"I do *not* fucking *believe* this!" you screech to the skies. "Ug, not fair! Not fucking fair!"

Fate, in simple maliciousness, adds another detachment of cars to the long silvery line of automotive immobility before you. With the Downtown exits out, you're stuck on the highway for another three miles at least. And of course, you're already late.

You spend several more moments cursing, wishing like hell this was an aerial highway, like they have on more populated planets, but noooo. This misty mudhole you call home hasn't overgrown itself enough to need any aerial traffic routes. So everyone still has groundcars. No way to pull a lever and rise above the mess.

You check the chrono mounted on the dash. You look out over the jam. No sign of breaking. You are stuck here.

"Dammit dammit dammit, God dammit!" you curse, banging your head on the steering wheel. "Why, why, goddammit why?"

<>

A dark blob flickers at the edge of your sight. You jerk your head around in surprise. No, dark blobs generally do not coalesce inside your car. Well, there's one trying to now, for reasons unknown. "What the hell?"

<>

The blob defines itself into the object of your appointment, one General Obi-Wan Kenobi, sitting comfortably in the shotgun seat. He doesn't looked pissed, thank God, just concerned.

You pick up your jaw from where it's fallen in your lap. "How?"

The Kenobi-ghost doesn't reply, only looks at you, straight into your eyes. The voice is in your head. <>

"Can you see like that?" you ask.

The doppleganger shakes his head.

"I'm stuck on the 196. There's a wreck or something up ahead. Traffic's backed up from here to the Hapes cluster."

<>

"Fuck! We've only got twenty-four hours! We should be tearing each other's underwear off right now!"

The Kenobi-ghost gives you a long-suffering look. <>

You nearly scream. He's using *that* tone of voice, the one that asks any sane woman with ears why in the hell she's not trying to rip his pants apart, and, trapped in the middle lane, you can't pull over.

<> he starts, his tone ironic and something else, <>

"I know that hon -- Fuck you Saboo! -- but talking isn't what's on your mind and I know it."

<>

"Obi-Wan, mindreading *is* a two-way street. Tell you what; if you don't have an erection right now, I'll buy you lunch."

Pause.

"That's what I thought." You mentally blow him a kiss.

<>

Your mind does a little flip.

<>

"You're teasing . . ."

<> The ghost points to the car's seat.

"So . . . why can't you see?"

<>

You shrug. "You're the expert. I just work here."

<>

"Oh!" You ease the car forward about six feet and stop dead again. Yes, the pileup is moving, but the increments are in inches.

<>

"What?"

<>

"Obi, honey, just one word." You purse your lips and blow out in eternity's biggest raspberry.

<>

"Picky."

Traffic inches forward.

"When did you get in?"

<> The ghostie grimaces. <>

"Shit, why didn't you tell me? I would have stayed on board with you for a while."

<>

"Four-walls syndrome. Yuck."

Traffic inches forward.

<> there!"

You grin at the sound of his voice, coming from his throat where it belongs. "That's better. I was getting a migraine."

"Me too. Your mind is a mess, no offense."

"None taken. Besides, I like hearing you talk out loud. You have a lovely voice."

"You haven't heard me sing yet."

"True."

Traffic inches forward.

"So . . ." he tries to be subtle, "what are you wearing underneath all that denim?"

"Way to be subtle Obi-Wan," you growl.

"'Scuse *me*," he grumbles, looking at you reproachfully.

"You're just going to have to wait until I get through this, hon."

It's true, you note dismally. Traffic's moving steadily now, not enough to really get you anywhere, but just enough to ensure you need to pay attention to driving.

One of Obi-Wan's hands leaves its perch on his black-clad thigh and brushes against your jaw. You turn you head into the caress, smiling.

"Better not," you warn. "I might not give it back."

With that, you seize his hand gently in your teeth, and run your tongue lightly over the blade. God, he even *tastes* real.

"Do you have any idea," his voice is deep, satiny, "how strange you look?"

"Whurf?" you ask around your mouthful of his hand.

"Not everybody can see me like this."

You're not stupid. You release his hand in a heartbeat, flushing to the roots of your hair.

"It's all right. I don't think anyone was looking."

"You might've told me that up front."

"You didn't ask."

"Cop-out."

"What's your point?"

You roll your eyes. "That's what I love about you General. Talking to you is like talking to smoke."

"Oh *really*?" He shifts, rolling up on his left hip, giving you the most blatant come-hither look you've ever seen from anybody, period.

And from a girl who spent a childhood hanging around trained pleasure workers, that's a stretch.

"Would you like me to get more specific?" he purrs, his eyes a smoldering fire. "About how much I've burned for you over the past two months? About how I'd wake from a dead sleep with your body in my arms, under my hands? About how I'd be in the middle of the most dreadfully *boring* briefings and debriefings and I'd spend it imagining you stretched out on the table in front of me, wearing scraps of black silk and leather, writhing? About how I'd catch myself dwelling on the smell of your sex, your hair, your breath, the feel of your skin, the sound of your voice? About how I've spent the last two months carrying you in my heart and mind like a jewel, missing you like mad?"

His hand brushes your cheek again. He leans over, so slowly you think you'll scream. You just stare at him, your heart pounding in your ears.

"And would you like me to tell you *exactly* how hard it is to lie here and wait for this Sithshit traffic jam to break up so I can tell you these things as I'm tearing your clothes off with my bare hands?" he whispers.

His lips come so close you'd swear you can feel his breath on your lips. Your eyes drift closed.

But he backs away. "No."

"What do you mean, 'no'?!?" you demand, more hot and bothered than you've been in ages.

"No. I want it to be real. I want you to kiss *me*, not some stupid projection."

An earsplitting *hooooooooooooooonk* makes you jump nimbly out of your skin. When you land back inside, you swear with every naughty word you know. You even make up a few on the spot. When you're done, he's gone.

"Damn you Kenobi!" you scream as you drive the car forward about twelve feet.

<> his voice is back in your head, <> You'd swear you can see the son of a bitch smiling as you writhe in your seat.

"I swear," you mutter, digging your fingers into the steering wheel, "by whatever god happens to be listening, the minute I'm done screwing your brains out I'm going to kill you!"

<>

"Obi -- you get back here! I'm not done berating you!"

Nothing.

The next few minutes you drive your car forward an inch at a time, seeing the jam finally beginning to break up as the cops reroute traffic around a nasty looking fender-bender, white-knuckling the steering wheel.

Finally, you clear the jam. You tromp your foot down on the gas. Your body slams back into the seat padding as you concentrate on getting from point A -- here -- to point B -- underneath the General's naked body. By the time you park the car and emerge you're sure you've violated every traffic law ever conceived by the sentient mind.

Grabbing your overnight bag, you dash through the hotel lobby, ignoring the summons of the escort left there by Obi-Wan. "Delaying tactics will not help you darling," you snarl under your breath.

No answer.

Arriving at the suite the two of you usually commandeer for your escapades, you slam your palm on the reader.

It makes an obscene beeping noise at you.

"Oh you *didn't*," you deny, glaring at the red light on the reader.

The escort, a small being with six legs and vaguely yellowish hair scuttles to your side. "Please follow me madame," he entreats in a mechanical-sounding, perfectly inflectionless voice.

You bite your tongue. Hard.

The escort takes you up several floors and stops before a door on the top floor. Impatient beyond sanity, you pound your hand onto the palm reader.

The door slides open.

"Have a pleasant stay at . . ." you slam the door in the escort's face.

"OBI-WAN!" you roar. "WHERE THE HELL ARE YOU?!?"

"I'm right here, I'm right here, why are you shouting?" he says calmly from a spot behind you.

You whirl on your heel, and smack back into the door.

"Made you look."

"*Very* funny."

"I thought it was."

Suddenly he's here, his arms around you, his mouth on yours, teasing your lips apart for a perfectly luscious kiss. You groan into his mouth as the solid feel of his warm body brings you back to life.

"No more tricks," he purrs into your neck as his hands, moving with their usual uncanny blur, quickly strip every stitch of clothing off your body.

"No underwear," he groans as he shoves your jeans down off your hips. "Good. Saves time."

He had the same idea, you notice for the first time, and the realization that he's entirely, gorgeously naked and aroused and ready for reality-shattering sex makes your knees buckle.

He lets you fall a few inches before he catches you and holds you hard against his chest. The light sprinkle of hair in the middle presses between your breasts with a raspy tingle. With his knees he separates your thighs while one hand slides over your sopping folds. "Gods, you're wet," he groans into your ear. "You're a bad girl, getting this wet." His first two fingers rub a circle over your clit, making your body jerk. "Very bad indeed."

"Just shut up and fuck me already!" you gasp.

"What the lady wants," he bends his knees and lifts your hips, pressing the head of his erection at your aching slit, "the lady gets." His hips pump once, sliding his hard length inside you in a second.

You cry out, going limp as a noodle in his arms. The feel of him inside you after ten weeks of nothing is so overwhelming your body simply shuts down for a moment.

With a skill that makes you ache, his hips start to pump, sliding his cock into you deeper and deeper. His tangle of pubic hair rubs against your clit, making you scream. Your arms go around his neck as his go around your back, locking around you so hard your skin bruises.

"Oh god," you moan over and over, your legs curling around his hips.

"Mine," he growls in return, one hand slipping up to cradle your skull and guide you into a heartbreaking kiss. "Mine."

Arching your backs, you fall over the edge together and collapse in a sweaty tangle.

The two of you lay there, in a human knot, in front of the door, panting as your hearts stop pounding at the speed of hypertension.

"I thought you were going to kill me," he says at last.

"I am," you yawn, smiling lazily. "Just not right now."

"You're tired already?" he asks incredulously. "We only have," he looks over at the wall chronometer, twenty-two hours and fifteen minutes before I go back on duty. Thanks to you."

"Traffic."