amount over the cloth.

Setting the body was aside, you rub the cloth between your hands until you've worked up a good lather. Starting from the jaw down, you scrub yourself well all over your upper body. Lifting one foot and setting it on the edge of the tub, you scrub your leg off one by one, careful not to give googoo eyes over there more than little glimpses of your goodies.

You turn your back on your captive audience, wringing out and hanging up the washcloth, trying to jerk every muscle in your back and your butt. You reach up and finger-comb your hair back from your face. Slowly, revealing your left side, you turn to face the shower's spray, rinsing away the soap.

Now the real show starts. Slowly, you run your hands up your flanks and down your front, lingering caressingly over your breasts. You slide your hands over yourself, enjoying the texture of your own skin in a way you normally never have time for in the shower, being the type that usually just scrubs and runs.

You turn your back to the water, giving Obi-Wan a quick look at your naked front side, skin shining with water and flushed with heat and desire. You stand under the shower for a moment, letting the water caress your back. Then as if of their own accord, your hands start to move. Slowly, they slide over your flesh, petting your belly and chest. Your heart beats faster as your hands roam your body.

You call to mind a memory of making love with Obi-Wan, ignoring the real him for a while. You cup your breasts in each hand. The nipples pebble and harden as you carefully roll them between your fingers. You never really understood Obi-Wan's exhibitionist streak, but as you stand here indulging in a little self-adoration knowing he's watching, thralled, you think you can appreciate it better. The sensation of your lover's eyes stroking your body is erotic beyond description.

One of your hands flows down over your stomach. Your head drops back as your index finger slips between your wet folds and slides over your pulsing clit. You gasp as your middle finger joins it. In no time your fingers find a rhythm and you have to bite your lips to keep reasonably quiet. The walls in this house have ears.

Sneaking a demure under-the-eyelashes peek at your audience you gasp. Obi-Wan's leaned back against the radiator, one hand braced on the windowsill. The other hand slides and pulls on a substantial erection. When he sees your eyes on him he moans, his silver and jade eyes glittering.

Watching him watch you, you go back to stroking yourself, turning to face him and planting one foot on the edge of the tub, spreading your legs wide, giving him a clear view of your hand working your clit. Your hips sway, pressing into your fingers. You gulp air, locking your groans deep in your chest.

As the first waves of climax begin to build in your guts, you stop. "Hold it."

Obi-Wan stops, his mouth open and his eyes hazy. His cock, dark red and shining, trembles in the cold air as he takes his hand away. "Why are you stopping?" he gasps.

You hold up a finger, not trusting your voice. Shutting off the shower, you sweep the curtain aside, hissing when the shower steam whiffs away, leaving you standing in the cold. Your knees nearly buckle as you step over the edge of the tub. Your body, buzzing with denied ecstasy, you walk up to the dumbstruck and painfully aroused Jedi and stretch up on tiptoe to kiss his lips.

"You weren't planning on just watching I hope," you purr.

The barrier between observation and interaction broken, his arms fly around you and yank you against his body. You gasp together as his blood-filled cock grinds against your clit.

A bending of knees and you're on the floor, the tile a slab of ice against your wet back. Before you can orient yourself, Obi-Wan drops over you. You spread your legs and wrap them around his back as he plunges into you. You cry out, banging your head -- hard -- against the floor.

He wastes no time, pumping his shaft into you hard and quick. You can't get enough air to moan the way you need to as your lungs wheeze and croak in time with his thrusts. Incredible, delicious pressure, so intense you can barely breathe, floods your body as his hips snap back and forth.

As aroused as you both are, it doesn't take long before Obi-Wan cries out, his back arching as he pours himself inside you. You shriek hoarsely as the pleasure takes you a moment later, bucking underneath him in a long orgasm that drains you completely.

Whether or not you actually blacked out is debatable. When sensory input and self-awareness finally kick back in, you haven't moved. Neither has Obi-Wan as he lays on top of you, panting into your ear.

"Obi?" you ask, surprised at how sore your throat is.

He doesn't answer.

"Obi-Wan?!?" you demand, trying to wiggle him awake.

He responds with a muddy sounding gurgle, shifting against you as though he might drop off to sleep right there.

You turn your head and nip his earlobe. "Ow!" he exclaims, jerking awake.

"Were you planning on going to sleep right here?" you demand. If it were anywhere else you wouldn't mind, but this floor is cold.

"I'll get up in a moment," he promises, turning his head so he can kiss your neck.

"So much for Jedi stamina," you mutter.

"If you can move either," he mutters, rolling off you but not getting up, "I'll eat your shorts."