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It was an indulgent way to spend the evening. Indulgent and a few unwise decisions short of recklessness. It had come to his attention that a certain senator would be in attendance at the Opening Gala for the Galaxies Opera House, and the chance to see her again—to exchange more barbs and provocations—was too enticing to pass up.
Oh, how he’d been looking forward to this.
Their last encounter, at Sculdun's Investiture Banquet, had been quite the reversal of their usual dynamic.
In a senate hearing they each had their role. She held the power—the illusion of power anyway—and acted with the authority of the Imperial Senate while he navigated the fine line between cooperating and protecting classified military intelligence. There were heated sessions, of course, but ultimately they were constrained by the rules of the venue.
But, at Sculdun’s? He had challenged her immediately. Dared her to argue. How could he not?
Some senators might have smiled politely, played along to keep the peace. She smiled politely, then responded in kind. That delightful exchange set the tone that evening.
She had not faltered or flinched when he pointed out the savagery of the Carmeenians that she would brand as rebels.
Causing something treasonous to tumble from that pretty mouth would have been quite the achievement, but he hadn’t expected to succeed. He would have been disappointed if it had been that easy. It would take much more to bully Mon Mothma into saying something openly anti-Imperial. Nevertheless, it had been a thrilling exchange. He wouldn’t miss an opportunity for a repeat performance.
Orson had claimed a table with a clear line of sight to the landing pads, and sipped a neat Tevraki whiskey as he scanned the entryway of the opera house. It was filled with bars, high-top tables, and waitstaff—both droid and organic—that navigated the sea of guests with trays of drinks and appetizers.
He appreciated a good party, but this was a dull affair. Patrons of the arts, politicians, and other self-important bores pretending they weren’t here to play at politics was not his idea of fun. The drinks, however, were excellent.
It wasn’t long before he spotted Organa and his ilk, but Senator Mothma wasn’t among them.
Disappointing, but likely for the best. When his interest in the senator had shifted from an amusing diversion into something more he couldn't say. But it was dangerous. She was dangerous. A known rebel sympathizer and outspoken against Imperial ideology. Too outspoken to go unnoticed.
The ISB’s efforts to link her directly to Rebel activity had failed so far. But, it was just a matter of time. The risks of getting involved with someone like her were innumerable, yet here he was—angling for a confrontation.
Leaving without laying eyes on her wasn’t an option. But neither was waiting all night.
He downed the rest of his whiskey, savoring the sweet burn, donned his gloves, and resigned himself to small talk. He hadn’t noticed anyone truly worth his time, but it would be conspicuous to attend an event like this and speak to no one. It was also something to do until he either crossed paths with the senator or came to his senses.
A pair of officers approached him before too long, and leapt at the chance to blather at him. They had nothing of substance to say, which suited his needs perfectly. He didn’t need to be engaged, he just needed to look it.
She appeared in his periphery while he was mid anecdote. He fought the urge to excuse himself immediately, determined to continue his story without acknowledging her presence. Determined to make her wait like she had made him wait all evening.
He failed miserably.
Any thoughts he had that didn’t pertain to her evaporated. How could he be expected to focus on anything other than her presence? He took in every detail of her.
She was dressed elegantly, of course. This gown was a similar color to the one she wore at Sculdun’s, but the similarities ended there. Tonight her neck was bare save for a simple golden chain, her shoulders were hardly covered, and a draped sleeve fell around her right arm.
He swallowed hard, overly aware of his gloves as his hands clenched into fists. He took a breath, and focused on uncurling and stretching his fingers.
“Director Krennic, what a pleasure it is to see you again. And so soon.” She smiled sweetly enough, but there was no missing the affront paired with her greeting. She hadn’t wanted to see him at the Investiture Banquet and she didn’t want to see him now.
It was a rare treat for her to fire the opening salvo.
“The pleasure is mine, Senator.” He embraced the opportunity for innuendo.
He cast a glance back to his conversation partners, who were already making a hasty retreat. Good.
“I had no idea you were interested in opera.” Her tone was conversational, but the implication was plain. In her eyes he lacked the sophistication to enjoy opera. “You seem far too—”
“Boring?” He challenged. Her little dig was petty. Entirely baseless. Which shouldn’t have bothered him. Petty little digs were the foundation of their professional relationship. So why did that sting?
“Too busy,” she corrected, still smiling.
“Well, it’s hardly a topic that would come up during one of our committee meetings.”
She blinked, holding her eyes closed for a moment too long, but didn’t comment on his choice of words. “Of course.”
“But, if you’d like to learn more about my personal interests…” He let the suggestion hang there between them.
She pointedly ignored the bait, and waved down a wait droid that was serving champagne. The droid stopped next to him, but Orson was so enamored that he didn’t think to pass her a drink—and by the time he did think to pass her a drink, she was already brushing past to stand between him and the droid.
Their bodies didn’t touch, but there was a maddening, barely-there friction between the fabric of her dress and the crisp white of his uniform. This close he felt the heat that radiated from her, he saw the dusting of freckles over her shoulders, and he smelled the light floral, citrus and woody notes of her perfume.
She overwhelmed his senses.
The impulse to take her by the waist and bury his nose in her hair, or press his nose behind her ear to fully appreciate her choice of perfume, was a powerful one. That was out of the question for countless reasons. If he scared her off now the entire evening would be a waste.
He cleared his throat, and somehow managed to take a half step back.
The Senator glanced at him over her bare shoulder, seemingly unbothered by his closeness—which ignited his imagination. Inspired thoughts of her gasping and writhing beneath him, flush faced and looking back at him over her shoulder.
“Director?” Her voice pulled him out of his poorly timed fantasy. She smiled politely. “Would you like a drink?”
When had his collar become so tight? “Please.”
She stepped away from the droid, and turned carefully. A flute of sparkling wine in each hand, each stem gripped between her elegant fingers.
The faintest of smiles pulled at her perfect lips as she passed him the drink. Their fingertips touched briefly as he took the glass from her, and he'd never so deeply regretted having his gloves on.
She raised her glass to him, eyes twinkling.
He mirrored the motion, but he couldn't take his eyes off of her. His attention fixed on her painted lips as she brought the glass to her mouth for a taste—
"There you are, Darling."
Her blasted husband appeared at her side, his hand brushing her bare shoulder—every muscle in Krennic’s body tensed. The husband leaned in close, speaking softly enough that the words were drowned out by the noise around them. It wasn't quite romantic, but there was an intimacy to it that rankled him. Which, of course, was ridiculous.
The Senator nodded, resting her hand on the husband's arm. They exchanged a few more inaudible words, and then she finally returned her attention to him.
“Director, if you’ll excuse me." She offered an apologetic smile—it was almost convincing—and disappeared back into the crowd.
Krennic forced a laugh and downed his champagne in one gulp. He desperately needed a distraction from how close she’d been standing, the way their fingers brushed when he took the drink she offered, and how easy it would have been to reach out and touch her.
He was pulled into another conversation without even realizing it. Not truly. They talked at him, got to be seen speaking to him while his thoughts were still entirely occupied by Senator Mothma.
He could still leave—he should leave. Put this evening of rash decisions behind him and return to his battle station. But even as he considered leaving he couldn’t take his eyes off of her.
She flitted about from one conversation to the next. First with her husband in tow, then with Organa or one of their equally troublesome peers—who would no doubt become more troublesome if they noticed his interest in their colleague. So he observed from a distance.
Truly, she was in her element. An entirely different woman from the one who set out to make his life difficult. This part of her wasn’t meant for him, which lent an illicitness to the thrill of watching her.
Unsurprisingly, she noticed. She met his gaze for a moment, but her expression didn’t provide a hint of what she might be thinking.
What was she hiding beneath that diplomatic composure?
After she spotted him—or acknowledged that she’d spotted him—she managed to slip out of sight.
Was this her next provocation, or had she decided she was done with their game for the evening?
Surely not.
As if in response, he caught sight of her climbing one of the roped off staircases that led deeper into the opera house.
He was done being patient.
He found the senator near the top of the stairway, leaning against the intricate guardrail as she sipped her drink—something blue and bubbly—and watched over the crowd below with a keen interest.
No husband, or colleagues, or stray partygoers in sight.
This was for him.
He moved to stand beside her, attention drawn to her bare shoulder. It took everything in him to keep his hands off of her. He imagined dropping a kiss there. What would her skin taste of? How would she react? Would she push him away? Slap him? Try to swallow a breathy little noise before he could hear it?
Instead, he leaned on the railing beside her and asked, “Who could possibly be interesting enough to hold your attention?”
“Despite claims to the contrary, this is a political gathering.” She didn’t elaborate any further. She didn’t need to. Watching and reading people were necessities for career politicians.
“Do you ever stop working?”
“Do you?”
A reflection on their shared sacrifice in the name of the Empire. The sacrifice they were meant to share, anyway. He almost admired her commitment to the performance.
“I suppose not.”
She glanced in his direction, favoring him with a practiced smile. Practiced, but still less guarded than he had ever seen from her. Her eyes gleamed with something he couldn’t quite place. She regarded him silently, then her gaze slid away from his. Her defenses fell back into place, and she affected an air of ease.
Where had her mind gone? Perhaps weighing the risks of continuing this conversation with him.
“I wasn't aware we had so many acquaintances in common,” she said. Her tone almost playful.
Not for the first time, he wondered why she had allowed her daughter to marry the Sculdun boy. A curious move for someone as supposedly upright as Mon Mothma. But still she considered the Sculduns acquaintances. Not family.
He turned his back on the party, folding his arms as he leaned back against the railing.
"Perhaps we don’t. Perhaps I'm here to see you.”
She laughed—the sound was light, genuine—and arched a perfect eyebrow. Unconvinced.
The silence stretched between them, and when he didn’t elaborate, or admit to joking she laughed again. This time it was brittle and full of apprehension. She turned her attention back to the attendees below, and took a long sip from her sparkling wine. A flush bloomed across her cheeks.
What else made her flush that way? Would it creep down her throat? Across her chest?
Krennic leaned in closer, "I enjoyed that bout of verbal sparring the last time we saw each other. It was quite stimulating.”
All traces of her openness—her vulnerability—vanished. “Stimulating? That’s not quite the word I would use.”
“What word would you use?”
“Aggressive,” she offered.
He scoffed.
“Manipulative.”
He couldn’t argue with that.
“Threatening?”
“Threatening? You wound me, Senator.” He refused to examine the fact that his hurt feelings were not entirely feigned. “I was under the impression that we were engaged in a friendly debate.”
She let out a contemptuous laugh.
“Is that how you treat your friends? Have you come to apprehend me? Or did you volunteer to join the surveillance team that monitors me every hour of the blasted day?”
He considered saying nothing, curious to see what she would do with the silence. But it was impossible to resist the urge to needle her.
“As much as I might enjoy monitoring every hour of your day”—he was imagining her in bed, hand working frantically between her thighs, and body flushed with need, before he even finished the taunt—“my duties are far more pressing.”
She bristled, and opened her mouth to argue.
He didn’t let her.
“Perhaps if your political leanings hadn’t become so radical these last few years, you would be much less interesting to the ISB.”
Fear shaped her expression for an instant before she was in control again. If he hadn’t been entirely fixated on her already—if he hadn’t been the cause of fear in so many faces—he might have missed it.
"Surely you don't think I’m capable of treason." Ever the actress, she projected a dismissive air, with a hint of amusement.
He hummed in consideration, and folded his arms as he took her in. “I haven't decided what I think,” he said finally.
Her expression betrayed nothing this time. Her best move would have been to let his comment slide. If she addressed it she would only create more openings for him to exploit.
She did not let his comment slide.
“We both know I’ve dedicated my life to the Senate. To the Empire.”
Her eyes glimmered with a dangerous intensity. She was absolutely breathtaking like this. Still, he was compelled to push her further.
"I know nothing of the sort.”
He saw it, the moment that she almost took the bait, almost said something that she couldn’t un-say. But she caught herself, slowed down enough to study him as closely as she’d been studying the other attendees.
He’d been on the receiving end of her scrutiny before, but this was different. Her usually cool gaze was scalding as she took him in. Saw him. Those eyes set his heart racing.
She laughed. Utterly humorless.
He preferred the brightness of her earlier laugh, and pushed that thought away. Ignored it. He couldn’t have any interest in her beyond this game. This temptation…
"Is this what you consider flirtation?"
He chuckled openly.
"Forgive me, Mon,” he tested her name out loud. It felt at home on his tongue. “I meant what I said about our little debate being stimulating…”
The first time he'd been summoned to her committee it had been an inconvenience, an irritation, an outrage—and he’d stated exactly that. The second time—the many subsequent times—he could have easily left the matter to a subordinate. But if he’d done that he would have missed out on all the fun. The sparring, the glimpses of fire raging beneath her mask, even the sting of defeat that came with his failure. By now it was a dance they both knew well.
“But, it wouldn’t be proper of me to flirt with you while you’re out with your husband, would it?"
“You”—she imbued the word with an impressive amount of disdain—“are concerned with propriety?”
“Only on occasion. We can’t all be the very embodiment of propriety. Although…” He craned his neck theatrically, taking in their surroundings with mock concern, “I don’t see your husband.”
She sighed.
“Perrin had a conflicting engagement this evening. He was determined to put in an appearance at both events.”
An invitation? A misstep? Either way his response was the same.
“Brave of him to leave you here on your own. And looking like that...”
Again she rose to his challenge fueled by impulse instead of caution. She failed to see the pitfall he’d guided her to before she spoke. “Looking like what, exactly?”
A smile tugged at his lips as he turned to face her. Questionable allegiances aside, she was without peer as a politician. She excelled in oration and persuasion—but those honed skills and years of experience fell away with his persistent prodding. Knowing that he alone could do that to her was intoxicating.
“Don’t play coy, Mon. The image you present to the galaxy is carefully curated.”
“Meaning?”
He moved closer, dragging his gaze over her bare skin. He brought his hand to her shoulder, and lightly traced a circle with his gloved thumb.
Her breath hitched.
He took her drink and set it aside, then he brought his mouth to her ear, “Meaning that you chose to put all of this beautiful skin on display...” He brought his hand to the back of her neck, and trailed his fingers down her vertebrae, one by one. “Just begging to be touched.”
She shivered at the contact, but didn’t pull away.
“I wonder how you’d sound if I touched you here”—he tapped his knuckle to the enticing spot below her ear—“with my bare hands? My mouth?”
Her eyes fell shut, lips parting in anticipation.
He leaned in, nearly close enough to get his answer, but he stopped short. “What wanton little noises would you make if I kept this up? Light and teasing until you're reduced to a needy mess?”
She gasped, looking up at him expectantly.
He hesitated. She was clearly willing. Even if she weren’t, he knew he could pin her against the railing and take what he wanted from her. But what he wanted more than her body was her desire. He wanted this pull he felt toward her—despite his better judgement, despite the potential dangers—to be mutual.
He lifted her chin and ghosted his thumb across her lower lip. She opened her eyes, they had gone dark with desire and her face was flushed a beautiful pink.
Their earlier flirtations had run on a warm, steady tension, but now the heat was stifling, the tension drawn to its breaking point.
He dragged his thumb over her lip again, just as teasingly as he'd threatened.
Frustration flared in those molten eyes for an instant, quickly replaced with a glint of self-satisfaction. Her lips parted and she swiped her tongue over the pad of his still gloved thumb.
A mortifying noise caught in his throat, and his cock twitched in anticipation.
Before he had a chance to recover, she tilted her head, drew the tip of his thumb into her mouth and bit him. Not an attack, but a firm, consistent pressure. Just this side of painful.
"Kriff." His lingering doubts about the evening evaporated.
Mon brought her hands to his wrist, and replaced the near-pain of her teeth with the press of her tongue. She took the rest of his thumb in her mouth, sucking and swallowing around him.
Even through the leather the wet heat of her was maddening. She took him as deep as she could, like it was his cock in her mouth, vibrating around him with a muffled moan. Fuck. Would she moan the same way when it was his cock in her mouth?
When she pulled off of him—slow and teasing—she dragged her teeth against his thumb.
His pulse pounded, impossibly loud as they locked eyes, and studied each other.
After that display she could no longer deny her interest in him.
He closed the distance between them, shoved her against the railing, trapped her against it and claimed her mouth with a firm, deliberate kiss. She met him with equal force, grabbing his tunic with both hands, and eagerly opened her mouth to him. A whimper caught in her throat as their tongues slid together.
There was a desperation to her that he hadn’t expected. Who would have guessed the cool headed senator would be so needy? Who would let her become so needy?
He touched her everywhere—leather gloves sliding against her silken dress, firmly gripping her hips, grabbing her ass as he tried to pull her impossibly closer.
She broke the kiss, gasping for breath. Orson didn’t let that deter him. He placed a few kisses on her jaw, below her ear, and along her shoulder. He paid special attention to the place he’d fantasized about kissing earlier, including a teasing drag of his teeth.
Mon let out a shuddering gasp, and the thought of leaving her skin marked—where her careless husband would see, so thoroughly that she’d be reminded of him for days while carrying out her senatorial busy work—overtook him.
He nipped and sucked his way down her neck, experimenting to find what she liked best, and what left the prettiest marks on her skin.
"Orson," She breathed his name against his shoulder. The only time she’d said it without stating it in full for the record in one of her blasted committee sessions.
That beautiful noise nearly destroyed him, dragged an infuriating groan out of him. As if he’d never driven anyone to gasp his name before. As if he couldn’t control himself.
Maybe he couldn’t control himself. He was here, after all, playing at whatever this was.
If he couldn’t control himself when it came to her, he was taking a much bigger risk than he’d anticipated.
She could sense the change in him, and the power went straight to her head. He returned his mouth to hers, but she leaned away. That rejection should have irritated him, but there was something fitting about her pausing to provoke him.
Mon chuckled, sounding far too pleased with herself when she asked, “Do you make a habit of accosting your political enemies at boring parties?”
“Enemies?” He pretended to consider, trailing his hands up her sides, and down the back of her dress in hopes of finding a zip or fastener. If there was one it wasn’t easily detectable, and he was losing patience. The entire evening so far had been an excruciating test of his patience. “You would be the first.”
“But otherwise a habit?” There was a hint of judgment in her tone. “And how many times have you been caught?”
“If you’re worried about getting caught”—he leaned in close, lips brushing against her ear—“I suggest you keep quiet.”
“I can keep quiet. Can you?”
Heat coursed through him. While the challenge rankled, he didn’t doubt his abilities. He’d already drawn several enticing noises from her and he hadn’t even touched her properly. Once he got between her legs it would be impossible for her to stay quiet.
“We’ll have to see, won’t we?” He grabbed at her skirt, roughly attempting to hike it up. “Now, get this blasted dress out of my way unless you want it ruined.”
Mon frowned, and managed to look quite serious despite how flushed and desirous she was. She swatted at his hand.
“Stop,” she ordered. Firm, but not unkind. Much to his chagrin he released the fistful of fabric he’d been clutching.
With much more consideration than he’d shown, Mon gathered her skirt, and like an absolute tease lifted it high enough to grant him access, but not enough to let him get a real look at her. Oh how he wanted to see all of her. He wanted to turn her around and take her against the railing. He wanted to fall to his knees, pull down her undoubtedly fashionable underwear and bury his face between her thighs—though that would interrupt the needling and bickering and all of the filthy things he planned to whisper in her ear. He wanted to peel off his gloves and—
She caught him by the wrist, made no move to remove his glove, and guided his hand to her hip.
This woman…
Far too impatient to properly acquaint himself with her body, he captured her mouth with his and worked his hand between her thighs—and kriff him! She didn’t have any underwear on, and even through the leather he could feel the heat of her, the easy slide of his fingers proved how wet she was. For him.
Mon whimpered desperately into his mouth, leaned into his touch. Chasing more contact. More friction.
Orson broke the kiss, he couldn’t pass up a chance to tease her. His voice came out low and ragged. “Oh, Senator,”—he slid a finger teasingly alongside her clit, through her slick folds, and easily sank it into her cunt—“who is this for?”
She gasped and shuddered against him, muscles contracting around him, like she was already on the edge.
“Surely you haven’t been socializing all evening like this? So wet and ready, with nothing on under your gown?” While he managed to feign disbelief, his restraint was failing. “You all but insisted you didn’t find our encounters stimulating.”
With a strained laugh, she said, “Perhaps, it’s supporting the arts that I find stimulating.”
He curled his finger inside her, stroking that spot that could have her seeing stars. That could unravel the last of her composure, leaving her with nothing left but desire for him.
“You find me stimulating.”
She didn’t respond, but the way her walls contracted around him said everything. He withdrew, teasing her with his still-gloved fingertips.
“You wanted me to follow you up here. At some point, you excused yourself from your bore of a husband to peel off your lovely, ruined underwear…”
He pressed two fingers at her entrance, rubbing his thumb over her clit until her hips rocked in invitation, and pushed into the slick, tight, heat of her.
The long, low noise he dragged out of her went straight to his aching cock. And even though he had her pinned against the railing, and she had a fierce grip on his shoulders, he could feel her knees go weak.
“I’ve thought about this before. Imagined kriffing you while you questioned me. All of that righteous superiority begging to be stripped away.”
Oh, the way she looked at him. Tried to glare at him even as her hips rocked against his hand. He rewarded her with a languid thrust of his fingers.
“You’ve thought about it too. How could you not? Who else truly challenges you? Who else sees through your senatorial facade? Sees the woman underneath?”
Mon’s breathing had gone shallow and ragged, her grip on his uniform twisting tighter. The unhurried slide of his fingers driving her ever closer to her release.
“I think when we spar the blood rushes to your cunt, and you get as wet as you are right now”—he curled his fingers for emphasis—“and when we’re done you go back to your office, and you come on your own pretty fingers while thinking of me.”
“You have quite the imagination, Director,” she countered, as if he didn’t have a hand up her skirt, as if she weren’t obscenely wet for him.
He pulled out, taking a step back as he brought his hand to his mouth. Mon clung to the guard rail like her life depended on it, gasping for breath, her chest just as beautifully flushed as her face. For an agonizing instant he feared she might storm off. But she didn’t. She fixed her gaze on him instead. Watching his hand intently.
Orson flashed a knowing grin, and took a glistening leather fingertip between his teeth. He held it there, briefly enjoying the taste of her—he would properly taste her, but not tonight—then began pulling the glove off.
The intensity of her eyes on him sent a thrill down his spine. He watched her right back as he tugged on another finger with his teeth, and once the glove was off he tucked it away.
Her impatience and frustration were tangible.
He crowded back into her space, and brought his bare hand to her throat, where he could feel her heated skin, the rapid throb of her pulse, and the movement of each shallow breath. He looped a finger under her necklace, rolling the chain between his fingertips for a moment before moving on to trace her collarbone.
And then his hand was under her skirt again, sliding between her thighs to finally feel her desire for him. That pulled a moan from him. He hated himself for it, but then she was moaning too, and he couldn’t be bothered to feel anything beyond the all consuming need to keep touching her. To make her shatter and come apart for him.
He traced a few teasing circles around her clit—avoided giving it the attention it ached for—then drove his bare fingers inside of her. She moaned, filthy and indecent, her muscles contracting greedily around him.
"Please.”
He swallowed a groan. It was ridiculous how far gone he was. She hadn't laid a finger on him.
“Please what, Senator?"
She wriggled desperately against him, seeking more pressure, more movement. Any movement. But she remained silent.
“Tell me.”
She didn’t seem the type to be shy about her desires, but he wanted to hear her say it. Say what she wanted from him, to admit that she wanted him—needed him to get her off.
Instead of telling him she laughed, like she was privy to some great secret. “I find it difficult to believe that a man of your reputation needs me to spell it out."
Even with his fingers buried in her, she insulted him. Tried to goad him into doing what she wanted instead of admitting she wanted it. He began to move inside her at a torturously slow pace.
While he would prefer to hear her say the words—to beg him to kriff her—their desires were aligned. He wanted to make her lose control. Craved it.
But now he was distracted by what she’d said… He knew what reputation she meant. What he couldn’t figure out was how she knew. A lucky barb? An educated guess? It was unlikely to come up while researching him in any official capacity. Could it have been something she heard a lifetime ago, when they simply knew of each other? The idea that back then he might have held a fraction of her attention was a potent, heady thing.
"What reputation would that be?” He asked, teasing her with his fingertips before plunging two fingers back into her cunt. Her hips rocked desperately against him, yet she managed to huff out a shaky breath, and meet his gaze with a glimmer of defiance in her eyes.
"That you fucked your way through the Republic Futures Program. And the Corp of Engineers.”
Until that moment he’d been deeply focused on her. Had hoped to draw out her pleasure for as long as possible, to see how many orgasms he could wring out of her with just his fingers, to keep fucking her this way until his arm gave out—
But now that she’d deployed such a perfect taunt, a taunt that drew his attention back to his neglected cock, any notion of drawing things out was forgotten.
He shoved her against the railing again, ravaging her mouth as he fucked into her with his fingers. She was teetering on the edge. Every muscle in her body went beautifully tense, and her mouth stilled against his.
He finally moved his thumb against the stiffness of her clit, a few steady strokes was all it took to push her over the edge. She cried out against his mouth, her whole body shaking as she spasmed around him. He didn't let up, circling her clit until she choked out a sob.
“For someone who doesn’t want to be caught you’re making an awful lot of noise.”
“Shut up,” she gasped, hips still rolling, cunt still clutching around him. He stilled his hand and eased off of her clit, but left his fingers inside of her.
Shut up. The way he throbbed in response verged on humiliating. If anyone else had dared to speak to him that way—
Before he could finish the thought she was dragging him down into another frenzied kiss, hips rocking, trying to coax his fingers into moving within her.
He broke the kiss, forehead pressed to hers. “Insatiable,” he gasped, part accusation, part encouragement.
“Well,” she said, the note of challenge in her tone at odds with the breathless mess she’d become. Because of him. “If you’re not feeling up to the task…”
It required great effort, but he pushed aside the part of himself that took the barb personally. As more than the next move in their game. Instead he dedicated his efforts to bringing her to orgasm a second time.
He didn’t allow her to catch her breath, or squirm away when he found a wonderfully over-sensitive spot that made her jump.
“That’s it,” he urged, mouth pressed against hers. “Come for me again and I’ll let you have my cock.”
If her first orgasm was a surrender of her control, then her second was him wresting it from her. Destroying it. She couldn’t keep quiet, and he delighted in silencing her with his mouth. Capturing every wonderful noise she made. They were his, after all.
She sagged against him, gasping and trembling through the aftershocks. He lazily kissed and nipped at her neck while she caught her breath, and when he was confident that she could stand without his support, he loosened his hold on her. When he finally pulled out, he leaned away from her just enough to bring his fingers to his mouth, to greedily devour any trace of her arousal.
Mon’s eyes blazed as she hauled him down into a wild kiss, her tongue drove into his mouth, and stars, she moaned at the taste of herself. The kiss ended much too soon, but before he could say so Mon turned him so his back was against the railing.
She leaned into his space, her bottom lip drawn between her teeth as she smiled up at him. Beautiful. She hooked a finger under his sash, tugged at it playfully, then she did the same with his belt. Every muscle in his body tensed in anticipation.
When she palmed him through his trousers, Orson forgot how to breathe.
He caught her by the wrist, and pulled her close. “If you keep that up you’ll have me coming in my pants like a blasted teenager.”
Mon had caught her breath, but she was still flushed pink, and her eyes were still dark with need. “Is that meant to deter me? I quite like the idea of the formidable Director Krennic losing control under my touch…”
“Mon,” he began, but there was nothing more he could say. He couldn’t admit that giving up any amount of control to her was appealing. Nor could he admit that he was desperate to be inside her, to drag another orgasm out of her, to come undone as her cunt spasmed around him. Kriff, the thought of sending her back to her dull husband, with his cum dripping down her thighs was nearly enough to—
Mon opened his trousers, and when she closed her hand around him, any lingering disappointment about not fucking her properly, evaporated.
For an agonizing eternity she held him there, unmoving. Grip firm enough to prevent him from thrusting, from getting any friction. A needy noise caught in his throat.
Finally she gave him a teasing stroke. Too light and too slow. Then she tightened her hold on him, rubbing her thumb over the head of his cock, spreading precum with every swipe.
“So hard for me,” she said, breath hot against his neck. Her voice low and teasing. “What would your superiors say if they saw you like this? So desperate for my touch?”
She didn’t give him a chance to answer—he didn’t have an answer, or room for thought beyond her hand around him—giving him a slow, deliberate stroke.
“You’re right, Orson. You challenge me in ways others don’t. I expect that goes both ways. Who else is not only allowed, but expected to challenge you? To best you?”
That had him bucking into her grasp. He had no retort or argument ready. She was right, and he was too far gone.
He was at the precipice, her name ready on his lips, like some sort of admission. No. He refused to give her that. He brought his mouth to the crook of her neck, and teased her with a few nips before he bit down. Hard.
And then he was tumbling over the edge, losing control under her touch just as she’d wanted, shouting against her shoulder as all of the tension that had built up over the evening was finally released.
Even as he pulsed in her grasp, spilling over her elegant fingers, she continued to stroke him. When her touch verged on too much she stopped, and withdrew her hands from his pants.
Mon was absolutely stunning—her skin still flushed, her pupils still wide. She flashed a wicked little smile, incredibly pleased with herself, and brought her fingers to her mouth. Her eyes were locked on his as she swiped her tongue up along her finger.
He wouldn't have thought she could look more pleased with herself, until she spoke. "Open."
Orson stared, at a complete loss for words.
Mon arched an eyebrow, almost scolding. And to his complete and utter horror he opened his mouth. He wasn't put off by the act so much as his alarming willingness to do as she asked.
She brought one of her fingers to his mouth, holding it against his lower lip. He had half expected her to be rough, to push her fingers into his mouth, and maybe try to gag him. It was humiliating to admit, even to himself, that he might have enjoyed that. She waited, and raised her eyebrow again.
He pushed his tongue against her finger to taste himself. Was she testing him? Seeing what she could get him to do? He wasn't certain where the line was, which concerned him.
She pressed her finger farther into his mouth. Just a bit. Just enough to stoke his desire, to start him fantasizing about exploring every inch of her with his tongue.
Then her finger was gone. She smiled at him, sweetly sated. She wasn't entirely open to him, but there was an honesty to her that he'd never been allowed to see before. She did not allow him to reflect on that. She brought her hand to his chest, still slick with his cum, and brazenly wiped it on his uniform next to his rank plaque.
Orson was speechless. He always had a snide remark ready. A strategic retort. And certainly always one to deploy against Senator Mon Mothma.
She laughed—though not cruelly—and watched him as she righted herself. She smoothed her skirt, touched each piece of jewelry to ensure it was in place. The simple gold chain around her neck, each earring, the rings she wore. Was Chandrila one of the many worlds that used rings as a symbol of marriage and commitment? Had she just made him come with her wedding ring against his cock? Kriff, if he hadn't just come, that was the kind of thought that could get him there in a hurry.
She turned away from him to adjust the way her breasts sat in the dress, which seemed ridiculous after the things they'd just done, and he deeply regretted how little attention he'd paid them.
Her hair was surprisingly neat, and what needed adjusting she effortlessly fixed by feel.
"How do I look?"
Radiant.
He cleared his throat, eyes darting to the marks he'd left along the left side of her neck.
"Nearly presentable," he said. After a long moment of consideration, he added, "Though you look like you've been mauled."
"Wasn't I?" She laughed softly, trailing her fingers over the marks he'd left.
They stood there for a moment, quietly assessing one another. Before the silence could become truly awkward she composed herself, retreating back behind her senatorial facade.
"Goodnight, Director," she said with a nod. Her tone was painfully perfunctory. As if they hadn't just come apart together.
He watched her go, pushing down the touch of discomfort that sparked in him. He straightened himself as—much as he could with his own cum smeared on his uniform, anyway—and summoned his driver by comlink.
Who else was allowed to best him, indeed. She had done that tonight, hadn’t she?
And he had been shortsighted in his desire. Now the true risk of his interest in the Senator shifted into focus. An evening of pursuing her—and having her—at a public gathering was reckless, but how could he stop there?
How could he possibly endure one of those blasted sessions—with her pointed questions, her barbs masked in professionalism, the durasteel in her gaze—and focus on anything other than fucking her? How could he be in her proximity, feigning disinterest through volleys of debate, with the knowledge of what it did to her—what he did to her—and do nothing?
He couldn’t.
Some part of him recognized the risks. Mon was a clever political adversary—suspected of treason, no less—yet that didn’t temper his desire for her.
No, his desire for her had only grown. He was desperate to be inside her, to bring her to orgasm while properly fucking her, to come inside her.
This evening could not be the last. Surely she felt the same way. The way she’d reacted to his touch. The way she’d touched him. The things she’d said while her hand was wrapped around his cock.
He offered her something no one else could. Not her colleagues in the Senate, not her useless husband. She hid so much from them. He saw her clearly, even if only in glimpses. She would welcome a repeat of the evening’s events. How could he deny her that?