"Got something for you," your boss's voice rings out.

You look up from your book as a file drops onto your desk with a hollow thud. Reaching out with one hand, you flip the file open, gazing at the picture taped to one side before running your eyes down the vital stats. Obi-Wan Kenobi, Knight of the Jedi Order, aged 34 standard Coruscant years, recently promoted to General in the Republic Army.

Well this is a definite break from the normal run of clients.

"Has this one had his shots?" you drawl, closing the book you had been perusing and pulling the file closer to you. The picture before you is blurry, obviously taken while the Knight had no idea he was being photographed. The profile presented is strong, the generous lips pulled into a thoughtful frown. Honey blond hair is pulled into a tight utilitarian ponytail, and his face is covered with a few days worth of stubble.

Not bad looking at all, for a commoner.

"I promise he's perfectly healthy," Jarven replied, and you look up to catch his smile. "These Jedi types usually are pretty clean. They don't do much fraternizing in the lower levels of society." Unspoken go the words, 'Unlike your usual clients . . .'

"Kings like whores," you say philosophically. "I can't explain it--maybe they just like performing for someone who has no expectations."

"Well this is no king," Jarven says with a smile. "You'll probably find him much less obnoxious than the general run of royalty and diplomats."

"I don't know . . . I've dealt with Jedi before." Grimacing, you flip through the pages of the file, eyebrows raising as you look over what your employers could scrape together of his work record. Obi-Wan Kenobi was apparently a rather large name in the galaxy--and getting larger by the minute.

"What's wrong with Jedi? I'd think you'd like someone who is polite and chivalrous once in a while." Jarven hooks a chair over with his foot and settles into it, giving you an even stare. "What don't you like about Jedi?"

"They get hung up on the sex for money thing," you reply absently, still paging through the extensive file, glancing at print outs of news clippings. "Even when it's not their own money. I couldn't convince the last one that I wasn't some kind of victim of life. He kept trying to save me . . . wouldn't believe that I chose my own career."

"If you don't want the contract, you don't have to take it," Jarven says quickly. "You know that I have no problem telling the King where to shove it."

"Jarven!" you gasp in mock affront. "What kind of language is that to use in reference to our fine ruler?" A smile curls around your lips as you realize the impact of his words. "So the King sent in this request for my services, did he?"

"Yes he did," Jarven replies with an equally wide grin. "Obviously this Kenobi has something that his Majesty wants . . . and he's pulling all the shots to get it."

"His Majesty must know that a Jedi will hardly be flattered to have a whore offered to him."

"My dear," Jarven gasps, covering his heart with his hand. "You offend us both with that sort of language. You are no more a whore than I am a Jedi Knight."

"Sex for money, Jarven dear. That's all young Kenobi here will see. He'll decide I'm the next victim he has to save . . . a common whore no different than any other."

"You'll just have to prove him wrong then," Jarven purrs with a smile. "That is your job, after all. It's why you get paid such inordinate amounts of money, and can pick and chose your jobs." Jarven's smile turns into a grin. "You're the best, you know."

"So I am," you respond musingly, staring down at the file and flipping it back to the first page so that you can see his picture again. One perfectly manicured fingernail taps slowly against the picture. "He is rather fetching, you know."

"So are you going to do it?" Jarven asks.

You smile. "Have you ever seen me back down from a challenge before?" When Jarven shakes his head, you grin. "So what's my fee for this?"

"Lady, when you see what the King is offering . . ."

"A fair amount?"

"You won't have to work for a year."

Staring down at the picture of Obi-Wan Kenobi, you smile.

~*~

The water dripping down your back makes you shiver, but you make no move to leave your place in front of the mirror. It is something of a habit now--before you go out on a job you like to spend a few minutes simply staring at yourself. Looking at the creature you are in every day life, without the fancy dresses and expensive jewels. The woman who doesn't care if her hair is out of place. The woman who chews her nails and likes to swear.

Staring at your reflection, you smile. Your long brown hair hangs in long wet strands down your back, water still dripping onto the floor from your recent shower. Without the makeup, your face is almost youthful, with a strange innocence that you treasure. Soon you will be getting dressed for work, and the image in your mirror will change. You'll become some sophisticated women you hardly recognize, with perfectly styled hair, artfully made up features, and clothing that would feed a poor family for a year.

You smile at yourself, marveling not for the first time at the magic of charisma. Not especially beautiful, you hadn't expected to go as far in your chosen career as you had. Few who attempted succeeded at the life of a courtesan, fewer still managed to ascend to the level above, the level at which you have lived comfortably for the last several years. The level where clients come to you--clients who are rich and powerful and willing to grant you almost anything.

And it hadn't been raw physical beauty that got you there. In this career where appearance was everything, you had learned the secret that men held close--the ultimate irony. Despite their bluster, despite their masculine parading and pretensions . . . they actually enjoyed a woman with a brain. The challenge of the unattainable--of a woman who could challenge them mentally as well as sexually . . . in the years you have been practicing your art, you had yet to meet a man who didn't succumb to the challenge you represented.

Most surprising of all was the realization that you actually enjoy your job. Rich, cultured men pay good money for your time--whether it be simply to talk, although that is rare, or for something more. No one touches you if you do not wish it. No one lays a violent hand on you. You are pampered, cared for . . . wealthy.

And lucky. You are no fool, and not a day goes by where you don't send up a prayer of thanks to whomever will listen. So many people, playing the same game you are, end up on the streets . . . hungry, poor, and abused. Their bodies used as toys, the money given them barely any compensation for the emotional trauma that is inflicted upon them night after night . . .

It could have been like that for you, too--and you will never, ever, let yourself forget it.

Picking up your brush, you move away from the mirror and settle onto your bed, towel still clutched around your body. Before long it will be time to get dressed, time to waltz into your client's life and turn it upside-down. You enjoy your work--the mental challenge, the intellectual conversation . . . and yes--the handsome men.

But sometimes you just want a break. Some time to wear your hair in a sloppy ponytail. Time when it's all right to chew your nails and wear baggy pants and shirts. When no one will notice if you go a day or two without makeup.

Sometimes you just want to drop the mask and be you.

Your wall chrono beeps, reminding you that it's time to begin your preparations. Tonight will be important--tonight is when you will win or lose the game. Seducing a Jedi will be difficult--but it's the thrill of the chase that lures you.

Smiling slightly, you let your brush drop to the bed and rise to pace across the room to your closet.

Tonight you'll show young Kenobi who's really in charge.

~*~
Part 3
~*~

"You know, you don't have to go."

"I know."

"Then why are you going?"

You don't answer Jarven for a while, still staring at your reflection in the mirror. A horrible bruise stares back, disfiguring half of your face.

You had /really/ hoped it wouldn't look this bad.

"I'm going because I need the money."

"Liar." Jarven paces across the room to stand over your shoulder, meeting your eyes in the mirror. "And don't tell me it's because of the contract either--no one would blame you after what just happened. I'm sure your Jedi would understand."

"It's easy money," you amend. "I'm getting paid to make small talk with an intelligent, charming man. I'm not going to pass it up."

Jarven's fingers sweep down the side of your face, dancing over the ugly bruise. "I'm so sorry--"

"Don't." Knocking his hand away, you stride across the room, settling in front of your dressing mirror. "It wasn't your fault."

"Damn it--"

"I said it wasn't. He was trained at shielding, Jarven. You couldn't read his intentions." Digging through a drawer, you start to pile all of your face makeup on the table, looking for something that will cover the purple and blue on the side of your face. "It's a danger in the business. Sometimes you get the ones who like to hurt people."

"It shouldn't be a danger in your business," Jarven growls. "That's why you have me."

Sighing you turn to face him. "Honey, you have been watching out for me for six years, and have saved my life three times that. You missed one--but you picked up on it and got there before he hurt me." Brushing a finger across your bruise, you smile at Jarven. "Six years of whoring, and this is the first bruise I've gotten. I'd say that's a pretty good track record."

"You're not--"

"I know, I know." Smiling, you stand again, crossing the room to hug Jarven. "I'm not a whore."

"You're my girl," he murmurs softly into your hair. "I'm so sorry I didn't get there sooner . . ."

"Let it go," you whisper. "I'm fine, only a little worse for the wear."

"What are you going to tell Kenobi?" Jarven asks finally, his arms still tight around you. Letting your eyes slide shut, you rest your cheek against his chest, soaking up the affection he's projecting.

"I'll tell him you beat me up because I whooped you in sabbac."

"Dearheart--"

"How about I fell down the stairs?"

Jarven sighs. "You don't /have/ stairs here."

"Hmmm . . . good point. Think he knows that?"

Jarven's got your chin in his hand before he blinks, lifting your face to meet his eyes. "You know what I think you're going to do?"

"What?" you reply softly.

"I think you're going to tell him the truth. I'm afraid you are."

"Why?"

"Because--" One large hand sweeps through your hair. "Because I don't want him getting into your soul, dear one. I don't want you falling for some stuck up arrogant prejudiced moral crusader who will never see your true value."

"I'm a professional," you retort, pulling back and heading for your dressing table again.

His cryptically muttered, "So is he," is hardly comforting.

~*~

"What--"

"Don't." Sweeping past Obi-Wan into his room, you slam the door with one foot. "Just don't ask."

"If you say so." You can feel his eyes on your back--hear the confusion in his voice.

You're in your street clothes. Baggy black pants, an oversized green tunic belted loosely around your waist, and low cut boots. Your hair hangs over your shoulders in two long braids, still damp from your shower.

You gave up on covering the bruise with make-up. Nothing short of a plaster cast is going to hide the discoloring that now spreads across half of your face.

"Is everything all right?" he asks finally. Turning around you grin cockily at him before throwing yourself onto the couch. You're taken totally aback by the sudden flash of desire in his face, hidden so fast for a moment you're not quite sure you saw it.

Well . . . he never looked at you once in desire when you were dolled up and beautiful. Half of the palace servants are more attractive than you now--and that's without the bruise. With it--well, you must have been hallucinating the desire.

Ahh yes--but he had asked a question. And he is standing directly above you now, looming over you in a way that makes your heart do little flip-flops in your chest. You push the feeling away, relaxing even deeper into your sprawl.

"I fell down the stairs," you drawl, grinning up at him.

"Really?" His voice is alight with polite disbelief.

"Of course not. But are you really going to question a lady's word?"

Obi-Wan doesn't reply, kneeling down in front of you instead. "What happened?" he asks again, leaning forward until he can brush tender fingers down your cheek. You jerk back as if he had hit you, glaring at him.

"Thought you didn't want me seducing you," you snap, pushing his hand away. "Stop with all the touchy feeling, or I will."

"I'm just worried," he responds softly--but he moves back. "Did--"

"What do you want me to say?" You pin your most chilling glare on him, eyes as cold as you can make them.

"The truth."

"Sorry, honey. You're a client. You get the polite chit-chat, you get a roll in the hay if you want it. I'll strip naked and dance on the table for you, anything you want. But no where in my contract does it say I have to tell you my life story."

"I just wanted--"

"A victim."

"Excuse me?" Obi-Wan slides to his feed, dropping into the chair directly across from you.

"You want a victim, so you can come riding to save me. Just jump on your horse--"

"Horse?" His green eyes are confused as he stares at you, and you smile slightly.

"Guess you haven't done as much reading as I have," you drawl, leaning back and tossing one leg over the arm of the couch in a most unladylike fashion. "You might want to fix that, sugar. It's pretty sad when a whore knows more than a Jedi."

"I don't think you're being much of a whore right now," Obi-Wan mutters. "Whore's usually don't try to alienate their clients. Would it be safe for me to assume that this is the real you talking to me finally?"

"You're just dodging the question," you retort, warming to the debate. It's fun to be a seductive little pretty using her knowledge to entrap a man--but it was even /more/ fun just being yourself, trouncing all over this stiff-backed Jedi's highly formed ethics.

"Which question was that?" He's leaning forwards slightly, green eyes sparkling. With sudden clarity you realize that he's enjoying this as much as you are. Good. You can get your money and enjoy it at the same time.

And you won't even have to be flat on your back pretending to enjoy his clumsy fumblings. What a deal.

"You just want to save me," you repeat. "If I can walk and talk and think for myself--well what use is there for your Jedi skills? As long as I'm self-sufficient, you're going to ignore me, because there's no gratification from saving someone who doesn't need saving. So you want me to tell you that some horrible cruel client beat me up, probably scaring me for life emotionally. Then I can break down crying in your arms and you can be the hero."

"That's absurd," Obi-Wan responds. "Do you actually think I'd wish harm on you? Just so I can get to be the hero?" Throwing his arms up in the air, Obi-Wan lets out his breath in a woosh of air. "Has it ever occurred to you that I'm /sick/ of being the hero? And most of the time, a totally unappreciated one at that."

"Ooooh, poor baby Jedi," you coo, swinging your leg back over the arm so that your foot rests firmly on the floor. "No one appreciates your heroics?"

"The people I'm trying to help rarely do," he shoots back.

"Like me?" Smiling, you drag a finger across the bruise on your face. "You really want to know how this happened, hero?"

"I just wanted to make sure you were all right," he responds softly.

"I'm here, aren't I?"

"Yes," He pins you to the couch with a look, "you are. Not some dolled up butterfly. You."

"Think you're pretty smart, don't you Jedi?" Rolling your eyes, you stretch slightly. "I've been making chit chat with you for the last week about things that hold no relevance to either of our lives. And suddenly you're the one stop expert on who I am?"

"And you know me any better?" Crossing his arms over his chest, Obi-Wan gives you a lazy grin that does interesting things to the more female parts of your anatomy.

Of course, the parts of you that aren't melting into warm goo recognize the challenge. "It's my job to know everything about a client a few minutes after meeting them," you retort.

"Prove it." The smile grows wider, his green eyes narrowing in on you. "Tell me something about myself."

You lean forward slightly, bracing your elbows on your knees and sinking your chin into your hands. "About you, hmmm? Let me see . . ." You quirk an eyebrow, giving him a mischievous smile. "I bet your first love was your Master. She was the epitome of virtue, a beautiful wood nymph with long, flowing brown hair and haunting blue eyes. And she was so far above you that in all her lofty knowledge, she never noticed her poor little student, pining silently in the corner . . . awaiting just a touch of her gentle hands . . . craving a sweet look from those beautiful blue eyes . . ."

Obi-Wan bursts out laughing. "I know for a fact I told you my Master was a man," he sputters, shaking his head. "And for some reason, I have a terribly hard time imagining the great Qui-Gon Jinn as a wood nymph."

"Not the flighty fairy type?" you purr, tilting your head to one side. "Oh well, than your first love was your Master, the tall, broad epitome of all that is studly manliness . . . with short black hair and crystal clear silver eyes . . ."

"Are you quite finished?" Obi-Wan demands. "I was actually serious you know."

"I'm so disappointed. Does this mean you don't have any stories of illicit love between yourself and your Master?"

"Terribly sorry, Lady," Obi-Wan replies. "I can't say I ever craved a look from Qui-Gon's eyes, since he would usually only look at me when he was about to say something he knew I wasn't going to like. It was harder for me to sneak off when he was looking at me."

"And he never once seduced you?" Rolling your eyes, you slump back into the couch. "He was certainly a fool."

"Excuse me?" Obi-Wan blinks. "Were you just coming onto me? I thought we'd agreed there'd be none of--" His voice comes out in a woosh as you vault across the intervening space to land in his lap, legs straddling his. "Uhhh---I don't think . . ."

"Oh, I thought you asked me to come onto you," you say teasingly, crossing your arms over your chest. "I'm almost /convinced/ that that's what you said . . ." You shift a little, smiling innocently as he gets a little wide eyed.

"Are you always this funny when you're being yourself?" Obi-Wan drawls, grinning up at you. "You know, I rather prefer this side of you. Though I would appreciate it if you'd get out of my lap."

"I'm crushed," you state, pouting down at him. "I thought you loved me."

He stares at you uncertainly for a few moments, obviously trying to decide if you were serious. With a wide grin, you crawl out of his lap and throw yourself back onto the couch.

"That was called a joke, Jedi. If you're a fast learner, maybe we'll cover laughing before the night is over. Stick with me, I'll teach you all matter of things that Temple of yours doesn't know about."

"Oh really?" Obi-Wan grins back at you. "Like what."

"Well, since sex is out--and it's really too bad for you, honey, because I could teach you an awful lot about that--"

"You might be surprised," he inserts so softly that you aren't quite sure you heard it. The whispered throatiness of his voice hits you in the gut like a fist, driving the air out of your lungs for a few moments.

"--uhhh . . ." you continue finally, flailing about slightly.

"Yes?" he questions sweetly, enjoying your discomfort immensely.

Bastard.

"Well, since sex is out--we'll probably start with laughing. Maybe go on to things like 'fun', 'humor' . . . heck, if you're really smart, maybe I can even teach you what a party is."

"All by yourself?" Obi-Wan raises an eyebrow, making that damn adorable face of his even more adorable. "That's talent."

"Ooooh---was that a sense of humor poking through?" you demand, crossing your arms over your chest and glaring at him with mock fury. "Did I say you could skip ahead to such a dangerous lesson all by yourself? You're not ready for humor yet."

"Yes Master," Obi-Wan replies, his tone so deep and caressing that you feel your insides clench again.

Jarven was right. Damn him, he was right. Professional or not--you need to walk away.

Now.

Too bad you're having too much fun.

~*~
Part 4
~*~

Darkness is swirling around you, coaxing you up into warmth. There is
silk--marvelous against your back, cool and smooth as you twist slightly
against it, not wanting to move, but feeling the need to slide against the
fabric nonetheless. Reveling in the soft sounds of skin on silk.

Nervousness is out of place in your bedroom--but suddenly everything seems
horribly new. You can feel the fear climbing up your spine, wrapping around
you and making you shiver. Helpless . . . you're in the dark, and you are so
lost . . .

The air shifts behind you, and the bed dips slightly. You can feel his body
heat behind you, reaching for your and curling into the places that are
cold. Warming you. Burning you.

"You don't want this . . ." His voice is suddenly hesitant, and you can feel
his hand hovering above your shoulder. With sudden clarity you realize that
this is a dream--because you can see him even though you are not looking at
him.

And with the logic that comes with dreams, you reject it. His heat is too
tempting, the body you can see without looking is too hard . . . all
masculine angles and planes. He is pure sin . . . and so beautiful . . .

Clothing that you didn't realize you were wearing falls away at his touch,
and you throw yourself into this dream, knowing somewhere in the depth of
yourself that it may be all you can have of him. Rolling over, you stare up
into his eyes, marveling that they are even more beautiful now, staring down
at you with such aching tenderness.

"I do want it . . ." you reply softly, reaching up to run one finger down
his face. "Want it so much . . ."

"You're scared." He stretches lazily out on his side, head propped up on one
hand as the other draws lazy circles across your forehead, one callused
finger tracing over your eyebrow. "I don't want to hurt you."

"Love me?" You wince at the pitiful sound of your voice, tremulous and
wistful, like an innocent little girl and not the women you are . . . the
woman you see in daylight.

"Always." His mouth is so close to your cheek, the words push air against
you, caressing your face and making you shiver. One large hand slides down
your face to the back of your neck, fingers tangling in your hair as he cups
your head carefully. "Softly," he murmurs.

Lips descend to yours, a soft, barely there caress. They're dry and warm,
sliding against your own so carefully, as if you are something that will
break.

Silly man. Sliding your fingers up over his bare shoulders--were they bare
before? You can't remember--you curl fingers into the hair that suddenly
hangs free over his shoulders, pieces falling to caress your face. Pulling
his lips closer, you part your own and draw him into a kiss.

A real kiss.

Passion explodes around you with his first low groan, and it is as if the
floodgates have opened. From somewhere deep inside him it comes, drowning
you in feeling as the lips sliding across yours change. Gentleness fades
into possessiveness, his mouth forcing yours open and laying claim with
long, heated strokes from a talented tongue.

You whimper, twining fingers more tightly into his hair as your body pushes
up against his, the dream sweeping his clothing away until he is all hot
skin and hard muscle, pushing back down into you as he rolls his body more
fully atop you. "I--I'm afraid," he gasps, pulling back slightly only to nip
at the corner of your mouth with even teeth, drawing your upper lip into his
mouth and sucking.

"Of what?" you reply, voice every bit as breathless.

"Of you." Another kiss, this one so deep that you think you can feel him in
your soul . . .

. . . and he's gone, leaving you very aroused and very awake, lying in your
bed alone.

Throwing the covers back you let the cold air wash over you, chilling your
body as you struggle to get your raging emotions under control.

The predominant one is anger. Anger at yourself for getting suckered in by a
client when you knew better. Anger at him for being so likeable--so full of humor and fun. For being everything a Jedi should not be.

"Afraid," you mutter, shaking your head slowly. The dream was absurd--laughable, really. Obi-Wan Kenobi--afraid of you? That's as likely as you being a trembling innocent in the bedroom.

On the other hand . . . the remembered images of the dream wash over you, the feel of his hands on your skin, his mouth against yours. The incredible skill with which his fingers danced over your body . . .

It's that thought that slams your whirling mind to a halt.

Skillful?

A Jedi, skillful at sex? Where in the name of all that is holy did your mind dig up /that/ little fantasy. Jedi are cloistered from the time they are old enough to crawl--and brought up as some kind of warrior priest. Granted, he probably wasn't a virgin . . .

But the chances that he has had even half of your experience are slim.

Logic presents the answer almost immediately. All you have to do to banish these fanciful images is to prove the reality false. Tumble the Jedi, humor his bumbling clumsiness . . . maybe have a little fun. He's not unattractive, after all . . .

Your mind clings to that excuse as you plan your seduction. Just getting him out of your system. That's all. Nothing deeper.

Nothing at all.

~*~

It ended up being so much easier than you'd thought--and so much harder. The past week of frank debates and earnest conversation had drawn you together in many ways--dropping barriers that were probably better left erected.

You're sitting on the couch between his legs, legs drawn up to your chest and your cheek resting on your knees. Seduction is actually the last thing on your mind at the moment--nothing could break through the euphoric haze of feeling the tense muscles in your back loosen for the first time in months.

He hadn't lied when he'd modestly admitted being good with his hands. Sighing softly, you lean back into the slow caress, murmuring encouragement as his hands work the pain out of stiff muscles.

"What on earth did you do to get this tense?" he demands finally, both hands hovering over a tight knot in your left shoulder. "You're back is--"

"My living," you mutter, smiling slightly as his hands stop suddenly. Craning your neck, you can see the slightly shocked look on his face. "I'm sorry," you purr. "Did you not know that whores spend a lot of time on their backs?"

"I--" Warm hands clasp your head, pressing it back into your knees to give him access to your shoulder again. "I guess I wasn't thinking about it."

"Quite all right," you respond lightly, arching your back a little as his finger attack a particuarly viscous knot. His fingers dig in slightly, making slow circles as one thumb swipes out to tenderly soothe your neck. You shiver slightly at the touch--so innocent and yet so very erotic. Your former mission comes back to you in a rush--your body heating to his touch.

You let the slow massage go on for a while longer, until his hands have gentled on your back and you're practically purring under the feeling of strong fingers gliding over your body. He still is keeping his touch almost painfully professional--but there's not much that can stop the momentum of your budding lust now . . .

When his fingers brush your neck again you arch slowly backwards, your head falling to rest on his shoulder. Turning your head slightly you inhale the sent of him, face pressed into his neck.

"What--" his voice is low and husky, and for the first time you realize that you actually affect him as well. His body goes stiff as you press farther into him, shifting until your body is pressed against his, your face still buried against his neck.

"Shhhh . . ." you murmur softly, your body shivering as his hands come to your waist to steady you. You can tell he's still hesitant, his long fingers sliding nervously up your waist a little bit as he tries to push you away.

Your mouth slowly falls open, and you breath ever so lightly on the skin of his neck, pressing lips to the soft skin you find there. His chest heaves against you as his fingers spasm, sliding back down to your hips and hovering, as if he is unsure whether to push you away or pull you closer.

"I don't think--" You silence him with a swift nip, teeth closing on the skin of his neck gently. His body twitches again, hands tightening almost painfully on your sides.

"Don't . . ." you reply, lifting your head slowly. You're only inches from him, your breath feathering across his nose softly as he tilts his head up to yours. Silver green eyes stare at you languidly, confusion and doubt dancing in their depths. And underneath--something else. Something you don't quite recognize.

It doesn't matter. Confusion and doubt are not new to you--and there is one way to cure both of those. Letting your hands slide up the corded muscles of his neck, you thread your fingers through his hair, pulling his face to yours.

His lips are hot. Hot and dry and as responsive as hell. You've only barely touched them when they've slid open accommodatingly beneath your own, a hot tongue coming up to swipe slowly across your upper lip. The gesture makes you shiver, your hands tightening in his hair.

Obi-Wan groans, one hand drifting up your back, the other wrapping around you and pulling you off against him, throwing your balance off until the only reason you are upright is his arm locked like steel around your lower back.

His other hand reaches your neck, stroking up and down slowly, teasing the hair at the nape of your neck as he tilts his head and captures your lower lip between his teeth, sucking softly.

You let out a low moan, grasping desperately at the shreds of your mind. You were the one in control--you were the one doing the seducing. Desperate to regain the upper hand, you tilt your head, driving your tongue into his mouth and scraping it across his own. The low rumble of his chest vibrates against your own as the slippery warmth of his tongue chases yours back into your mouth, the wet heat stroking at the roof of your mouth, at your own tongue . . .

You're not sure who pushes back--you think it was him. You let out a low whine of protest at the lack of contact, at the loss of the incredible heat. The whine turns into a whimper as his hands tighten around your waist, and he groans as you arch towards him again.

He growls something--you're not sure what, and really you don't much care--and before you can draw another breath his mouth is on yours again. No tentativeness--no doubt. In one split second of rational thought you remind yourself to rethink every thought you've /ever/ had about Jedi . . .

His mouth is honeyed sweetness, sliding against yours as his hands pull you closer. Your mind keeps focusing in on the feeling of his hands, tight against your body, clenching with such carefully restrained power. Most of your clients are soft men--men of politics and talk. Their power is in government and money . . . things that rarely enter the bedroom.

You can /feel/ the power in this man, feel it in the press of long fingers against your lower back, feel it in the calluses, that are evident on this thumbs even through the thin fabric of your shirt. You can feel the muscles in his thighs tensing as he tries to drag you closer, the low rumbling in his chest vibrating against your chest and dragging open the door of desire that you'd long since thought closed permanently.

Just when the tangle of his tongue was so overbearing that you were sure you were drowning under the pleasure of it . . . just when his coaxing hands had finally urged your rocking hips flush against his own . . . just when your air was finally running out . . .

Then he stops. Those hands clench a final time on your hips, lifting you bodily away from his lap and setting you down on the couch. Before you can get your breath back he's thrown himself to his feet, pacing across the room to press his face against the glass of the window facing the night sky. You can see the trembling line of his back, the muscles clenched so tight in his shoulders that you ache in sympathy.

"That shouldn't happen again," he says lowly, not turning away from the window.

The words hit your gut like a fist, the air whooshing out of your lungs as your fingers dig into the cushions on either side of you.

It's not supposed to happen like this.

"Why not?" you say numbly, trying to cling desperately to your professional side. Trying to convince yourself that this is just a job.

"Because it shouldn't," is his reply, still spoken to the night sky. You can see his hand shaking as he clenches it into a fist before slowly releasing it. "It's not right."

"It felt right," you reply softly. A bitter laugh shakes free, and you almost snarl the next words. "Or have I lost my edge. I am supposedly rather skilled. That's why I get paid so much."

His shoulders stiffen at the mention of your pay, but you can sense determination leaking from every pore of the man. "It's not going to happen again."

"And if I want it to?"

"I'm sorry, Lady."

The reality of the situation hits you. He's serious. This isn't just some game--he's not teasing you. He's rejecting you. Just like that, he's saying no.

Pride refuses to let you back down.

"You're going to tell me you didn't enjoy that as much as I did?" you drawl, pouring every bit of deliberate mockery into your voice that you can muster.

"Lady, it won't happen again." His pain is evident, and you revel in it. He wants you--damn him. He must want you. No one could kiss like that--feel like that . . . and not be alive with passion.

Another bitter self-mocking laugh chokes in your throat. It doesn't matter if he wants your or not--he will not let himself have you.

And you know the reason. Oh, how you know it.

"Because I'm a whore."

"Because you're being paid." He finally turns to face you, and you can see the pity in his face. The hurt and the pain--and the pity . . . always pity.

"I'm not a victim." It's more of a plea than anything else. No matter how hard you try, you can't let go of the feeling of his hands on you, his lips on yours and his body underneath you. It's more than a job now--it's personal. You have to convince him--have to say something . . .

"I know." His tone is almost apologetic, and those eyes that gaze on your are so sad.

It take you a few moments to choke back your anger, and when you finally speak, it is from the heart . . . laying yourself bare. It is truth. "I want to."

"I know."

Two syllabyls . . . just two little words. They make you and break you at the same time. You can see the longing in his eyes . . . see the compassion and the pain. But the pity is still there--pity for what you are.

Pity for who you are.

"So it's because I'm a whore." You can't resist the attack, knowing it hurts him to have it flung in his face.

"Lady--" Obi-Wan moves slowly across the room, settling into the chair across from the couch. "I--"

"You don't want me because I'm a whore." Your eyes hold his, grinding him down. You will get him to admit this--you can make him see that he's just biased and blind and . . .

But he says nothing. Simply continues to look at you with those compassionate eyes.

The kind of eyes that a Jedi would turn on some lesser lifeform that he only wants to help. And with a pain so sharp you almost cry out, you realize the bitter truth of this relationship. Realize that he doesn't see you as an equal--that he never has. Realize that you've just been the latest diversion--an intelligent whore. Some circus act.

Realize that it will never be--because he is a Jedi, and you are a . . .

It's too much. Too much pain. You had actually thought--

Naïve fool. Standing up, you gather your cloak up and throw it over your shoulders. "I'm feeling tired. I'll retire now, with your leave."

"Are you coming back tomorrow?" Oh, the hope in his voice. He still wants you around to save. Wants to keep playing with his pet project, keep reminding himself what a good man he is. How kind and generous . . . how he humors street walkers into thinking they're actually something.

You gather the shreds of your pride around you, filling your tone with ice. "I don't know." Such slight revenge, watching the light in his eyes die. Not enough--not nearly enough.

"Why not?" He stands as well, green eyes narrowing in on you. The seem to be pleading--begging.

You'd pleaded too.

You stare at him, deliberately choosing the most hurtful thing possible to say. "It depends on my employer. The one who's paying me."

"I'm sorry--"

"I'm sure you are."

You can still see his stricken face as you let the door slam behind you.

Half way back to your rooms, you're sobbing.

~*~
Part 5
~*~

"Throw them away."

Jarven turns around, giving you a level look. "Excuse me?" he asks slowly, pacing back to your desk. "What did you say?"

"Throw them away," you repeat, gesturing to the flowers he had just dropped on your desk. A beautiful bouquet, really--but right now you are /definitely/ not interested.

"Do you have any idea how much flowers like these cost during the cold season?" Jarven asks, leaning down to pin you with an even look. "Did you even look to see who they are from?"

"I know who--" You snap your mouth shut at his knowing look, jaw clenched as you turn away.

"They're not from him," Jarven says gently, reaching out a hand to smooth a stray piece of hair back from your face. "Darling--"

"Don't." Snatching the flowers up, you obligingly look at the card, laughing mockingly as you scan the rather lengthy message. "Oh, now this is beautiful."

"Do tell," Jarven drawls, perching on the edge of your desk.

"From the King, of course. 'My dearest Lady and most celebrated subject--'" You laugh again, shaking your head. "He's laying it on thick here."

"What, exactly, is he laying on?" Jarven shifts, leaning over to snatch the card from your fingers. "It is with the most profound embarrassment that we extend our apologies in the matter of the troublesome diplomat," Jarven reads, his rich voice full of laughter. "The severance of your contract has been duly noted, and the ambassador informed of said severance. We feel most grievously--" Jarven breaks off. "Is that even a word? Grievously?"

"It is now," you reply, snagging the note back and finishing it off. "We feel most grievously for your pain, and in token of our well meant wishes, will be forwarding the fully agreed upon sum to your bank account. Please believe our assurances that this will never occur again."

Jarven grabs the note from you and waves it around. "He signed it by name!" he crows triumphantly. "Oh darling, you have it /made/. The King is apologizing to you."

"And paying me," you respond, shoving the flowers off to the side of your desk. "That's what matters." Your voice sounds dull and tired even in your own ears, and you wince as Jarven sits straight up. The man is a darling, of course--but sometimes you could wish he was a little less attentive to your moods and feelings.

"Are you okay?" he asks softly, sliding off the desk to walk around it, kneeling next to your chair. "I don't know what happened--but you can't convince me that he didn't hurt you. I don't know how yet--but he did."

"I was foolish," you sigh, trying to turn your chair away from him and glaring when he catches the arms, holding it steady. "Jarven, let me go. I told you that I'm fine. I just need a few days off."

"You need more than that," Jarven responds cryptically.

"What I need right now . . ." you say quickly, hoping to forestall any lectures. Jarven has expressed himself more than once on the need for you to socialize with the opposite sex on a more personal level, and you're not quite sure you can deal with another of his dissertations on the mating habits of humanoids, and how you needed to get out more and do it for fun.

"What you need right now . . ." Jarven prompts when the silence has gone on too long.

"What I need right now is a night out. Can we go to a club?" It's not what you had planned on saying--but something tells you that Jarven is going to pester you until you show signs of recovery. Might as well get it over with now, so you can wallow in your own indulgent self pity later.

Because that's what you'll be doing, really, and you know it.

"I'd love to," he responds quickly, leaning forward to place a chaste kiss on your forehead. "Would you like me to come and pick you up tonight?"

"Please," you respond softly, already dreading the night ahead.

~*~

"I'm going to go get a drink. Would you like something?"

You can barely hear Jarven over the music, but you know what he's asking. He's asked it seven or eight times in the last hour--and you've said no every single time. He hasn't, unfortunately, leaving you with a slightly inebriated date who wants to get out on the dance floor and shake his stuff.

You'd rather be dragged across a bed of hot coals. Naked.

"You go ahead. I'll stay here." Waving to Jarven, you huddle farther back into the corner, trusting the shadows to keep you hidden. You hate places like this--have hated them for a long, long time. This is where you used to spend the nights picking up clients, and no matter how many times you remind yourself that you'll never be back here, you just can't seem to shake the feeling.

"Good Evening."

You start at the sudden voice, dragging out up from your musings. It's so familiar--so silken and warm sliding across your senses.

And the absolute /last/ thing you want to hear.

"Get lost," you snap, refusing to even look up and acknowledge his presence. "What, did you follow me here like a lost puppy? If you wanted a whore so bad, you could have had me when I offered. Go find someone else--King's not paying anymore, and you can't afford to fuck me."

You can almost hear him grinding his teeth together. You can picture how he looks in your mind--standing there slightly behind you and fuming. When he speaks again, though, his voice is remarkably calm. "I'm trying to be polite. You could too."

"Don't bother, and I won't either." Reaching for the drink that has been sitting in front of you all evening, you take a long swig. "Just go away."

"We could at least be civil to each other," he says, and you can hear the pleading in his voice. Oh, he wants this. Wants to make everything right so he can traipse off to his next planet and his next project, knowing he made everything good with the whore on G'ilantha.

Tough shit for him. "Why?" you reply, voice bored.

"Because I wanted to apologize." His voice is actually sincere--damn him. So sincere that you almost turn to look at his face . . . almost. You remember too well what happened last time you let those pretty eye suck you in.

"Apologize for being a bastard, or apologize for acting like one?" you question sweetly. "Or maybe you could just apologize for being you. That should cover a few more bases."

"I'm sorry," he says softly. So softly. Too softly. Your throat chokes up, and you're forced to swallow sudden tears with another swig of the fiery alcohol Jarven had procured for you at the beginning of the evening.

"Am I bothering you?" he asks finally when the silence has gone on too long for his liking.

You let out a bitter laugh, finally turning to look at him. For a few moments your breathless--he's dressed in black and silver. All black and silver. Mindnumbingly tight black and silver . . .

Your mouth goes dry, and the smart assed remark you snap back sounds far too weak in your own ears. "Was that some kind of brilliant Jedi trick? Your powers of deduction astound me."

"I just thought--" His eyes meet yours, burning you. He's so sincere--so serious.

So damn Jedi.

"What?" you snap, impatient suddenly. You can't let him play you again--and if he stands there much longer burning you with the heat of his body, you're going to go mad.

"That . . . that we cold be friends." Oh, so it /was/ a little Jedi game. 'Let's make friends'. Something equally stupid--equally naïve. He only compounds his idiocy when he continues to speak, voice halting. "We--we . . . had a lot in common--"

"Sod off."

"Excuse me?" Oh, that shut him up good. You can see the confusion in his eyes--poor bastard probably isn't used to being turned down so smartly.

It's his turn to get rejected, and you revel in the power. "Sod off," you repeat, giving him a sweet smile. "You know what it means, right?"

"I really don't think--"

"Listen, Jedi," you snarl, standing suddenly so that your face is more on level with his. "We have nothing in common. I'm a whore, you're a moral avenger. I have a personality, you're so stiff you can't sit down. I've got a heart, you're just a hypocritical bastard."

"Anything else?" His eyes go dull with pain, and you have all you can do not to crow triumphantly. All you can do not to dance around in victory.

All you can do not to crawl off into the corner and cry.

So of course, you twist the knife deeper. "Yeah. I'm human, and you're--"

"Jedi." He makes it sound like a curse somehow.

"You got it." You smile again, this time anything but sweetly.

"I wish you'd just listen to me for a moment," Obi-Wan says softly, his eyes flickering over your face. If you didn't know better, you'd swear he was close to crying. Your throat clogs up again, and you realize with sudden clarity that you have to get him away from you before you do something stupid.

"Look, Jedi--" you begin, but he cuts you off with a harsh growl.

"I'd appreciate it if you'd stop that," he snarls, his composed demeanor dropping away suddenly.

"Stop what?" you ask, actually confused.

He leans down, placing his face only a few inches from yours. "I wouldn't say, 'Look, whore' to you. Afford me the same courtesy."

You pull back, nearly stumbling over your chair in your haste to escape the heat flowing from him. It's so tempting--so beautiful. "I think there is a slight difference between being called a Jedi and being called a whore," you stutter, your wits scattered as he shoves the chair aside and advances towards you again.

Franticaly you glance over the dance floor, trying to find Jarven. He's nowhere to be found, and your eyes are drawn back to Obi-Wan as he stalks closer, driving you back into the wall.

"What is the difference?" he purrs. "What's the difference between being called a Jedi and being called a whore?"

"Jedi are respected," you stutter, wincing as his breath floats down across your forehead. Your entire body aches for him--aches for the heat that is so close.

"Not everywhere," he responds softly, lowering his head more so that his eyes are level with your own.

"More than whores." You almost groan as your voice comes out as a whimper. You start to slide sideways along the wall, hoping to escape him, but one large hand slaps down onto the wall beside your head, blocking your escape path.

His voice is definitely a purr now. "Sometimes," he agrees, eyes pinning yours to the wall.

"Stop trying to change the subject," you demand, starting to inch the other way. He's leaning into you now, body almost touching you. You choke back a sigh as he lifts his free hand to trace one finger down the side of your bruised cheek.

"Can we start over?" he asks softly.

You roll your eyes wildly to the side, trying to find any escape route. "I don't know," you temporize, trying to buy time. You need to get away--need to . . .

Need to have him.

"I like you." The low comment echoes in your bones, and suddenly you're furious. You had /offered/ yourself to this man . . . begged him to take you . . .

"Tough for you," you snap, gathering your anger around you like a shield. There has to be a reason behind this change . . . something that will make it all clear.

Obi-Wan leans closer, his lips just barely hovering over your forehead. Leaning forward slightly, he places a slow kiss to your temple, lips opening enough to admit a teasing stroke from his tongue. "I like you," he murmurs against your skin, breath making you shiver.

You have to say something to stop him. "I'm a whore."

"Not anymore," he purrs, lips sliding down to catch brush a soft caress against your earlobe. "I care for you . . . I do . . ."

With a flash of understanding, your lust turns to blind rage. The bastard only wants you now because you're not on contract anymore. He can fuck you and not worry his high and mighty morals about things like paying for sex.

It isn't about you. It's still all about him.

You hardly know what's happening. One second you're standing there, quivering with rage . . .

The next thing you know you've pulled your fist back and delivered a punch to the end of that perfect chin that will be talked about for years.

Just your luck the Peacekeeper chose that moment to look your way.

~*~

If they knew you could hear their voices, they'd probably be speaking more quietly. As it is, your little jail cell is directly next to the Chief of Justice's office, and Kenobi is making no attempt to keep his voice down.

"I said that I refuse to press charges!"

"You're a diplomat, Sir Jedi. She assaulted you. There are very strict laws concerning such behavior."

"It wasn't her fault."

"You're trying to tell me that someone else punched you?"

"No, she hit me--"

"Then she'll be in jail for the next three moons. That's the way it happens, Sir Ambassador. I must admit, this is most unusual. You are the first Ambassador who has complained of our strict rules regarding your protection."

"I made her hit me."

"You made her, sir? And how exactly did you do that?"

"I--I was forcing myself on her."

There's a long pause before the Chief Justice speaks again. "Are you trying to turn yourself in on an attempted rape charge, Ambassador?"

"No!"

"Then you didn't force her."

"I thought she--she wanted it."

"Then why do you think you forced her?"

"Because she didn't."

"Sir Ambassador, you will have to speak plainly. Did she want it or not?"

"No, she didn't."

"Did you know this?"

"Not at first . . ." There's a soft chuckle. "She did make it pretty clear though."

"She attacked an Ambassador of the Senate."

"I told you I provoked her!"

"Sir Ambassador, let me warn you that your status will not protect you from local justice if you are accused of rape. Our laws on such things are the strictest in the galaxy."

"I never would have pushed her that far. I'm just saying--"

"You're saying an awful lot, Ambassador. I'd advise you to think carefully about what you would like to claim. A few months in jail won't hurt her, but execution for attempted rape will definitely hurt you."

"You can't leave her languishing in jail because I made a mistake!"

"I--"

"You /can't/ leave her languishing in jail because I made a mistake."

"I can't leave her languishing in jail because you made a mistake."

"It's time for her to leave."

"I think it's time she left."

"I can escort her home."

"You'll just escort her home."

You're still staring in shock when the slightly dazed looking Chief Justice unlocks your cell and hands you your belongings back, gesturing absently for you to leave.

It's not an invitation you're likely to turn down. Ignoring Kenobi, you bolt for the door.

He catches up to you a few steps outside. "I'm sorry," he says quickly. "I'll make sure that this doesn't cause you any more problems."

"Better worry about yourself," you snap, spinning on him. "You think I don't know what you just did." Waving your hand in the air, you roll your eyes. "You're not the first Jedi I've met, you know. And this--" you wave your hand again in front of his face, "--is really hard to miss."

"Not if it's done correctly," he responds calmly. "Look, I said I was sorry--"

"Well I'm not." Reaching up, you pat the rising bruise on his chin. "Looks good on you. Now leave me the hell alone."

"But--"

Ignoring his entreating stare, you spin on your heels and march away, leaving Obi-Wan Kenobi sputtering in the street behind you.

~*~
Part 6
~*~

"You didn't," Jarven moans, head falling into his hands. Looking up again, he catches your eyes. "/Please/ tell me you didn't."

"You asked," you mutter, turning around and stalking towards the other side of your office. "And he had it coming anyway, arrogant bastard."

"You--you /punched/ a Jedi Knight? Is that even /possible/? I thought they were warriors or something . . ."

"This one had his mind on something else," you reply primly. "And I don't think he was expecting me to respond in such a manner."

"I should hope not," Jarven retorts. "Let's not have it getting around that you like to assault clients, dear. Most of your clients are wishy-washy enough to be scared of idle threats."

"He deserved it. I only punch men who deserve it." You pull a key from a ring on your belt and unlock a large file cabinet in the corner, digging through your files.

"What are you looking for?" Jarven asks suddenly, his voice narrow with suspiscion. "You're not--"

You crow triumphantly as you find the file you were looking for, striding back to your desk and dropping it on the table. "I kept the files on my favorites updated," you purr softly. "And this little boy's grown up to have some power."

Jarven groans. "Please tell me you're not going to do something stupid," he begs, staring at the file on your desk like it's going to leap up and bite him.

You flip open the cover and stare at the picture inside--a dark, handsome man dressed in Jedi robes. "I just think maybe it's time I checked up on dear little Mace. I haven't spoken to him in quite some time."

Jarven sinks his face back into his hands again.

~*~

Of course, nothing ever goes as planned. You had wanted to simply tweak Obi-Wan's ego a little, maybe embarrass him in front of a superior. Mace's reaction is not at all what you had expected--and suddenly you're afraid you've done something horribly wrong.

"Can you please tell me exactly what happened?" Mace asks, his face suddenly closed as you stare at the projection on your vidscreen. "I need to know--"

"What do you need to know?" you question quickly, hands tightening on the arms of the chair. From laughing and joking with you, Mace has suddenly gone deadly serious.

"If Ob--if Jedi Kenobi is showing any signs of strain or unusual behavior, I need to know at once."

"Oh, I wouldn't call it unusual," you respond quickly. "You know--typical Jedi stuff. All morals and ethics and that kind of thing. Hardly unusual." Damn, you've gone from attacking him to defending him in a matter of minutes--but you don't like the look in Mace's eyes. Not at all.

"Has he done anything that seems like a compromise of Jedi morals?" Mace leans forward slightly, his eyes intent. "Please, dear one. You /must/ tell me. The fate of something much greater than I can possibly explain rests on this."

"He--" Mace's eyes on you flusters you slightly, and you flail for a way out of the situation you tumbled into. "Well, he did use the trick."

"The trick?" Mace inquires softly, one eyebrow shooting up.

"You know--" Waving your hand about in a vague gesture, you bite your lip. "That one. The one where you--"

"Control people's thoughts," Mace says grimly. "Thank you for telling me."

"It's not that big a deal, Mace," you say hastily. "It--He was doing it to protect me."

"Ohhh?" You can tell by the polite tone that Mace doesn't believe you.

"I--" Now you're going to have to admit your behavior--but you hadn't intended on getting Obi-Wan in trouble. Not the kind of trouble you see in Mace's eyes. "I punched him. He was trying to get me out of jail."

"You punched him." Both of Mace's eyebrows shoot up now. "Why on earth did you do that?"

"He--" Now you're /really/ in trouble . . . there's nothing you can say without it sounding incriminating. "Nothing. It was my own fault. I was just angry."

"Did he--" Mace's eyes flicker over your own. "He tried to force you."

"No!" Your denial comes a fraction too late.

"Darling--do not try to hide things from me." Mace heaves a low sigh, shaking his head slightly. "Kenobi was a good man, but some very bad things have happened to him lately, and there are some on the Council who are looking for an excuse to remove him from the Order. We're not quite sure he's completely--stable."

"What--" your mind reels. You've read his file--it didn't say /anything/ in it about recent tragedy. Whatever it is must still be known to those at the Temple alone.

"His Padawan turned," Mace says softly, eyes catching and holding yours. "You are one of the few outside the Temple who know. His Padawan turned, and we're not sure if Kenobi himself managed to remain free of taint. He has been--been brooding lately. It is understandable, of course, and one of the reasons I sent him on the mission he is on now. I thought he needed a distraction . . . but if what you say is true."

"He didn't do anything," you repeat quickly. "I--I made a move on him first, Mace. It wasn't his fault."

"It doesn't matter. Someone needs to find out what he is doing now--before the more volatile members of the Council grasp this as an excuse to remove him." Mace shakes his head slowly. "I will come there--or send someone I can trust. I promise I won't turn him over to the Council yet . . . but we need to be sure. He has too much power--too much public recognition. If he decided to use it to further the cause of the Dark . . ."

You shiver slightly, thinking about that magnetism. Kenobi could make you step from a cliff and enjoy it when he's looking at you . . .

He could turn you to the Dark Side and make you grateful.

"Please come, Mace," you whisper. "I'm scared."

"I'll be there."

Long after the transmission ends, you sit huddled in on yourself, shaking slightly.

Who is Kenobi?

And what kind of power does he have over you . . .

~*~

He's tried to contact you three times. The first two, you pretended you weren't there. The third time Jarven was in the office, and from the heated discussion you heard in the hallway, he told Kenobi in no uncertain terms that his presence was not welcome.

Four days since you talked to Mace--and your entire world has somehow been twisted. You've barely slept, hardly eaten, and have spent more time pacing and pulling your hair than actually living.

Your mind just refuses to wrap itself around the concept that Kenobi might actually be a bad person. Arrogant, yes. Irrefutably Jedi-esque, and so morally upstanding that he needs a good kick in the ribs.

Evil? The sun would melt the snows of Hoth first. He is clean fire--pure fire. Light.

Jarven walks by and grabs your wrist, pulling your hand away from your mouth absently. "Stop biting your fingernails. You've hardly got any left as it is."

"Has--"

"No, he hasn't come back. And no, Mace has not arrived yet." Jarven turns and comes back to your side, grasping your face between cool hands. "Are you going to be all right?"

"Of course," you snap quickly, wrenching your face away. "I--"

You're interrupted by the sound of the door hissing silently open. Turning, you catch sight of Mace Windu stepping slowly through, looking so much older than the last time you saw him.

"M-mace?" You can't help it. Your voice starts to tremble, and before you know it you're half way across the room, trembling in Mace's arms. "What did he do to me?" you wail, sinking your face into his robe and clutching it with weak fingers.

Warm hands come to brace your shoulders, pushing you back slightly. Mace's brown eyes sweep over your face, searching your eyes for something . . . you're not quite sure what.

"Did he--"

"No."

"Was he going to--"

"Mace." You push back slightly, shaking your head. "No. He--he didn't . . ." You try to swallow, finding your throat too dry. "Mace."

"I've never seen you like this," he whispers. "You're totally distraught."

"I've never seen her like this either," Jarven snaps from where he's lounging against the wall, arms crossed over her chest. "I don't know who this Kenobi is, but I want his head."

"If what I fear is true," Mace says slowly, pinning Jarven to the wall with a look, "then it would be your head. You wouldn't stand a chance."

"What you fear . . ." you echo, eyes going wide. "Mace--"

Mace looks twice his age, tired and frightened. "If Kenobi has turned to the Dark, I must fear for us all. He is--he is unusually strong. Stronger than any other living Jedi. The only one who matches his power . . ." Mace lifts a hand to slide slowly across his eyes. "Well, the kind of help we'd get from Anakin would not be the kind of help we want."

You tangle your fingers in Mace's robes, bringing his attention back to you. "Mace--you must believe me. Obi-Wan is not evil. He hasn't turned. I know . . ." Shaking your head slightly, you pull away from Mace, pacing across the room. "Let me talk to him first--let me explain--"

Mace is at your side again in an instant, hands rough as he spins you to face him. "You are not to go near him," he rumbles lowly, eyes burning into you. "Do you understand me? Do. Not. Go. Near. Him." Each word is punctuated by a soft shake, Mace's hands tightening on your shoulders.

"He's right," Jarven snaps from the corner. "Don't get near him, love. Don't even think about it."

"I can do what I want," you snarl, pulling away from Mace again. "Don't tell me--"

Jarven grabs you this time, propelling you back into the wall. "I know you hate being ordered around," Jarven hisses lowly. "But if you make me even suspect that you're going to get near him, I'll chain you to the bed. Until we know if he's dangerous, I want you clear of him." Before you can snap at him, Jarven pulls you forwards into a rough hug. "I care so much," he whispers into your hair. "Don't let him hurt you anymore."

Even as you agree, you know that you it is a promise you will not be able to keep.

~*~

One week later, you've had enough of restrictions. Mace assured you the first day that although Kenobi was clean of taint, he was still unbalanced enough to be dangerous. Jarven threatened you within an inch of your life . . . swearing numerous terrifying punishments if you got anywhere near Obi-Wan.

You can't help yourself. He's in your blood--in your blood and in your dreams and your thoughts. All you can think about is Obi-Wan . . . alone and hurting. Desperate for human companionship.

He screwed up with you. Fine. He apologized--and that's why they invented forgiveness, right?

"They invented forgiveness so women can still tumble the sexy men who don't know how to treat them." You say it outloud, just to assure yourself that you are, indeed, insane.

You are.

You don't care though. As you pull on your dark pants and tunic, sweeping your hair into a sloppy ponytail, all you can think of is him. Lying alone in his bed, hurting and needing someone . . . Needing you.

Getting you. Having you. Taking you . . .

Your body shivers as you glance in the mirror, scowling at your appearance. Drab, boring . . . no makeup or pretty clothes to hide the wallflower that lurks beneath your self-assured act.

What if he refuses you?

It's a thought you refuse to consider. Turning the lights off, you slip silently out the door, padding carefully down the hallways. You had spent the last few nights in your rooms in the palace, knowing that eventually you would take this step.

One or two servants nod to you on your way to Kenobi's rooms, but no one spares you a second glance. Getting past the guards to Kenobi's hallway is easy, a smile and a flash of your 'Personal Entertainer' card has gotten you into heavily guarded fortresses. Getting to one lonely diplomat is no problem at all.

His door, predictably, is locked. You knock softly, not wanting to attract the attention of the guards and thus put them on alert that you weren't exactly expected. Glancing behind you furtively, you reach into your pocket and pull out a hairpin.

You used to pick locks in your old house all the time. How different could this one be?

You're making fairly good progress when the door opens, taking the lock and the hairpin with it. You're left kneeling in the hallways, hands flailing through the suddenly empty air until they land on a pair of--

--black clad hips--

The world goes fuzzy as you realize exactly who--and what--you're staring at. For some reason you can't look upwards, your eyes fixed to the black pants hanging low on the trim waist, revealing the faintest dusting of golden hair trailing down into the loose waistband. Your fingers are resting on the side of a pair of /very/ well muscled thighs . . . and you can't resist the temptation to slide them down slightly, feeling the quivering muscles jump.

"What are you doing?" His normally cultured voice comes out in a shocked hiss, breaking the spell you were under and urging your gaze upwards.

"Picking your lock," you mutter numbly, your eyes trailing over the golden expanse of a bare chest before climbing the muscles of his neck to rest on his face.

He looks like hell. His hair is disheveled, sticking out in all directions as if it were a particularly bad thatching job. His face is shadowed with what is too long to be stubble, but certainly not a beard. Dark crescents are sunken deep beneath bloodshot eyes. His hands are gripping the doorframe as if it is all that is keeping him upwards.

Suddenly, more than anything in the world, you want to hold him.

So you do. Gliding to your feet, you wrap your arms around him. His entire body trembles, one arm releasing the doorframe to slide around your back as he sinks his face into your shoulder.

"I'm not supposed to see you," he mutters, voice tired.

"Tough shit for them," you reply, but all the snap leaves your voice as you carefully smooth his hair down, running your fingers through the loose tangles.

"You're not supposed to be around me," he sighs, his head arching slightly into your touch as you continue to run gentle fingers through his hair.

"Have you ever known me to do what I'm told?" you ask softly. Your hands coax his face up, one finger running down the side of a stubbled cheek. "I want to be here."

"Why?" he asks plantivly. You can see his eyes flickering over your face, see the confusion and pain. "You hate me."

"No . . ." Planting one hand on his chest, you push him gently backwards into his room. Your foot catches the door and slams it shut behind you, leaving the two of you standing in semi-gloom. "I want you."

"Is that why you punched me?" he asks, a half-hearted attempt at humor. Your heart twists as you realize that you actually hurt this man.

"I punched you because I didn't think you wanted me." Dropping your hand, you take a step back, your hands trembling. "Because--"

"Because?" he prompts, eyes burning into you in the dark room.

You don't answer. Not with words. Lifting your hands, your trembling fingers undo the buttons down the front of your baggy shirt, letting it slide from your shoulders in a puddle. The skin-tight sleeveless does little more than emphasize what it's hiding--and you're sure you can feel the burn as his hungry eyes slide over you.

He takes one purposeful step forwards, eyes gleaming.

And then he stops, damn him.

"Don't--don't you even /think/ about it," you snap, hands on your hips. "I can't /take/ any more of this Jedi hero shit!"

"I--" his voice comes out as a husky purr, and he clears his throat self-consciously. "I was just going to make sure this is what you really want."

"I'm stripping in your room, and you're worried about mixed signals?" You blink once at him, shaking your head. "What, do a lot of women come into your room and take off their clothing without wanting to jump your bones?"

"I--"

"Actually, your bones would be a whole lot /more/ jumpable if you bathed," you continue on, deliberately ignoring the dangerous look in his eyes. It's the kind of danger you recognize--the good kind of danger. Passion.

"Bathed?" he repeats slowly, taking a slow step forwards.

"You know, got in some water. Washed yourself. Maybe shaved." He's close enough now, so you reach up and pat his stubbled cheek. "It's an interesting look, Kenobi--but I don't know if it'll ever be the height of style."

Warm hands grasp your head, tilting it back as he lowers his cheek carefully to brush over your neck. It is all you can do not to squirm as the ticklish stubble rubs slowly over sensitive nerves, making you want to giggle and writhe and scream. All you can do is whimper.

One hand slides behind your head, cupping the base of your neck as his cheek slides up over yours until his lips are posed over your ear.

"Imagine," he purrs, his breath tickling your skin. "Imagine what it's going to feel like, when that is rubbing against your legs--" his words trail off as he presses a heated kiss to the skin under your ear.

Smiling at your low moan, he slides slowly down to his knees, pressing a kiss against your clothed stomach. "Against your breasts," he purrs, staring up at you with hooded green eyes. His mouth slides down over your baggy pants, stopping just below the waistband on your left leg. He opens his mouth and breathes, the moist hot air penetrating the thin fabric easily. Smiling, he presses an opened mouth kiss to your inner thigh. "Against this skin right here . . ."

You are going to fall over. That's all there is to it. Grasping locks of his hair with your fingers, you pull him to his feet. "All talk, Jedi?" you growl, pushing your body into his.

"When's the last time someone made love to you?" he asks softly, green eyes flickering over your face.

"I thought we'd gone over this part before," you exclaim, exasperated. "I'm a whore, Kenobi. I get a lot."

"When's the last time someone made love to you?" he repeats, thumb snaking down across your cheek to caress the skin of your neck carefully.

"I. Am. A. Whore." Can't make it much clearer than that, can you?

"That means you make love to people," Obi-Wan responds patiently, his other hand sliding up to clasp your head again. Lowering his face until his nose brushes yours, he smiles. "When's the last time someone made love /to you/?"

"I--" your thought is being robbed by the way his body rubs against your, hard and long and wanting you . . . it's a heady feeling. An addictive feeling. "I don't know," you gasp out.

Warm slips slide across yours with aching tenderness for a few moments. Kenobi pulls back, sliding his cheek down yours until he can speak in your ear again. "Let me change that," he begs, body tight against your own.

"Yes," you breathe.

And then he's moving--taking you somewhere. But you can't find it in yourself to care as the darkness of the room sweeps you up, carrying you along until there is nothing but heat and him . . . his musky scent and the sound of his staggered breathing.

It's only when your back hits the bed that your realize that no one has ever made love to you before.

~*~

~*~
Part 7
~*~

Pain does something strange to people. Turns them away from what they are, warps them into something else. As Obi-Wan lowers himself slowly beside you, you feel a sudden flash of nervousness.

A whore. Nervous about sex. Wonders never cease.

He is heartbreakingly tender as he shifts onto his side, one leg sliding slowly over yours as his arm creeps across your chest, wrapping you in a light, protective embrace. The tiniest nuances catch your wavering attention--the feel of the hot skin of his shoulder against your bare arm, the feel of his fingertips as they slide down your arm before entwining carefully with your own. His soft breath against the side of your face as he closes his eyes and sinks his head into your neck, inhaling slowly.

"I'm afraid," he murmurs, and the echoes of your dream come back. Turning to your side, you thread one leg between his slowly, letting your arm slide around his waist, pulling yourself to him.

"What of?" you breathe softly, raising your face to brush slowly against his chin.

"Of myself. Of you." Pulling one hand free, he gestures around you. "Of this. Afraid that I won't get it right."

"Get what right?" Shifting back slightly, you begin to trace the line of his collarbone with one fingernail, feeling the trembling muscles of his chest as he shivers.

"The things I want to do to you," he says lowly, voice husky. "I--I had these dreams. These childish fantasies." The hand at your hip slides up to cup your face as he rolls you over slowly, propping himself up on one arm and staring down at you. "I wanted to give you so much. Give to you what all the men take from you."

"Give me yourself," you reply softly, reaching up to feather light touches across his eyebrow. "That's all I need."

He groans softly as your fingers slide over your cheek, his eyes falling shut. Turning his head, he presses soft kisses to your fingers, sliding hot lips to your palm and kissing it lingeringly. "It's not enough," he whispers against your hand. "I'm--I'm not what I once was."

"Please," you whisper, using your hand to turn his face back to you. Green eyes slide open, and he stares down at you softly. "You can give me something no one else has. You can make love to me." You smile slightly as his breath hitches, his chest trembling against your body. Tangling hands in his hair, you pull his face down to yours, speaking the words against his cheek. "Make love to me, Obi-Wan. Please . . ."

His mouth brushes your temple, a lingering kiss that takes your breath away in its tenderness. Names and titles and ranks and jobs all sweep away in the rush of overpowering need, and suddenly you are no more a whore than he is, and he is just a man, nothing more.

A man who growls low in his throat as you bend one knee slowly, sliding it between his legs and rubbing his wakening erection against your thigh. His lips falls open, and he presses his open mouth against your cheek as he groans slightly, hands tightening in your hair.

"No," he whispers suddenly, rolling off you and rising to his knees. For a moment you flail, afraid that he is leaving--afraid that this was all some horrid joke. You scramble to your knees as well, facing him, eyes brimming with tears.

"Obi-Wan--" you whimper, hating yourself for the depth of your need. If he pulls back now--

"Shhhh," he replies quickly, sliding forward until his knees are touching yours. His hands clasp your head again, drawing you in for a deep kiss. You can tell he is pouring ever ounce of skill and talent into it--teeth and lips and tongue all meshing into a frighteningly powerful dance that steals thought and reason from your mind. He is heat and need and light, and for a giddy moment you're convinced that the strength of his taste is enough to intoxicate you.

You barely realize he's pulled back until he speaks against your cheek. "I'm not leaving--I promise I'm not leaving. I just--" He inhales slightly, his breathing staggered, and exhales on a moan. "You have no idea what you do to me. You make me wild. You take away all my restraints--all the control that makes me a Jedi." Another slow breath, and he slides up to look into your eyes. "You get under my skin like no one else ever has."

You try to answer, but your voice only comes out in a harsh moan. Sliding fingers into his hair, you drag his face to yours, kissing him with all the need that has been building in you for so long. He groans in response, arms sliding down around your waist to clutch at your upper thighs, lifting you slightly and crushing you against him.

For an endless moment you simply stay there, rocking gently against each other as you kiss hard enough to touch your souls. Slowly, very slowly, Obi-Wan draws the intensity back, pulling back to feather kisses along your jaw before resuming a slower, more gentle kiss. "Not too fast," he murmurs against your lips, teeth grasping at your lower lip and tugging gently.

Still kneeling, Obi-Wan sinks back to sit on his heels, pushing on your shoulders until you do the same. Smiling slightly, he reaches out to run one hand down the side of your face. "Do you trust me?"

"I--I think so," you whisper, arching your face into his palm. He rumbles deep in his chest as your lips tease his skin softly, teeth nipping at one finger. When you continue, your voice is almost trembling. "I don't want to, but I do."

Warm hands coax you back into the mattress, stretching out your legs slowly. "I will never, ever hurt you," he whispers softly. "I just--I need to love you. Touch you and feel you . . ." One hand slides over your still clothed torso, moving in slow, gentle caresses. "I need to prove to myself that I can still--"

"Still what?" you whisper when the silence has gone on too long. Raising one hand, you tilt his chin up so you can see his eyes.

Green, bright--and full of tears.

"That I can still give," he replies slowly, sinking his face into your neck. "They took so much from me--so much that I would have given if they had just asked. Everyone I loved is gone--and those who I could love now . . . they don't trust me. I failed them."

Your heart aches at the quiet words, spoken so simply. Pushing him over to his back, you lean over him, smiling as his eyes slide open. "I trust you," you say simply, leaning down to kiss the lingering tears from his cheeks. "And . . ."

"Yes?" He smiles slightly, transforming his face to breathtaking.

"The only thing you've failed to do so far is get my clothes off."

Obi-Wan's eyes go narrow, and the look he gives you shoots daggers of lightening into your spine. "Sit up," he whispers softly.

Obeying, you slide between his legs, turning so your back is to him. You feel the shifting behind you as he slides into a sitting position, leaning against the headboard. His hands land on your shoulders, coaxing you back until you're seated snug between his legs.

Hands slide slowly around your body, resting on your stomach gently as his right knee rises, leaving you surrounded by his body. The unsteady rise and fall of his chest is clear against your back, your thin undershirt doing nothing to conceal the heat of his naked chest. A slow shiver rockets down your spine, coinciding with the first explorations of his hands.

One large hand stays splayed across your abdomen, holding you against his body. The other creeps slowly up to cup your cloth covered breast, thumb making slow sweeps up the tender side.

You let your head fall back to his shoulder, breathing in the scent of him as you turn your face slightly towards his neck. "Obi-Wan?" you whisper softly.

"Yes?" The hand on your abdomen moves slowly, fingers creeping under the edge of your shirt and coaxing it up ever so slightly.

"Can't you go faster?" you sigh as his warm hand slides up across the skin of your stomach, circling lazily.

"Slow," is his response, murmured into your hair. The hand on your breast slides up to glide across the skin of your neck, slow deliberate caresses. "Can't miss anything."

You gasp slightly as the hand under your shirt skirts the underside of your breast, fingers touching the heated skin for the first time. Rocking your body slightly, you feel the blinding heat of his desire against your hip, already so hard that your mind shies away from the thought of how much control this man must have to be so slow in the face of such need.

"You are so much more important," he groans against your neck as if he had heard your thought--which he probably did. You can feel both his hands trembling suddenly, the one cupping your breast twitching as fingers zero in on your aching nipple. You moan as he pulls skillfully on the swollen bud, callused thumb rubbing up and down the side of your breast.

The hand touching your stomach curls slightly, catching the hem of your shirt. Behind you he shifts, pushing warm lips against the back of your neck as he urges you to sit forward slightly. The hand teasing your breast slides down your side, grasping the other side of your shirt as he slowly--so painfully slowly--begins to pull it up your body.

He pauses for a moment to nuzzle the skin of your hair aside with his nose, giving him access to the tender skin at the back of your neck. You can /feel/ his lips curling into a smile against your skin as you moan slightly, letting your head fall forward and arching your neck up into his lingering caress.

You shiver as his hands trail up your sides, taking your shirt with them. It has been longer than you can remember--if indeed it ever happened--since someone took this kind of time and care with you. Somehow, through some mystical talent, this man is building responses into you . . . convincing your body to react in ways long since forgotten. How long since the touch of hands on your skin could arouse you so?

And aroused you are--mind spinning and body aching. His fingers span out to brush the sides of your breast as he eases the shirt over the curves, the fabric tickling as it drags over the sensitive flesh.

The hot mouth on your neck shifts to your shoulder, running slow kisses up the skin of your left arm as he pulls it up, dragging the shirt slowly over your head. You feel him shift behind you, legs drawing back until he is kneeling. His mouth continues to run up your arm, rough tongue dragging slightly against heated skin.

It seems like weeks before the fabric of your shirt finally passes your fingertips. Obi-Wan snatches it up and tosses it away, fingers returning quickly to entwine with your own. He presses his open mouth to the back of your hand as he slowly lowers the other arm, sliding his mouth down your wrist and turning it over to press a lingering kiss to your franticly racing pulse.

Slowly, so slowly, Obi-Wan resumes his former position, hands burning on your skin as he pulls you back to him, the feeling of your bare back against the skin of his chest electric. You both moan slightly, Obi-Wan's arms sliding around you and pulling you tight against him.

Letting your head fall back, you angle your face to meet his eyes. "What are you doing to me?" Your voice isn't your voice--you never whimper like that. The fire in his eyes kindles at the sound though, and a low, sweet smile curves his lips.

"I'm seducing you," he whispers back, shifting sideways so he can press a kiss against your forehead.

"You can't seduce the willing," you reply, grasping desperately for the shreds of your self-control. Seduction is your game--your job. No one can get the best of you . . .

Obi-Wan proves you wrong a second later. One hand sweeps up to pull your ponytail out of the way, and he crushes warm lips to your neck. Sliding his mouth slowly to your ear, he growls two words--two words that send your control spinning off into oblivion.

"I can."

~*~
Part 8
~*~

The loss of control should bother you. The fact that you're twisting wantonly under the heat of his mouth should bother you. The desperate sounds of need and desire spilling from your lips, whimpered half pleas and huskily growled commands, should bother you.

He makes it not matter somehow as he slowly guides you back into the bed, the coolness of the sheets against the bare skin of your back telling you how very warm you are. For a few blessed moments he's there with you, stretched out along your body, a hot, hard weight pressing you back into the bed. You moan loudly, fingers digging into the muscles of his back as you press yourself into him, wanting to merge with him--/become/ him . . .

You cry out softly when he pulls back, arching up as if to follow him. And you would now--follow him to the ends of the earth and beyond. Having tasted the fire of him, there's no way you can let him go.

Hot hands press you back into the bed, his face appearing above yours. "I need to touch you," he groans softly, pressing an openmouthed kiss to your temple. "I need to taste you and feel you--please let me."

"I need--" You don't know what you need, except heat. His heat--more of it.

"I know," he replies, voice a low growl. You lay, breathless in the dark, as his heat slowly slides down your body until you can feel the warmth of his mouth on your stomach. His hands slide slowly down your sides, fingers hooking into the waistband of your pants and tugging them down slowly. Fingers caress the skin of your leg as he slides the pants off the bed, letting them fall in a pile on the floor.

His mouth is hot as it slides across your ankle, his low chuckle sending shivers down your spine. Raising yourself on your elbows, you lift your head enough to watch him in the semi-gloom as his hands cup your ankle softly, lifting your leg slowly and pressing warm, soft kisses to the skin inside your knee.

His goal is evident long before his meandering path leads him there--and in spite of yourself you tense, your entire body quivering slightly. You let your head fall back to the mattress as you shiver, trying to hide the sudden nervousness from him.

He picks it up, of course. The lips that are wreaking havoc on your senses lift slowly form your inner thigh, brushing across your stomach as he slowly crawls back up your body. "What is the matter?" he whispers softly, lips against yours. "Are you afraid? You--" one hand slides down your arm to twine with your trembling. "You're shaking . . ."

"I'm not afraid," you respond quickly, turning your head slightly so that you're not looking directly into his eyes. The truth is embaressing--and so unlikely that chances are he'll never believe it anyway. Who'd believe a whore had any innocence left in her . . .

"What then?" His voice is a whisper of air against your ear, his body a warm, comforting weight pressing into you. "Tell me . . . please tell me."

"I've never--" You swallow, burying your face in his neck so that he can't see your face. "I've never let anyone--let anyone make love to me," you say haltingly. "Not--not in any sense of the word."

His face draws back slightly, fingers tilting your head until he can meet your eyes. There's startled comprehension in them--and something else. Something you can't quite identify.

"You've never had someone--"

"I was the one in control, Obi-Wan," you whisper. "I never was willing to give someone that much power over me."

A slow smile curls his lips, a smile gentle and tender and hungry . . . "May I?" he asks, his voice a low purr that vibrates in your bones. "I--it is something I could give you. Something--" He groans low in his throat as he presses a kiss against your cheek. "Something I need to give you."

You shudder again, but it is anything but fear. "Sh-show me," you whisper, surrendering to the inevitable. He has been in your mind and heart and blood for the past week . . . there is nothing you can deny him now.

He sighs, a soft whisper of breath as he kisses you again, sliding back down your body. Disappearing into the dark. Into the silence.

All you can hear is your own erratic breathing, overloud in your ears as his mouth resumes its slow caresses, the pace more torturous than before. You can tell he is going slowly, building sensations until you're so distracted by the feelings that you can't feel nervousness about the inevitable conclusion.

When his mouth feathers light breaths against your inner thigh, you sigh softly, one hand raising above you to grasp at one of the iron bars that make up the frame of his bed. Your other hand drifts down to rest on his head, fingers feathering through his silken hair as he rests his cheek on your thigh, rubbing the stubble lightly against your sensitive skin.

A slow, soft breath floats across your curls, making you shiver. You shift your legs slightly, squirming back into the bed as a warm hand slides up your leg, urging your knee to bend until your foot is resting firmly on the mattress. The leg is face is resting on trembles as he slides his cheek slowly up and down, the beard tickling you in a way that makes you writhe. His low chuckle as he presses his cheek up to your hip vibrates against your skin, making you shiver.

A slow kiss is pressed to your abdomen, his tongue circling your navel once teasingly as he drags his chin gently across your skin, letting the feel of his raspy stubble tantalize your nerves.

"Obi-Wan--" Your sigh is a plea and a command, your body wound so tightly from the anticipation that you're afraid you'll fly apart at the first touch of his lips to your core. There is nothing holding you together now, nothing but need and drunken excitement that floods through your body.

"Yes," he moans, his hand gliding back down to urge your thighs farther apart. There's a slight shift as he moves so that he is sprawled between your legs, his hands urging one leg over his shoulder as he presses the other wide. "Now . . ." he breathes, the air tickling the heated flesh at your juncture.

The first touch is gentle--so gentle. Just a faint brushing of his lips against your curls. So little contact--but the feeling is electric. Your body pushes up into him, trying to find more. Even as your fingers tighten around the iron bar, your entire body tenses, caught in an overwhelming wave of need.

You can tell, somehow, that he's looking up at you. Releasing the bar you lean up on your elbow, starring down at him. His eyes are glowing brightly in the dim light, wide and wild as he tilts his head slightly to press an open mouthed kiss to the tender flesh of your inner thigh. Without pause he shifts his mouth over, his open mouth lowering slowly until he's poised over your opening, breathing ragged.

You flop back to the bed, unable to take anymore teasing. Both hands slide down to clasp his hair, your fingers tangling in the long locks as your hips arch up, bringing your heated core in full contact with the blazing fire of his mouth.

The strangled cry that jerks from your throat surprises you. It sounds nothing like anything you've ever heard before, and for a crazy moment you wonder if this wanton creature is really you.

Thoughts shatter as his tongue sweeps forth, delving through your swollen folds with mind-numbing skill. Coherency is lost in a desperate battle for breath as your lungs hitch, what little air you draw in releasing in a low piercing cry of need. His own voice echoes yours, a low muffled growl vibrating deep in his chest as one of his hands digs into your thigh.

You cry out raggedly as his tongue slides up to circle your bud, slippery, earth-shattering circles that force your hips off the bed as you struggle to get closer to the heat of his mouth. His fingers clench in your hips, holding you still and pressing your body back to the bed as he pulls back, breathing slightly on your throbbing flesh.

"Obi-Wan--" your voice is so strangled that you're surprised his name is even recognizable. You arch your hips up strongly, begging for something more. Your need is overwhelming now--something alive that is wrapping itself around you as you twist beneath him, shocked that the mere touch of his mouth has turned you--you, a practiced and accomplished whore--into a quivering mess of nerves and need.

This was the power you could never give anyone else. This control--seeing you stripped naked of barriers, watching your body buck and twist and writhe . . . His hungry groan as he leans back into you stabs to your heart, the knowledge that he wants you wrapping around you as firmly as the need.

You groan loudly as his tongue spears you, your hips popping up despite his firm grasp on your thighs. Tossing your head back you reach up with both hands and grasp the bar above your head, the cool iron quickly warming beneath your sweaty palms.

You can feel the desperate arch of your body as you push up into him, moans turned into breathless, uncontrolled whimpering as his lips caress your throbbing bundle of nerves, tongue teasing it with lightning strokes. The skill, the power, the /passion/ in this man is incredible, the feeling of his strong hands and hot tongue and stubbled cheeks so near to sensory overload that you're hardly sure you're still breathing.

You must be, though, because in the next moment your voice releases in a helpless cry as his twisting tongue drives you higher, his muffled groans becoming more and more hitched as your hips tremble beneath him. "Now," he growls, the vibration trembling against your swollen folds. "Oh gods--please. Please, now. Come for me . . . scream for me . . ." his voice is ragged as his lips latch onto your swollen nub, sucking just hard enough to make your hips buck violently. He pulls back, moaning. "Please--"

You give a harsh cry, back arching up as his tongue snakes up your center again, your hands tightening so hard around the bar that you're sure you're going to snap it in two. Your cries increase in volume as you rock your hips into him, begging in broken sentences for that last touch that will send you flying.

He obliges, purring into you as his tongue expertly releases you from your free fall, sending you rocketing into oblivion, the white blinding pleasure so intense that it steals your breath away. All through the crashing tremors he is there, fingers digging into your wildly bucking hips as he rides your orgasm out, dragging you along further and further until you're stretched so thin you're sure he can see through you.

You crash back down to the bed, breath heaving, limbs trembling, eyes clenched shut. His body is curled around you--when he moved you have no idea, but right now you can't find it in you to care. His body is trembling almost as badly as yours is, his shaking limbs wrapped tightly around you.

"I--" your breath hitches as you try to control your gasping. Your body shudders, and you inch closer to his heat next to you. "I could never have--never have imagined--"

"It's not right that no one has ever given that to you before," Obi-Wan whispers, voice husky. "I--I am glad I could."

"Honey," you drawl, finding a little of your lost wit. "If the future can't offer more like that, you'll be the only one to give it to me." Your body trembles, but somehow you manage to get yourself turned over so that you're facing him, burying your face in his neck. "I do have a complaint though . . ."

"Oh?" Obi-Wan replies, his lips caressing your hair. "And what is that?"

"You are wearing pants." Rubbing your chest against his, you purr slightly. "See how much nicer skin against skin is?" you tease, lips caressing the skin of his neck lightly. "It would be even more nice if all of your skin was rubbing against all of mine."

"You're a wanton creature, aren't you?" Obi-Wan growls slightly, pushing against you with his shoulder until you're rolled over and trapped beneath him. "And how I love being willing to fulfil your every wish."

"Do you know how many wishes I have, Obi-Wan?" you say lightly. His hands trap your face, holding it still as he lowers his mouth to your ear.

"Yes," he purrs. "And I know how to meet them all."

"Them's fightin' words," you drawl, refusing to let him strip your control away again.

"No," Obi-Wan responds lightly, pulling back so he can see your eyes. "That was a promise."

~*~

As soon as you've got his pants off, you tumble Obi-Wan back into the bed with a low laugh, crawling up to snuggle into his side again. For now you ignore the impressive erection that is begging for your attention, sliding one hand up to his face to tilt it so you can better meet his eyes.

"What are your dreams, Obi-Wan," you whisper. "What are your fantasies?" Brushing a kiss against his temple you shift your body against him, rubbing your sweaty skin against his. "I want to give you everything you've always wanted."

His breath comes out in a staggered moan. "I don't want you to pleasure me," he responds, voice ragged. "I don't want to be a client."

"You're not." You slid your lips down to his, kissing him deeply as his hands tangle in your hair. His hips grind slightly against yours, the burning length of his need pressing into your hip. "Just once," you whisper, "just once, let me use the skills I have because I want to. Not because I have to."

He groans again, his head falling back as you slide your mouth down to kiss his neck. His hands are warm, pressing against your head as you slide down even further, letting your tongue caress the flat nub of his nipple.

"I--" Obi-Wan's voice comes out as a choked groan as you nip your way down the hard muscles of his abdomen. "I don't want--don't want you to--" His protests cut off in a strangled moan as you reach your goal, your breath dancing over his long-neglected erection.

He moans as your fingers close around the shaft, running slowly up the hot length. Smiling, and feeling much more confident now that you're back in known territory, you lean down to press a slow, agonizingly gentle kiss to the head of his aching hardness.

His hips jerk up off the bed as you let your lips part, tongue sneaking out to tease the crown. Curling your fingers into his narrow hips you push him back down, smiling at his strangled gasp as you part your lips further and slide an inch down, tongue circling slowly.

His hands tangle in your hair suddenly, pulling you back away from him. "No--" he gasps. "No, don't--"

"Why not?" you demand, crawling up his body so that you're straddling his stomach, hands planted on either side of his head. "Why can't I give you what I want to give you?"

"I--" His green eyes are torn as he tries to gather his self control enough to speak through the haze of lust. "I wanted to be different than the other men. I don't want--don't want you to think of me like you think of them."

Smiling gently, you lean down so that your face is a few inches from his. "Guess how many men have pushed me away after I wrapped my lips around them," you purr, making your voice as low and sultry as you can. Obi-Wan's breath hitches, his eyes catching fire. Your smile turning feral, you lean down and nip at his lower lip. "You're already different, Obi-Wan," you purr, lips sliding up to his cheek. "And if you want to think about it another way--consider this payback."

"But I wanted to give you--"

"Not for that." Smiling your brush your fingers against his chin, and the still slightly visible bruise where your fist had struck him. "I'm as good with my mouth as I am with my knuckles. Now by all that is holy, shut up and let me have my fun."

His eyes squeeze shut as he lets his breath out in a low moan, his head tilting back and crushing into the pillows. You stare for a few moments at the sight before you--the image of this man, giving himself to you . . .

Surrendering. To you.

The thought almost brings a groan to your lips as you slide back down his body, fingers wrapping around his hips again. He's trembling with need, having denied himself in favor of your pleasure.

Well that just won't do. Smiling as his breath hitches, you slide down to press an open mouthed kiss to the crease at the top of his leg, moaning slightly as the musky scent of his skin wraps around your senses.

"Please . . ." His voice is strangled as he pushes himself up on his elbows, staring down at you. "I--I can't take teasing--" His eyes go wide as you lift your head slightly to meet his gaze, turning your head to the side just enough to brush your lips against his hot length.

"I know what I'm doing," you murmur softly, lips curling into a smile. Letting your tongue slip out, you glide it up his shaft, the musical sound of his voice rising in soft whimpers urging you on. Your lips part slightly as you reach the crown, the momentum of his involuntary thrust pressing the tip of his erection past into your mouth.

You tease him for a while, lips slowly sliding farther and farther down, tongue rubbing against him in an erratic rhythm. One of his hands has found its way to your head, cupping your skull gently as his fingers clench in your hair. Soft whimpers give way to loud moans before you're half way down his length, his beautiful, powerful hips twisting beneath you as he struggles not to simply thrust himself into the warmth of your mouth.

You're not sure how much time has passed when your head is jerked away from his body, Obi-Wan clasping your shoulders and dragging you up his body.

"That's not--that's not what I want," he gasps, lips latching onto your throat. "I want--"

"What?" you moan, willing to do anything, give anything . . .

"I want to make love to you," he growls, hands clasping onto your waist as he rolls over, bringing you beneath him. "I don't know how much I've got in me tonight--and I need to be with you. All I can."

Your laughter breaks off on a harsh groan as his lips slide down to catch one of your nipples, suckling intently as his other hand fondles its twin. "I thought--I thought you Jedi could go all night or something," you choke out, your body arching up into his.

His rough tongue swipes across your nipple again before he pulls up, bracing himself on hands and knees and crawling up so that his face hangs above yours, his hair cascading around your face and shutting the rest of the world out. "I'm not at my best right now," he concedes softly. "I just want to make sure that--"

"That what?" you ask softly, reaching up to stroke the line of his brow.

"That we do everything we can," he replies, voice suddenly husky. "I--When Mace finds out that I saw you . . . I don't know what he'll do. I may--I may never get this chance again."

Your throat closes up at the prospect, your lust giving way momentarily to terror. Not to taste his lips again--not to feel the glide of his hands, of his tongue, of his body . . .

Not to feel him at all.

Your hands plunge into his hair as you pull him down for a long, breath stealing kiss, trying to pour everything you feel and have ever felt into it. You refuse to believe that tonight will be the last time--the only time--

But if he's right, you don't want to spend the rest of your life regretting it.

Releasing him softly, you drop your hands to the side of your body and arch up towards him. "I'm yours," you whisper. "Whatever you want--whatever you need. Tonight is yours. Is ours."

"I--I need--" Wild green eyes focus on you as his body slowly lowers to yours, his weeping erection sliding across your hip. "Too much teasing--I need you."

"You have me," you affirm, lifting one leg to hook around his narrow hip. Sliding your hands up around his body, you let your fingers dig slightly into his back. "Take me."

"No." His teeth seize your lower lip slightly, nibbling for a few moments as he rubs his chest against yours. "Not taking . . . never taking. Giving."

"You give too much." Throwing all of your strength into the movement, you pull on his body, rolling him over onto his back. His shocked expression lasts long enough for you to throw your leg over his hips, bracing your hands on his shoulder. "Stop giving, Obi-Wan. Don't take--don't give. Just . . . share."

His eyes glaze slightly as you adjust your hips, clenching your fingers into his shoulders as you slowly, so terribly slowly, take the first inch of his throbbing length into your body.

"Ohhh---" Obi-Wan's voice comes out in a choked stutter. "So--so wonderful." Strong hands latch around your hips, not urging or directing, but clinging. Clinging as if he is adrift in a storm, and you are his only anchor to reality. His hips pop up off the bed, sliding another inch of his impressive length into you and driving a moan from you both.

Obi-Wan arches his neck up, latching onto a nipple and sucking as you continue to grind your hips slowly into his, the feeling of being split by his heat so intense that the breath stops in your throat.

Too soon, and not nearly soon enough, he's embedded fully in you, your breath coming in harsh pants as you struggle to control the momentum of this act. Never has the act of sex shaken you so badly, tearing your shields and walls down until there is nothing but this man, trembling below you as his hips start to thrust upwards, small, needy movements. You can tell that he has reigned in the better part of his strength, willing to let you lead in this.

And lead you do, setting a slow, torturous pace that has Obi-Wan begging in moments, his hands clenching on your hips as he struggles not to take control, not to end this too soon.

Your mind, lust fogged as it is, comes to a sudden decision. Slowing your movements, you lean forward until your face is hovering above his. "What do you want?" you hiss, trying not to moan as his anxious thrust that brushes the hungry spots inside you.

"You," he gasps, hands tightening. "By all that's holy--/please/--" His hips start rocking, the slight friction dragging a low moan from your throat.

"Take what you want," you reply, pushing back up until your hands are resting on his chest, your eyes wild. "Take me."

The feral growl that rips from his throat nearly undoes you, as does the sudden predatory look in his eyes. This is a man--a dangerous man--who you have pushed too far. Playing with fire was always something you loved to do--and now the fire is living and breathing and . . .

Hungry.

And fast. You have no time to catch your breath as he upends your world in a sudden surge of muscle, landing you sprawled across the bed on your back, head hanging off the edge.

Strong fingers clench into your hips, pulling you to him as he drives into you with one glorious stroke, spitting you open and laying you bare. Your fingers dig into the bedsheets as his hands slide around the curve of your hip, lifting you enough so that the angle is perfect for him to drive into you.

Lifting your head, you get a glimpse of Obi-Wan on his knees, a look of terrifying concentration on his face as he pulls back slightly, changing the angle just a little before driving back in.

You scream, your voice choking as the hard length inside you brushes against hungry nerves long gone unsated. A feral look of satisfaction crosses his face, the last thing you see before your head rolls back on your neck. Digging your fingers harder into the blankets you hold on, praying you are strong enough to survive the power you seem to have unleashed.

It's you who is pleading now, crying out in broken phrases as he plunges into you with mind-shattering intensity, angling every third or fourth stroke to tease /that spot/ mercilessly, never giving you the contact you crave.

"Please--I need--" You almost laugh at the words, the same ones he had spoken not so long ago. How the man has held on this long is a mystery to you--but you're hardly capable of coherent thought as you ride the eddy and flow of his bucking hips, snapping into yours so powerfully that you are convinced you're going to be split in two.

Your eyes slide shut as the world narrows down to four senses. The magical sound of his harsh breathing, punctuated by staggered grunts with each powerful thrust. The slippery sound of your bodies sliding together, your hips crashing together which each snap of his. The feel of the bed beneath you, your fingers tangled into the blankets so tightly that you're sure you're going to tear through them.

And the feeling of him, inside you . . . hot and hard and pulsing and needy . . . and demanding.

"Say it," he growls, fingers clenching on your hips as he starts circling his hips slightly, grinding into you.

"Finish it," you gasp, arching up into his body, feeling him grinding deeper into you. "Come with me--come for--uhhhhhh. Come. Let me come. Make me come. Just--"

"Now," he hisses, one hand sliding across your abdomen to slip between your legs, caressing your pulsing bud as he lifts his hips into yours, finding that hungry spot and lingering on it. "Make me feel it," he hisses softly.

You let your mind center on the feeling of his fingers caressing you, the feeling of his length scraping against every spot that has longed for him since this started. Clenching your hands in the bedsheet, you let your eyes roll back into your head as you cry out, feeling the last restraints on you shatter as your hips begin to roll with his, with the force of a long overdue climax.

He groans harshly as your muscles clench around him, his body quivering with need as he continues to thrust into you, grunting loudly with each pull of your body against him. Hips bucking wildly, you snap out a command, barely audible over his harsh groans.

"Not alone, damn it. Come. With. Me."

Molten fire erupts inside you, your name tumbling from Obi-Wan's lips as he pumps his orgasm into you, fingers clenching into your hips spasmodically.

You have no idea how long it takes for the waves of blinding pleasure to end--but when they do you find yourself buried underneath Obi-Wan, gasping for breath from the earth-shattering climax as well as the fact that he's collapsed full on top of you, obviously too numb to realize that his body mass is pressing your already air-deprived lungs closer to strangulation.

Still, it seems almost sacrilegious to end this perfect moment of communion, your chests heaving in time as both of your bodies drift down from the heights they'd catapulted to. You can feel his breath against your shoulder where his face is buried, his hair tickling your chin as he shifts slightly, moaning.

"Sorry," he mutters softly as he shifts slightly, one arm sliding around you as he slowly rolls onto his back, bringing you on top of him. Green eyes drift open as he stares up at you, one hand running slowly down your back. "I--I lost control. I didn't want to--"

"Don't even think about it," you snap, dropping your head to hide in his neck. "Don't get all Jedi on me now--and don't apologize for that unless you think you could have done better. And don't tell me you could have done better unless you're planning on proving it."

Obi-Wan groans slightly as he shifts. "Don't tempt me. If I tried to do it right now, I'd kill us both."

You lift your head slightly, giving him an inquisitive stare. "Are you saying you could?" you ask, eyes wide.

"No, I'm saying I will," he replies, shifting you both around until your heads are resting on the pillows. "But if you don't give me a few moments, I'll probably die before I get a chance to finish."

"How traumatic for me," you mutter. "And I thought you were a Jedi. Can't Jedi recover in the blink of an eye?"

Obi-Wan groans, letting his eyes slide shut. "When I find the man responsible for starting that rumor, I will kill him," he growls, shifting closer and pressing a slow kiss to your cheek. "It takes at least three blinks--five if you want any quality."

"How 'bout I give you ten," you shoot back, a smile curving your lips. "After all, I know I'm a lot to keep up with."

The look he gives you promises that the rest of the night will be something to remember.

Something you probably won't be able to forget, if only because walking will be difficult.

~*~

Fin