Bathtime

Is it possible for a man to have an acre of skin? Scientists will state that it is scientifically impossible for a human to have that much surface area. Could have fooled you. By looking in at Qui-Gon in the bathroom, you could swear it is that much territory and then some. And what a prime acreage it is. Golden in the candlelight, warm and molten like honey, his skin glows, shimmers. As much as you hate the summer thunderstorms here on Alderaan, you are thanking the Maker that there was one planned tonight.

The gauzy curtains over his head billow inward under the force of an after-the-storm breeze. He tilts his head back to capture the incense of rain soaked flowers. You can smell it even where you stand. The perfume saturates the air. Another puff of air moves the curtain again, sweeping ever so close to his brow, but he ignores it. From where you stand, it seems to surround his head in a halo of film. Dreamy. Relaxed. Summery.

Far away, a rumble of thunder sounds. The crack of the lightning whip is no longer heard; now it is simply the after thought. The sound makes the Master relax further back into the tub. You watch as his hair tumbles over the rim. Dark, thick and silky, you ache to plow your fingers into his mane. You long to pull gently on it, tilting his head back to taste his neck. Restraint, though, is a virtue tonight. In the subdued light of the candles, its mass is darker than usual. The same can be said for his beard; it is like a rich cocoa sprinkled on his skin. Which, you still argue, is more skin than any man has a right to have.

His usually bright and aware eyes are closed. His mouth is closed- but it is closed in such as way that his lower lip is slightly protruding. To see such a slight pout on such a serious mouth makes you smile. It also makes you want to taste it. To run your tongue over its slight slope, where the lip meets his beard. To feel the softness and the coarseness together, awakening your nerves. His lips are the color of ripe raspberries tonight, stained red from the wine. Wine, of which, he is currently raising to his lips again. You watch as the crystal goblet raises to his mouth and rest. A true connoisseur of fine foods, he rolls the wine on his tongue, holding against the roof of his mouth. You can almost feel the tongue move against your own roof of your mouth. You want to be that wine. Flowing, ebbing over his tongue. You want to stain his mouth with your saliva. Pity you are unable to.

The goblet is placed on the small wood block next to the tub. With a slight sigh, he rests more fully against the porcelain rim. His head tilts back, stretching his neck. The skin there is tight, taut, drawn over a skeletal frame that is just a blueprint for perfection. You watch as he finally swallows the wine; watch its progress down his throat. Finally his head comes to rest completely on the edge of the basin once again.

Your eyes are drawn down to his chin, firm and almost defiant in its cut. Even the beard has a hard time covering that angle. It almost irradiates from within.that defiance. It matches the powerful neck. You wish you had practiced your art as a child. Oh, to draw those lines- the sweeping arc from his chin down to his shoulders. A sensitive man about a wide variety of things, you don't doubt the sensitivity of his skin below his ears, nor in the area where his neck meets his shoulders. Would he like a kiss there? Would he squirm? Moan?

His shoulders- another area for exploring. Tightly corded with thick muscles, they are broad and are barely contained in the space allotted in the tub. They are near the level of the water now. A fine mist of condensed steam has formed on his skin, making it look like molten gold flowing into the blackness of still bath water. What you would give to run your hands down his shoulders, massaging out the aches of the day? Who would you bribe to trace the muscles as they join with his arms, his wrists, and his hands?

One of his hand lifts to lower itself back over the inside of the basin. A slight splash sounds and his hand plunges into the water. You can see him rubbing his stomach, its tight muscles contracting and relaxing. Another gust of summer breeze, cooler now, rushes into the room. A slight shiver crosses his frame, and his foot edges out to turn on the facet. His toes curl around the handle, and more steaming hot water pours into the tub. After a moment, he shuts it off, and lowers his leg back down to the depths. You want to follow it. To sink into his embrace, to rub against his legs- it would be as fluid and warm as that bath.

His tortured sigh brings your eyes back to his face. It is thrown back in ecstasy. One of his arms is lined with the rim of the tub, under the window. The other arm still rests in the water. You sense, rather than see the tensing of his arm, of the shoulders. And instantly, you know what he does.

Strong fingers curl around the rim of the tub, tensing. The ripple of force resonates up his muscles to his shoulders. You can see the supporting arm weaken and relax and then tighten again. His chest, broad and firm, hitches in quickly drawn breaths. A lone erect nipple pokes out barely above the water line. You don't know whether it is an anatomical reaction to the cool dusting breezes or to sensual stimulation. Either way, it is a beautiful inspiring sight. Small stirrings in the water cause small waves. The candlelight reflects off of their facets. All at once you are blinded by the image of the Master surrounded in a sea of crystal, shining and bright.

His knees break the surface- the reaction of his feet bracing against the bottom of the tub. Still more golden skin. You stifle a smile as you think about kissing behind those kneecaps and hearing his rumbling chuckle answering. His neck bends over the back of the tube and his thighs become visible. Tight, smooth, powerful, his thighs remind you of all that the man embodies. A warrior's physique primed in life to fight for good. And you finally see where his other hand has gone.

As he holds his saber, with surety and power, so does he hold his shaft. You can see his tanned hand sliding along the engorged flesh. His strokes are slow and measured a pace that his hips match easily. You can see his pelvis straining to meet his fist. A flat thumb sweeps out to rub over the head and a quiver enters into the rest of his body. You want to ease that quiver, to make it into a moan. You wish it were your hand on his flesh, that he was teaching you the proper way to hold him, to tease him.

The curtain above him parts again, allowing the breeze in again. You can almost see the interaction between his heated flesh and the cooler air. His mouth parts to emit a moan. Guttural and deep- you can hear the want and the need in that single sound. But the need and want does not make him increase his pace. This is a relaxing time for him. Gentle and warm, not desperate. It would be like that with you, you know it in your soul. A gliding of bodies, a coming together of souls in mutual peace, love and comfort, easy slow loving.

Another moan erupts from his mouth, putting you under its spell. What would that moan sound like in your ear? If your name followed it, how would you react? You feel yourself becoming wet, eager. Simply watching the erotic ballet before you has caused your excitement. The simple imagery of his want, his evident need, has reduced you to quivering as his engorged flesh does now. His hand has become rougher in its pull- not so much demanding but coaxing. He wants to seduce his ultimate pleasure from his flesh, not to wrench the gratification from it.

His neck is tense now, strained. His mouth is open to admit his tongue. The muscle sweeps out to coat his lower lip with moisture before a set of teeth grasp the ripe flesh in a death grip. You can see the skin turning white under the strain and pull of the teeth. His hand is still keeping the slow pace, gently rising and lowering. The water splashes against the side of the tub; a tide of passion.

With a loud groan, he lifts his hips further, arching his back. He braces his shoulders against the porcelain and lowers his other hand to caress his balls. The reddened flesh bobs in the water, eagerly awaiting touch. His hand slows and then stops as he grips his cock harder. With control known the galaxy over, he begins to run his hand up the entire length. His sighs become constant as his hand moves more quickly this time. Finally, as his back bows in rigid ecstasy, his cock erupts. Semen splashes on his chest, creamy and translucent in the candlelight. You find that your breath has stopped. Transfixed on the beauty before you, your breath, when it returns is hitched and steamy. The waves of passion that he could not contain had flowed in the Force, lapping at the shores of your mind. You are not Force sensitive, but the feeling was palpable and tangible.

His hand drops back into the tub, as his arms relax and slip to the sides of the tub. His legs unfurl and his pelvis drops back into the still water. A feeling of relaxation floats over you, and you struggle to calm your breathing. The sound of thunder again alights on your ears, closer this time than last.

"Come closer, my dear." He states, lowly, his eyes remaining closed. "There is no need to hide from me. Come enjoy this fragrant evening with me. Taste and feel what you wish." His eyes open to stare at the half open door that you hide behind, making your heart stop. "To voyeur on a Jedi is impossible, little one. I have known that you were there from the start. Come..join me."

You push open the door, feeling its heavy wood resist and then groan ajar. His eyes smile as he lifts the goblet to his mouth again. With measured steps, you approach the side of the tub and kneel. A golden statue sits before you, anointed in water. And the man does have too much skin to cover. As you reach out to touch him, he intercepts you hand. You sigh as his lips meet the back of your hand. "Take off your dress and blow out the candles, love. Climb in here and share the stars and the storm with me."

You smile gently to match the sapphire orbs staring back at you. Of course you will join him, there was never a doubt. Besides, all prime acreage must be scouted first, and then claimed.

******

The warmth of the water surrounds you like a cocoon. Small waves, the result of two breathing bodies moving together in water, crest at your chest. They lap at your collarbone. Relaxing and soothing. It is almost as soothing as the heartbeat at your ear. Warm skin at your back, warm water to your shoulders and cool summer air against your face; the night is a study in contrasts.

It seems as though all sound has disappeared except for in the sanctuary that you and he inhabit. The candles remain darkened, only the faint smell of smoke and ozone reminds you of their previous illumination. Faint whiffs of smoke drift above your head, floating out of the open window. The splash is loud in your ear as Qui-Gon lifts his hand to grasp at the wine goblets next to the tube. Every drop, every splash is magnified

"Relaxed, my dear?" His voice is low and gentle, a slight accent breaking through. He hands you the goblet. Its cut crystal facets are cool to the touch, and your fingers run over its surface of their own accord. You cup it with two hands and lift it to your mouth. The man does have good taste, you think. The wine sits on your tongue, and a bouquet of slight fruity taste that reminds you of nights of humid passion permeates your head. You let him take the goblet back and it disappears over the side of the tub. He urges your head to fall back on his shoulder, and you allow it to. This places your body in complete contact with his, but you can think of no complaints to voice.

Hard muscle, soft water.

Your feet barely come to the middle of his calves. The hair there, soft in the water now, tickles at the sensitive bottoms of your feet. Your toes curl into the muscle, rubbing, yearning for the stimulation. Your thighs align with his. You don't feel the hair as much as the bulges of muscle as a part of his thighs. The man contains as much power in his thighs as you do in your entire body. He could outrun you, outfight anyone you know, and outlast you in bed. The thighs leave no doubt in that last thought. He shifts under you, one of his thighs rising. It throws you a little off-balance on his lap, but his arms tighten to keep you safe.

His arms. As you only saw their graceful dance earlier, you feel only their movements now. Iron with a touch of silk, his arms wrap around you, crossing over your flank. His hands cross and hold over your stomach. A lone thumb gently traces the skin of your abdomen. It is a casual caress. It promises of much, much more in its burning heat, but remains steady and calming in its gentle ebb and flow. Tangible safety, palpable might, these arms will protect you against anything that threatens.

"Look at the third star there, love." One of his hands leaves your abdomen to point at the stars visible through the window. You immediately miss its contact. His head bows next to your ear, that rich throaty voice bathes your senses. "That third star is the Coruscant system." You turn your head into his chin, nodding slightly. His beard brushes against your temple, at once coarse and soft. His lips gently kiss your brow and you feel that mixture combine to alert your arousal. With a sigh, you snuggle down lower in the water.

His chest heaves with a contented sigh. Your body is thrust forward a little, riding the tide of his movements. You can feel the symmetry of his body. Both sides of his chest are bulging, moving as he shifts to lean further over. With his arms around you, his shoulders folding you in, and his chiseled, smooth chest behind you, you feel as though all there is of the world is he and the water. His closeness makes you feel weak, warm and fluid.

You turn slightly on his lap. You suddenly have an urge to see his eyes, to taste his mouth. As you complete the turn, sliding your skin on his, you are confronted with a slight grin on his face. It is the most that you have ever seen him smile. With a reluctant hand, you touch the corner of his lips. He kisses the tip with reverence. Oh the heat!

A sudden violent breeze pushes the curtains in. The gauze, white and filmy, comes between you and he. Paper thin, the gauze simply adds a surreal aura to this bath; it coats everything like a dream. Just as quickly, the curtain ebbs back against the window, scratching in its withdraw. You sigh as his face comes once again into total view. "The night is lovely," you sigh.

"Just right for a bath." He answers, talking against your finger. Your hand leaves his lips and travels down his chin, his neck. When it reaches the collarbone, your other hand joins in, running the length of the bone. You curl your hands up and over his shoulders. To have these muscles support you is one feeling, to have your hands cupping and stroking them is quite another entirely. Your hands can barely span the deltoid muscles. As you trace his muscles with your hands, his head falls back in relaxation. His hands take up new residence at your waist. They simply sit there, lightly touching.

Watching the play of water-reflected moonlight on his skin is a little too much to handle, and you lean forward to take his honey skin in your mouth. Your lips close over his corded tendon in his neck. You can feel his pulse, strong and steady, beat against your lips. A very low breathy moan escapes his lips and he pulls you so that you are straddling his thighs. You were right; he does like a kiss there. Still, though, his neck and muscles remain relaxed. You nibble lightly, your teeth drawing patterns of passion into his muscles.

"Yes," you breathe against his skin, "it is perfect for a bath."

Pulling away, you glance at his face. The darkness casts his face in dark hues. His sapphire eyes are black, his beard is black. His eyes train on your face. Without saying another word, and concentrating on the sound of lapping water, you run your hands down his chest. The hair there lightly scratches, and your hands pause just drifting back and forth across the wide plane of his chest. He sighs.

Your hands continue lower. The water adds another dimension to your senses. No matter what you touch, you are surrounded in warmth. You can feel his thigh muscles tighten and the friction on the inside of your spread thighs is exquisite. Thunder sounds again, and you hear the fall of light rain outside the window. The smell of fresh nature's tears crosses the sill and you inhale. His low chuckle sounds as you release the breath.

"You try to absorb it into your soul," he says.

His hands come up out of the water to stroke at your neck. The rivets of water released from his hands run down your back cool quickly, causing you to shiver. One of his thumbs brushes at your nape, rough but soft. Sweet friction. Your hands travel down almost between your own thighs, finding and then resting on his thighs. It is the only part of him that is tense- these thighs. Tense and ready to pounce. You press your thumb pads into the center of the muscle.

Another rumble erupts from his mouth and his hand draws you forward at your nape. A thought crosses your mind: how sweet his lips must be. How tender. The need to hide their lushness behind a beard, to protect them. they must be made of the finest ambrosia. Ever the teacher, as your face draws near to his, he tilts your head to the side with a push of the thumb- he leads you, shows you the way. One hand cups the side of your head, rubbing your hair against your ear, blocking sound but creating tangible texture. It is all that you feel until his lips close over yours.

Bliss. Heat. Gentle. Firm. Sweet.

The beard brushes your chin, drawing across the tender skin that lines your lips. It is strange. So rough looking, yet soft. The same as the man: rugged, yet hiding compassion. But it is his lips that awaken all arousal in you, and deaden all coherent thought. They are so soft. So warm. To and fro, ebb and flow, they draw back and forth. Brushing against your lips with purpose of intrusion, yet begging for permission.

You want to taste the forbidden fruit, the taste that is hidden from the world. Your tongue brushes against his lips, tasting the wine, the wind, the rain. Only the tensing of his hand in your hair alerts you to the coming of his tongue as it sweeps out gently to intercept yours. It leads you inside, into the sanctuary. His tongue dances with yours, gently rubbing. Mesmerizing, this action.like a dance of ritual.honed in every man and woman since time began.

Eventually he pulls back, drawing his tongue lightly over your bottom lip before nibbling on it. You no longer shiver at the cooling water and the even cooler air.you quiver in arousal. An eternity of a moment passes and his mouth leaves yours completely. You still feel the touch, pulling at your tender skin. You still taste the richness that only this man can possess.

"You wish more.as do I." He whispers, kissing your nose. "But not in this bath. It turns cool, and the storm draws near."

You turn your head to hear the rain, heavier now. It thuds against the pavement outside like a thousand heartbeats. You nod as you realize the logic of the thought.

"Retire with me to my bed." He entreats, his hand rubbing at your nape again. "We will bring the wine."

You smile gently, reaching to cup his own roughened cheek. "There is never a doubt, Qui-Gon."

He returns your smile as the room flickers with far off lightning. The gray clouds obscure the stars out the window, floating against the ink sky. Enough stargazing, you think. He nods in agreement with your thought. You float backwards on your hands to allow him to stand in the tub. He rumbles with a contained chuckle.

"It is cooler outside." He says, with a sigh and rises. The lightning flickers again, and you see his body in anointed glory. Rivets of water course down his body, interrupted in their flow with the patches of hair that exist on his chest and abdomen. His body glistens with the moisture, as nature offers more light for you to see him by. He steps from the tub and reaches for two towels on a nearby chair. His hand reaches out to help you from the basin, supporting you as your feet touch the cool marble.

The towel wraps around you.

"This way, love." He states, holding the towel to his chest and leading you into the next room. Your hand is still encased in his large one. Instinctively, you know that you will follow this man anywhere.even to the ends of the galaxy.

******

Tactile.

Oh yes, you know that sex is a tactile act. Everything depends on a touch, a smell, a taste. Sight can add to excitement, but when taken away, its loss can increase the other senses. This you know very well. The right touch can send you skyrocketing through the ceiling. The right smell can bring the moment back to your mind with startling clarity. A combination of all can create a tide of sensation that can capsize the boat of control and overwhelm your consciousness.

The man before you knows this. He knows it better than you do. And he will not hesitate to use the knowledge.

With measured paces, he walks the room. Naked still. As he stands in the flickering lightning from the approaching storm, he appears like a brownstone marble statue brought to life. His lines are fluid: shoulders flowing to his chest, chest gliding to waist, and waist cresting to thigh. Such a solid man. As he opens the curtains at the window, you follow his movements with your eyes. A warrior, yes. He turns to look at you as you lay on the bed. A Jedi, beyond a doubt. His form is outlined against the window by lightning. But above all, a man.

The rustling of the leaves outside is followed by the sweep of the curtain into the room. Rain still falls outside, constant and comforting. The fragrance of flowers is so much stronger in this room; so strong; it takes form as taste. These senses, though, are merely tickled by this environment. It is the sight of the man approaching the bed that causes a fluttering of your heart.

The bed tips under his weight, settling to the side like a boat settling in the waves. His arm falls over your head, bent so that he can touch your brow with his hand. That bundle of thinly veiled power expands next to you showing this man's incredible power. A cord in his neck stands out and your eyes caress it. A gentle nibble there.. you don't have long to think before his lips fall to yours. All at once sound disappears to be replaced by the pounding of your own heart. His lips are oh so soft in their texture, but oh so demanding in their intent. His tongue breaks your lips, opening them wide. They are intruding, yet welcomed like an old friend.

A warrior knows his ability to fight. It is the ability to coax, to avoid confrontation that is the trait that makes a warrior great. They fight only when the fight is unavoidable. This man, this Jedi warrior, persuades you with his mouth to abandon all fight. First a tentative touch of his tongue, warm and thick. A sliding dance of exploration follows closely. Finally, his tongue enters fully into your mouth, a complete possession. You feel well and truly held captive. It is not rough; it is gliding possession, but is accomplished with calmness and gentleness.

He gently pulls away to stare at your eyes. His hand cups your cheek; warmth where only rainborne coolness has been. You smile at his hesitation. He hasn't voiced it; he doesn't need to. You can see it in his eyes. So intense, his stare- startling blue swirling with the onyx of desire. They seem almost sad. You reach a hand up to cup his neck as the other cups his rough cheek. Doesn't he know? Can't he see that the permission was given before he even knew you? Fated, it is. Fated in the stars, as sure as the rain.

His nod is imperceptible as he senses your acceptance. With the control and tightly veiled strength of a lion on the prowl, he crawls up the remainder of the bed to touch more of you. Sheets slide, skin rubs skin and suddenly he covers all of you. Chest to breast, thigh to groin, calf to knee, he stretches out over you, looming larger than life. You can feel his hardness- heavy and hot- against your leg. The heat is scalding, and yet he refrains from rubbing against you, a contact that you know that he needs. Does he wish to prolong the agony or increase the pleasure?

His kiss is more impassioned; he uses his neck muscles to ungulate against your mouth. The warrior loses a little of his precious restraint. You hands tangle in the silk of his long tresses, burying for support, for solidity. The hairs are whisper soft, falling like sand between your fingers. The pressure becomes fire as his beard scrapes across your chin, companion to his questing lips. Blood rushes, sounding, for the entire world, like ocean waves and it is all that you hear. Until, through a gentle touch with your mind, you hear as solitary word echo- Soft.

You gasp at the affection in that word.

All too soon, his lips pull back, settling for tugging on your lower lip. A flick of his roughened tongue and the soft flesh of your lip is released. He slides a little down your body. His hair falls on either side of your neck, tickling, and forming a curtain against the rest of the world.

Hot. His breath is steamy. A direct contradiction of the cool heaviness of the moisture laden sheets. He bestows an open mouth kiss on your chin. A sharp nibble. The combined stimulation makes you squirm, makes you moist with passion. He hesitates as though considering his plan of attack. Then, plan formulated, trail scouted his mouth moves down your neck. Kiss, nibble, and lave. His hands, ardent, turn to cup and grasp at your shoulders. They enclose the entire area. This man is huge.

A burst of wind sweeps through the room. The rustling of the leaves increases. His mouth closes over one nipple. Oh Gods! White. Hot. Flames. Is it the beard? You gasp, squirming in the sheets. Is it his lips? His teeth? Gods! Scraping, pulling.you arch your back, a breathy moan escaping your mouth. "Qui-Gon." You plead.

He stops suddenly, lifting his head to gaze at you. You look down at him, resting between your thighs, his feet hanging off the end of the bed. His mouth is wide, gasping and you can see the gentle rise of his buttocks beyond his shoulder. Beautiful. In a flash of lightning, the saliva on your breast glitters and you sigh. His voice, although welcome, is a sudden occurrence.

"Love.." he clears his throat, "love, no talking. Feel. Talking will detract from sensations, concentrate on them."

You nod slowly, the logic sinking in. Squirming as the cool air sweeps across your naked feet, you arch your back again. He smiles knowingly and moves his hands down your shoulders to your arms, then to your flank. Still you are amazed with the sheer size of him. His mouth returns to laving at your nipples, first one then the other, moving between them with no sense or reason. One hand moves from your flank to cup the outside of your breast. A thumb reaches out to rub over one elongated nipple as he continues to lavish attention on the other. As he sucks the pointed peak deeply into his mouth, a lovely tight suction, you grab at his hair. His mind touches yours again. "Beautiful, love."

And as suddenly as it began, his mouth leaves your breasts.

You whimper in agony of desertion. Your breasts tingle both from his ardent caress and the prickliness of his beard and they are chilled as his saliva is frozen by the passing breeze. At a distance, thunder sounds and the rain continues as a constant as you wait for his next move. "Patience" you hear echo in your mind and you stamp your foot in the covers of the bed. Patience.right.

A wet line is drawn down your midline, circling your navel dipping into its depths. You can't see, as it darkens as the storm draws near. The star and moonlight are doused as the clouds are drawn across them. But even with your sight removed momentarily, you still know it to be his tongue. That roughened muscle..you stifle a sigh as it brushes against your abdomen. His hands stroke down your sides to grip your hips.

A little nibble on the inside of your thigh alerts you to his purpose and you grasp at his hair to stop him. His right hand reaches up to cup your hand against his cheek - warmth on one side, roughness on the other. Two sounds of breaths overlap in the night air, one a female, another a male- both raspy and without rhythm. It is a ballet of passion sounds, dancing among the rustle of leaves and the pounding of rain.

"Relax, little one." His voice breaks into your mind, destroying the silence, " a good teacher always insures that the student is ready to receive the lesson."

You relax your hands in his hair. He is a man of many talents and much strength. Although you have never experienced this use of tongues, you have faith in him. He has a purpose.

"Purpose, yes, love." He answers his mind voice as deep and rich as his speaking as he lowers his head to nuzzle at your abdomen. "The purpose is to make you experience pleasure- profoundly -if I can help it."

With a gentle hand, he presses your abdomen back, bending it over the hand that is suddenly under you. He has swung you around so that your head is dangerously close to the edge of the bed, and he sinks off the side to kneel between your legs. His one hand presses up from under your buttocks; the other slides between your thighs. Tickling, barely there touches trace the creases on the inside of your thigh. A lone, finger drags down between your folds. You can feel the wetness as it coats his digit. And even with all his years of training, he still releases a groan before he can control it. "Gods, wet." He grates in your bond.

You bend your head back into the covers as you feel his intensely hot breath wash over that sensitive part of you. Your eyes slide shut, blocking out the blowing bed curtains. With your eyes closed, the sensation increases ten fold. You can hear his deep straining breaths, hear the pounding rain and then nothing.

His tongue sneaks between your folds. Stealthily, probing, sweeping, its rough texture runs the length of your folds. Of its own volition, your back arches tipping your head back over the edge of the bed. He twirls his tongue around the bundle of nerves there, painting words of passion against the hidden flesh. Vocalizing, creating letters for words that have yet to be said. Each twirl, each sweep..your toes curl. Your head rolls back and forth on the coverlet, damp and heavy.

The curtain blows in, brushing your face. Thunder strains to cover your moans, loud even to your own ears. He is wonderful at..Gods! A lone finger enters your channel, as his lips and tongue remain on the folds themselves. Moist.

It's rain. Rain is coating your face. You can feel the thin mist as it blows in the window to brush your face. The smell of ozone follows. So moist. So wonderful. Long solitary digit slipping into your body. Sliding in and out. Tongue dancing, lips pulling. Hot. Steamy. Wet.

Finger dancing, sliding..cresting. You grab at the covers to keep your mental balance. What is this man trying to do? You can feel the beginnings of your orgasm, rising, pulling. Thunder. Groans. Gasps.

"Come for me, love."

Minds link again. You can hear his groans in your link, so tightly are you woven together. It feels as though his tongue rubs your entire body. All feeling is centered there, in your core. A core that he bathes consistently, with care.

"Come for me, love. Hurry."

His tongue reaches the tip of your clit as two fingers slid expertly in and out of your channel. You can feel the moisture on your face now and running out of you. Your breath hitches, climbing in pitch. The crest is upon you. Climbing. Climbing.

"Now, darling. Now."

At the sound of his voice, you vault into the stratosphere, flying. Rain, thunder, lightning gather around you. You can feel your muscles clasping his digits; hear his moan of arousal. And then you drift back to the ground, as you feel his mouth on yours, his body climbing over yours. You taste yourself, as his tongue sweeps into your mouth. As your eyes open, you are confronted with his eyes, deep colored with passion, glittering in the night.

You see the depths of his need, of his want, pressing for favor in his eyes. They shine like a torch in the night. The bed on either side of you dips from the weight of his hands and legs, as they are taut and shaking in strain. So much heat, so much passion. There is no passion, only serenity. You know that you do not have the Jedi proverb correct, but close enough. Looking at this man's face: lips slack and shining from your juices, beard glistening from nature's moisture and your own, hair askew, flushed skin and incredibly bright eyes, you know that there is indeed passion. A passion to rival the inferno of a star. And the man burns steadily with it.

His hands run down your neck to your breasts, sweeping over them. The normal friction of the skin is lessened by the rain-slicked fluidity that covers you now. The window still stands open, allowing the sounds and smells and touches of nature's own passion storm to cover the both of you. Neither one of you rises to close the window. Let nature join you in your pursuits. There will be time enough for a dry safe cocoon later.

You nipples tighten unbearably, pushed to their limit by his earlier caresses and now by the combined onslaught of his hands and the cooling breezes. His eyes waver from yours to center on your risen buds. As the spell is broken by the removal of his eyes, you begin to feel the rest of your body, and his. You become entirely aware of your surroundings once again. The first and most commanding feeling that you receive is that of his cock, hard and eager against your thigh. And in that feeling, all else pales.

Your hand cups his neck, pulling him for another eager kiss. He has said that speech is not acceptable. Fine, you will convince him with your lips. It is time for his pleasure. There is no other purpose for you at this moment, then to assure this gentle warrior that he will receive his completion. His hand curls around yours as it holds to his thick neck. His fingers brush at your wrist. With a slight shake of his head and then the joining of your lips. You take the lead, pulling, stroking at his lips. Your tongue rubs the interior of his lip, running over his rough teeth and into the sweetness beyond. Dark, humid and tasting of passion and promises, the interior of his mouth burns you.

You need me, you think.

"I have more then need of you, love." He answers, his mind voice gravely and tight. "I am burning."

His hand grabs your smaller one and lowers it to his erection, hot and coiled. Its surface is even hotter than it feels against your leg. Thick, the muscle is barely encased in your hand. You sigh happily as you run your hand along its length. He voices your attentions by groaning as your hand reaches his testicles and then travels back up slowly. You take great pleasure in the moans that he voices, and continue your assault with gentleness and purpose.

After two more strokes, he removes your hand. It is obvious that he is close to whatever pinnacle he ascends in his moments of passion. You lift your hand; your fingers slightly coated with his ardent juices. As you lift them to your mouth, his jaw falls slack. "Gods." You hear across the ether.

His movements are controlled, but barely. You can feel the urgency as it explodes out of his being. His arm nearly flies to your hips, curling under you, burying into the bedclothes. His skin there is hot against the cooled skin. With a sudden movement, he lifts your hips and swings your body around on the bed. Your hands fall to his shoulders, helping to ease the weight off of this straining arm. The swing completed, he returns to standing between your feet, at the edge of the bed.

Thunder roars nearby. It matches your feeling exactly. You are now bereft of the Master's body warmth and his presence. He needs to come back. Does he think that you do not need him too? As a streak of lightning occurs, you see him. Standing with his back arched slightly, legs spread, one hand on his hip. The other hand....well, the other hand is busy. His head falls back on his ample shoulders as you watch his hand drawing a slow dance along his length. You whimper out loud as the image from the bathtub is replayed in vertical position.

His head rights itself and he meets your eyes. It is as if an anchor has weighted on your gaze and you are unable to pull your eyes away. Seconds pass as the man holds your gaze and strokes himself. Thunder waves come and go, rain splashes in the sill of the window. No sound emanates from the two of you. It is as if nature is speaking for you. Listening to the swirl of the tempest released outside, you feel lightheaded, a part of the storm. His voice is low and hot in the dark as he breaks your silence.

"Gods, I want you."

You hold his gaze as you separate your legs for him. He comes no closer, though, watching your move like a preying cat. Your hands sweep down your own body, dragging across the dew on your skin. The dew is warm on the skin, yet icy as the cool breeze blows across it; again a contradiction that makes your senses reel. Your hand travels to the apex of your thighs, lingering and relaxing. This is not for your touch, you think. This act is reserved for this Jedi standing immobile by the foot of the bed.

"I need you, love."

His voice is low, mimicking the thunder that rolls across the sky. Almost as if it too, was borne of the lightning of passion and heralds the feelings approach across the distance. Warning, menacing of a power not understood, and not to be handled lightly.

"Come here."

These are the only words to leave your mouth this evening. You can almost see them float across the space, like a leaf on the breeze. His reaction is physical. He mounts the bed, crawling over you. You can feel the heat of his thighs as they settle between your own. His arms tense and support him. He rests so that his head is above yours; his hard cock is the only portion of his body in full contact with you.

"I cannot make promises."

You nod, reaching to clasp at his shoulders. You can feel the passion induced tremor in his muscles. The man is using amazing restraint, where another man would have roughly taken you and thanked you for it. He remains silent, waiting. After a time, your eyes lock with his, and as a passing bolt of lightning lights the room, you see the firm set of his jaw, the gentleness in his eyes.

"I would not ask for any, Qui-Gon, " you respond, nodding gently.

His mouth is gentle, as he tastes your lips with a chasteness that is betrayed by his heavy erection rubbing against your entrance. You grasp at his shoulders harder as you smell the musk of sex on his beard. Oh Gods! He wears your arousal like his cloak.

He kisses your lips deeply as you feel his erection prodding your entrance. Hot. Slippery, a combination of moisture of passion from the two of you. And.large.. Your eyes fly open at his entrance. The knight presses slowly, but you feel the strain in his shoulders, his neck. He wishes to thrust. Hard. One of your hands falls to his buttocks, urging him to sink in fully. His teeth grabbing at his lower lip follow his shake of his head. "Slowly. You are tight: I will not hurt you."

You gasp as he moves in further. Your back arches from the bed, your thighs lift to encircle his. Ache. He spreads you, spears you, and elongates you. His mouth falls to your lips again, nibbling. He slides in a little more. Ache, need. You experience these words fully. You need him completely within you. You ache.Gods! He gives up the slowness as he groans into your mouth. He sinks completely into you with a grunt.

You are impaled on the bed, unable to move or think. His eyes slip shut and he swallows convulsively. It is audible this closeness. You sigh his name as he groans yours. Hot breath brushes your ears, dancing across its cool flesh. He is heavy above you. You can feel the heaviness of his sac, laying against your buttocks; feel the strain in his powerful thighs pressing against your legs. "Hold on to me, love." He whispers.

You comply, sliding your hands further down his back as his raises his hips. You feel him sliding out of you, every inch. You are wet enough that the friction is minimal for you, but his size still spreads you. You gasp. Wide and thick, long and..your breath rushes out of you as he presses back in, groaning. The pressure is great.

Digging your nails into his back, you are rewarded with a grunt and he slides back in and immediately pulls out. He is soo large. Colossal, and he has the power to use it. You want his power, his drive, his need. Rubbing, pulling, ebb, flow. His hips begin to work, swaying in a circular thrust, and then a quick retreat. He does not speak, grunting with each thrust. There is no need for speech. You arch your back further as he slips his hand down to your thigh, holding it against his side.

"Yes." he sighs lowly, arching his back rubbing against you as he thrusts powerfully. He holds his position for a moment, looking into your eyes. "Hold on."

You gasp as his hand hitches your thigh up higher. His fingers dig in, holding your flesh tightly. In another flash, and a rumbling crash, you see his face, his eyes hooded. His hips begin to move, quickly, steadily. "I cannot hold back.." he moans.

"Then, don't."

You end the sentence on a gasp as he grabs your other thigh and works it up higher on his flank. The angle is perfect. He hits your sweet spot with every thrust. Every. Thrust. Gods, he is pounding into you now. Now. Now. Your hands fall above your head. Grasping at the headboard, you groan. You need solidity. You need solid.oh Gods, he is solid. One solid mass of man, thrusting, impaling..

His hair is wild above you now. He is balanced on your thighs and his knees, using his superior strength in his lower body to propel him. The smell of sex is strong around you, clinging to the air and the bedclothes. Flashes of lightning, drops of rain. thrusting, thrusting. You cry out as you feel the wave begin to gather you again. His size is growing within you. You can feel the expansion. This angle, Gods, this man!

He does not need to tell you. You can feel his impending eruption. You can taste it. He pleads you with his eyes, whispers words that you can not hear with your ears, but know with your heart. He wants you to join him. He wants you to come.

A hitched breath escapes you as you grab the headboard fully. You. Are. So. Close. He slides himself further into your thighs, grunting with need. You arch even more, allowing his gigantic cock to rub against your nub at the same time. Two thrusts are all that you need. White. Hot. Flashes. Dance across your eyes, grasp at your heart, allowing your breath to catch. A loud scream is heard from far away, lost in the fury of the storm now upon you, both within and without. Swirls of color. And then.

His voice joins yours. Shouting, yelling, pleading, and then a low keening groan. Your insides ignite with his hot seed as it jets into you. He thrusts for a few minutes, allowing his momentum to slow naturally. His body comes to a stop and he releases your thighs to allow them to fall to the bed. He eases back down on you, his hands helping to ease your tense muscles and teasing your hair back from your eyes. His gentle kiss again conveys his caring.

"Are you all right?" he asks, his heavy breaths interrupting his speech. "I didn't hurt you, love, did I?"

A sighed laugh is all that he needs to hear before his great chest shakes in a controlled rumble. You take a deep breath as he rolls the two of you so that your back is to the window. Tears prick at your eyes as you know that he is keeping you joined to him the only way that he is able to. His body, even softened, makes you feel full inside. His sigh and kiss are powerful. "Thank you, little one."

You nod, curling into his massive arms, into the warmth that his body offers and the cool night air steals away. You are tired. Warm baths, warm bodies and hot sex have stolen your wakefulness. You curl your hands into his hair, pulling him fully against you. Your small leg bends and lands between his. "Let us rest; there is time enough in the morning to talk." You sigh, sleep chasing you relentlessly.

"Aye, morning will be here soon enough." His voice rumbles above your head. "You are exhausted, little one- sleep."

You nod, barely completing the move. And with the sound of rain, the smell of flowers swirled with sex, you drift into a dreamless, restful slumber.

The morning light wakes you slowly, gently. The sun's rays on your face warm and awaken. With a sigh you stretch. The bed covers still hold the heaviness of the previous night's storm and you quickly get out of them. Moistness is pleasant only in some situations. The room is empty as you turn to survey it. Except for a lone note, balanced on the pillow next to yours. A small Alderaanian blue rose rests on the cream parchment paper. You slide over to the flower and grasp it in your hand. It is the smell borne on the wind last night, amidst the ozone and the sex. You sniff deeply and turn your attention to the note. It is written in a fine form:

Love,

Thank you. Take this flower, preserve it...it is the smell that you tried so hard to absorb into your soul last night. Remember me when you encounter it.

I have been called away. I am sure that you have noticed this. It is not my choice to leave you; it is simply my duty. I will return and I wish to know you better. Do not think I will forget. I will not. I will return for you and to you; my word as a Jedi.

Yours, in my heart,

Qui-Gon.

You set the page down. And turn to clean the bath beyond, a gentleness to your soul and a smile etched on your face. He will return.

Graphics used on the page are by Boogie Jack