Give Me Love

chapter forty five*

Warning: slight mentions of smut
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The soup lasted 10 minutes tops.

You were eating slowly because everything kept falling off your spoon, shakily eating with your non-dominant hand, and you had barely finished half of your soup before Anakin was already dropping his bowl in the washer and sneaking up behind you.

You warned him to stay back but he ignored you, winding his hands around your waist and lifting you off your seat for a moment, sliding under you himself and then setting you back down on his lap.

You pretended to be annoyed, but laid back against his chest anyway. "You have a chair right there, you know."

"I know," he rested his chin on your shoulder, fitting his hand over your shaky one and helping you lift the spoon to your mouth.

"I can feed myself, too."

"I know."

And when you wouldn't open your mouth to let the spoon in, not when he was watching you so closely like that, he slid his other hand up to cup your jaw again and squished your cheeks playfully.

"Open."

"No. You baby me too much," you squirmed out of his hold, and let go of your spoon, but he held it up for you still.

"C'mon, you have to eat. Don't let me stop you."

"Anakin, you're embarrassing me again."

"I'm just helping you eat. You're taking forever."

"Patience, young master Jedi," you mocked. "It's hard to eat without my good hand."

"Exactly. Which is why I'm helping you."

"I hate you," you muttered, but accepted the spoon into your mouth this time.

And it was such a stupid silly little action. Letting him spoon feed you soup while you sat in his lap. But something about it all just made you warm inside, like this was the person who really cared.

He cared enough to do big things, like save your life and over and over, but he also cared enough to do small things, like help you eat when your arm was hurting.

That was your excuse for your current predicament.

His excuse was that he just thought your lips looked pretty, all wrapped around the spoon like that.

And so now you were somehow on top of the counter, your bowl of soup long forgotten as Anakin kissed you into the marble, tasting you deep and slow and thorough, while his hands pulled you up to meet him by the waist.

The robes around your body were coming undone, and he was painfully aware that you weren't wearing a single scrap of clothing beneath them as he kissed along your neck, teasing the delicate skin of your pulse between his lips before painting a line over your throat, across your collarbone, fingers dipping under the cloth of the robe to pull it open an inch so he could taste the newly exposed skin of your chest.

And you let him do it all— despite the hammering of your heart, the shaking of your bones, and the constant swirl of anxiety in your stomach— it felt too good to stop him.

He was too damn good at this, using just the right pressure, skimming his teeth along your skin, soothing the sting with his tongue, sucking lightly with his lips. Just the way his hands slid up your body, trailing warm and strong and possessive over every inch he could feel over the robes, made you whimper.

You probably would have let him go further, if it weren't for the knocking at your door.

"No," he grumbled into your neck as you pushed yourself up to go get it. His hands tightened around your waist, refusing to let you move.