“You’ve got a kitchenette this time!” Wedge Antilles considered the small stove. “Improvement over the last temporary quarters you had.”
“Wedge,” Mon Mothma said, dry and affectionate, “Please tell me that is not your main focus right now.”
Wedge ducked his head, small smile on his face. “Of course not. Ma’am.”
Mon smiled, hooked a finger under his flak jacket, and backed both of them up until her thighs hit her desk. She perched on it, tugging Wedge between her knees with that same single finger.
Wedge’s smile grew. “Missed you, Mon.”
Mon kept tugging until his lips were on hers.
Wedge still smelled of fuel and metal and sweat, his own particular musk woven with the scents of his ship. Mon kissed him deeply, tasting battle on him. She pulled back, looked at him, fresh from a fight, eyes still bright with it.
Mon privately thought she had never seen Wedge so beautiful. “Missed you too, Wedge.”
“I couldn’t wait to see you.” Wedge looked down at himself, a little sheepish. “Though, now that I’m here, I realize I should have changed. You want me to shower, come back after?”
Mon growled, “Don’t you dare,” and pulled him in against her, pressing an open-mouthed kiss against his neck, tasting his skin.
Wedge groaned, his hands hovering at his sides.
She always appreciated his lack of presumption. “Touch me, Antilles.”
He did. She got him half-out of his flight suit, bare chested and on his knees, had him eating her out slowly as she pushed aside the ten-thousand worries of the Rebellion to fall over into ecstasy.
She then let him take the rest of his clothes off and fuck her on top of the desk, his thumb on her clit and his cock thick and hot inside her as she came around him a second time.
And then, both of them spent, he winked, and slid down to his knees again, against her gasping protest of, “Wedge. I don’t think I’ve got a third in m—”
His cunning mouth quickly proved her wrong.
So Mon found it more than a little ridiculous when Wedge, still on his knees, head lolling against her thigh, turned his attention back to the kitchenette. “I’d like to cook for you.”
“You cook?” Mon said, carding her fingers through his hair.
“I...dont. But…” Wedge was interrupted by a yawn, but, tenacious to the end, finished his sentence. “...wish I could. For you. You have’ta do so much. Deserve good things…”
Mon tugged him to his feet, steadying him as he tipped with exhaustion. “The mess gives me food, Wedge. You feed me in different ways. With you I can...simply be.” She brushed his dark fringe out of his eyes. “It’s extraordinary.”
Wedge ducked his head. “My pleasure.”
“Literally,” Mon deadpanned, and Wedge laughed. He wrapped his arms around her and she pillowed her head on his chest, losing herself in the sound of his heartbeat.