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A gloved hand ghosts over your skin, trailing from the delicate spot behind your ear down into the V of your tunic. Your heart thrums wildly under cool leather fingertips. He must feel it, this delirious beating behind your sternum.
“Are you frightened?”
His voice is softer without the helmet but still low, throaty. His head is cocked to one side, black mane of hair outlined with the faintest halo of starlight. He's a silhouette against the viewport, his face in shadow, but you can see the gleam in his dark eyes. If you lie to me I will know, and be displeased, he'd once warned; and you're sure he would know, in that way of his, with that strange power you don't fully understand.
“You know that I am.”
The admission comes out a whisper but his mouth twists into the smallest smirk, as if satisfied with your honesty. You're not truly afraid of him, not anymore... but you're jumpy, your stomach a mass of unmanageable nerves. He slides one hand around the base of your skull, tilting your head up as if to examine you. His gaze moves over your face thoughtfully, languidly.
“You're so open to me,” he muses. “Your face hides nothing. Even now you blush; blushing more, now that I've noticed it. Don't be shy. It's just you and me.”
His kiss is neither gentle nor rough; more set, purposeful. His arms are so solid, his embrace resolute, hands spreading across the small of your back as your fingers splay out on his chest. Kissing is not new territory but he's never kissed you like this before, with such depth, a sort of decisive passion that was violent not in physical sensation but in its unstoppable intent. You grip the front of his robes, the stiff fabric familiar to you, but now you shiver at the thought of the unknown beneath, the skin and flesh and bone of the man who can call up fire in your veins.
Without breaking the kiss he walks you backward until the backs of your calves hit the side of the low bunk. Your knees buckle and you sink down to sit, staring up at him, blood rushing in your ears.
He unclips his lightsaber and sets it reverently on the shelf above the bed, but doesn't show the same care with his belt, letting it fall to the floor with a thud – or his gloves, for that matter, pulling them off slowly fingertip by fingertip and tossing them on the nightstand. The dim light from the viewport illuminates him now, and your pulse races in anticipation as he undresses. The lines of his body are lean and elegant, muscles shifting beneath pale skin as he discards layer after layer, unveiling himself. Shadows highlight the architecture of his torso, the sinews in his arms and the breadth of his shoulders, your eyes tracing over the ridges arrowing down into his trousers.
You feel the pull of him, not just your own carnal attraction but his warm, vibrating energy, drawing you in like iron filaments to a magnet. But his movements are rote, his gaze cast down and focused on his clothing, and behind the fall of hair his expression has become cautious, guarded. As he reaches for his fly you let out a long breath, shallow and shaky, and his eyes flick to yours. Almost immediately the tightness in his face dissolves. He must sense your desire, the pleasure you take in his form, the deep sincerity of your feelings for him.
The urge to touch him is overwhelming, more necessity than want, and you realize your fingers are digging into the edge of the mattress. Your mouth goes dry as you spread one palm flat on his abdomen, forefinger rubbing over a smooth, silvery scar shaped like a tiny sunburst. He inhales sharply and you glance up to see his eyes morph to something darker, almost feral, mouth parting and jaw working. He makes a subtle gesture and you feel an invisible pressure, painless but mandatory, pushing you back until you're supine, head sinking into the pillow. It catches you off guard, adrenaline spiking along your already jittery nerves, but even as the pressure dissipates you remain where he's put you.
His eyes stay fixed on yours as he straddles your legs, almost folding over onto himself as he withholds the bulk of his weight. His forearms rest on the tops of his thighs, creating hollows in his collarbones. His stare is heavy-lidded, contemplative, as if now he's got you here he's not sure what to do with you. Your breathing slows as you wait, the moment stretching, as if the very particles in the air are suspended.
His fingers are feather light on the narrow sash of your tunic, slow and deliberate as he parts the fabric to reveal bare skin. The air isn't cold but you shudder anyway, goosebumps prickling, your nipples peaking under the sudden observation. He stills as his eyes roam over you, and maybe it's just the tremble of your own body but his hands seem suddenly unsteady.
You instinctively reach for him, compelled by desire to both embrace and reassure, and heat flares to life in his eyes anew as as your curl your arms tight around his neck. He stretches his length atop you and his weight creates a new ache of wanting, your legs parting to allow him to settle between. His mouth is hot and single-minded on your throat, sucking the beating vein, and you know there will be marks in the morning. His hair tickles and you thread your fingers through the thick curls you've so long been tempted to touch. Through your thin leggings you can feel the rigid curve of his arousal and you squirm, canting your hips up into him. He groans into the dip at the base of your neck, hand sliding up your rib cage to cover one breast possessively.
You almost whine with need, raw lust tugging deep in your belly, and you release his hair and pull away for a moment to strip off your leggings and underwear. As you kick them to the floor and toe off your boots he yanks at your tunic impatiently, hands seemingly everywhere all at once, and you return the favor by reaching for his waistband, fumbling blindly with the button as he recaptures your lips with his. Your attempt is interrupted by his hand pushing purposefully past yours between your now bare thighs, long fingers slipping between your slick folds.
You gasp into his mouth, bucking against his palm and he kisses you harder, as if drawing the very air from your lungs. Your reaction spurs him on and he slides two fingers along your opening, almost delicate, exploring; the heel of his hand rocks against your most sensitive spot, first just a caress and then a more rhythmic friction, and you're forced to break the kiss so you can breathe, panting, your vision starting to swim. His eyes are fixed on yours as he pauses his attentions and you huff a little in dissatisfaction, body writhing upwards to meet his.
He braces himself on his forearm, free hand framing your face, fingers sliding into your hair. You turn your head into his touch, rubbing your cheek against his hand, catlike. His thumb brushes over your bottom lip and impulsively you draw the pad of it into your mouth, teeth grazing the slight callous there. His breath hitches and his pupils blow out, eyes now almost eerily black. He shifts, just enough to unfasten his trousers, his back arching as he tugs them down over his hips, not bothering to remove them completely.
Immediately the thick, velvety head of his cock rubs sleek and hot along your entrance and you moan, knowing how lewd you must seem but far past caring. You can't catch your breath, your body restless and ready, an addict needing a fix. You need him inside you; he must sense it, scalding and primal and uncontrollable. He's looking at you like he could burn you up and you just stare back, a wordless plea, chanting his name over and over in your head like a silent prayer, and you can tell from his face he can hear it.
“Say it,” he rasps. “Out loud.”
“Please,” you whimper. “Kylo, please.”
His eyes are still locked on yours and as his grip tightens in your hair he thrusts into you with one swift movement.
You freeze, savoring the sweet stretch of your body around him, filled completely and just a breath away from pain. He hasn't looked away, his eyes fever-bright, mouth falling open. After a moment you grind your hips against him, taking him up to the hilt and he chokes back a sound, burying his face in your neck. His breathing is ragged as he begins to move, driving into you again, and again, your flesh and his sliding like silk together. The mounting pleasure is buzzing under your skin – too much, almost unbearable – and you sink your nails into his shoulders, feeling the muscle flex and shift. You wrap your legs around him and he sinks deeper, his pace increasing, one arm curling under your waist to haul you closer.
His other hand is still in your hair and without warning he coils a section around his hand and pulls, not enough to hurt, but to angle your head up so his mouth can find yours. Your lips bump and slide on each other, urgent but out of tune with your bodies' movements, so he yanks harder, keeping your head still so he can kiss you properly. It's devouring, almost desperate, and you want to scream but all that comes out is a plaintive keen and he swallows the sound –
Your climax comes rushing in and you cry out into his shoulder as it hits, throbbing through you; and as your body bows, limbs tightening around him, for the briefest hazy moment you swear your own sensations are passing to him, fueling his release – his body goes taut, his head dropping, cock pulsing inside you as you cling to him. For several moments he doesn't breathe.
Even as he collapses, withdrawing from you, he's careful to keep to one side to avoid crushing you. As the tingle in your extremities begins to fade you play idly with the damp ends of his hair. Vaguely, you imagine you could lie here for eternity; safe under the sprawl of him, your head tucked against his cheek, gazing at the sliver of space you could see through the viewport. The ship is orbiting to the light side of the planet and it casts a faint blueish glow throughout the room.
His fingers stir in your hair, and you roll your head away so he can disentangle them. He pushes back up on his forearms again, both hands coming up to gently cradle your face. He looks somehow soulful, his eyes liquid amber, his expression so very serious that you smile just a little, sliding one hand on top of his and interlacing your fingers. He doesn't quite smile back but his face softens, almost imperceptibly, and he lets his forehead fall forward to rest on yours. The press of his temple is almost more intimate than the sex and even as his eyelids drift closed, you don't blink.
His lashes are a dark fan on his flushed skin. His lips are still full from the kissing, slightly parted, his breath steady and quiet now. You wonder if he's going to fall asleep. You've never seen him sleep before. You brand these impressions on your brain, tucking them safely away before curling into him and allowing your eyes to close, too.